Two hours later, Dreyfus had abandoned his car at the furthest point away from where the S.S. Delfini was still tied up to the dock — directly across from it, on the European side of the Bosporus.  As he walked away, he could see the emergency lights flashing across the water.  He had to duck into a doorway as several sirens wailed past him.  Driving over the speed limit under a lot of traffic cameras had helped the authorities — and the Albanians, and probably the Russians — find him.  He waited until the sounds of the sirens weren’t moving anymore, and then walked away.  The empty car would keep them busy for a while, and every minute meant Sylvia Harrow and the girls were closer to the border.  Sylvia Harrow was quite a woman, especially from a time when women were supposed to be seen and not heard.  As he walked, he could feel the adrenaline dissolving away, and he wondered if Emily would still be awake when he got back to the hotel.

At about the same time, Emily got out of a taxi at their hotel.  She’d taken the first taxi to the St Regis Brasserie, gone to the bar and ordered a large whisky.  And even though she wasn’t dressed for it (there were traces of blood and vomit on her jeans and jacket) the downside of the Pretty Girl Rule is pretty girls don’t sit alone for very long.  The first taste hadn’t even begun to warm her when there was a lurking movement that brought her mind out of the middle distance.  She focused and looked.  He was too boyish to be handsome and a couple of years too old to still be boyish.  (But he obviously didn’t know that.  He thought it was charming.)

“Hi, there! You look a little sad.  Would you like some company to cheer you up?”  The accent was foreign-born English Public school.

“Actually, I’m waiting for someone.”  Emily could see him weighing the possibilities.

“Well, he’s not here.  I could buy you a drink and we could wait together?”

Emily’s face didn’t give away her long-suffering sigh or the chain of thought from annoyed to benevolent, or her unconscious change of accent.

“How about if you just give me the money and we’ll call it even?”

The look was confused, and Emily laughed. “Wrong woman, wrong time, sport.” Emily said and fluttered her fingers.  The dismissal was kindly but final.  The man gallantly tipped his head and left, and Emily was left alone to linger over the rest of her drink.  When she finished and the bill came, she picked it up, stepped over to the boyish Casanova who was sitting with his friends at the bar.  She put it on the counter and pushed it in front of him.

“Thanks for the drink,” she said, smiled, and walked away.  This was a new experience for Agosto Marino, Assistant Italian Consul, but his friends would never tire of reminding him of it.

Outside, she asked the doorman to find her a taxi, and when it came, she got in and slumped into the seat.  She was tired but still excited and hoped Dreyfus was already at the hotel.  She wanted to hear what happened.  She wanted an end to the story.  And she wanted Dreyfus back where she could see him.  Unfortunately, he wasn’t there when she got to reception to pick up the key card.  She turned around, disappointed, seriously worried that Dreyfus was on his way to the Bulgarian border, and she didn’t see the man get up off the lobby sofa and approach her.

“You are alone tonight?”

Emily’s head dipped and her shoulders slumped in resignation.  She inhaled, raised her head, exhaled and looked at the man. “I am in no mood for this bullshit.”

But another man stepped forward.  He moved his jacket back to show Emily the black grip handle of his gun.

“Where is your husband?” The first man asked.

Emily’s mind clicked off the possibilities – but there really weren’t any.  All she could do was keep these men off-balance, stay in a public place and hope to hell Dreyfus could get to Bulgaria and back before the bar closed.

“I’m going to the bar to wait for him.  Perhaps you’d like to join me?”  Emily turned and took a step towards reception.

“Excuse me: when my husband comes in, can you tell him I’m waiting for him in The 47 with his friends?  Thank you so much.”  Emily turned back without looking at either man, and walked directly to a table in the middle of the bar by the water.

Dreyfus’ taxi was twenty minutes behind Emily’s, and he stopped at reception to get a key card in case she was already asleep.

“Your wife got a card earlier, sir, and told me to tell you she would be in The 47, having a drink with your friends.”

“My friends?”

“Yes, sir.  They were waiting here when she came in this evening.”

Dreyfus looked across into the bar.  Emily was at a table by the water.  She was on his left.  There was one man sitting across from her and one facing Dreyfus, with his back to the glass barrier that separated the bar from the Bosporus.  They weren’t local toughs: more likely middle management.  Dreyfus picked his target.  He took a breath and step-marched through the bar, hitting the wooden floor hard with his boot heels and scraping chairs out of his way.  Conversations stopped, and people turned to look.  By the time Dreyfus got to the table, both men had recognized the threat and were already half out of their chairs.  Dreyfus went behind Emily, and his last three steps were a running crouch.  He grabbed the man by the belt with his right hand, pulled up and at the same time drove his left shoulder into his chest, pushing him backwards.  Caught off guard and off balance, the man fell sideways against the top of the barrier, and his momentum and upper body weight flipped his feet into the air.  Dreyfus let go of his belt, pushed hard, and suddenly the man was head first over the plexiglass and headed for the water.  There was a splash.

Dreyfus half turned, put his right hand inside his jacket and faced the man who was now standing across from Emily.

“Alright, you better start explaining — or swimming lessons are going to be the least of your worries!”

There was a scream or two and some shouting, then general confusion as the people in the bar reacted and a couple of them ran over to help.  Dreyfus didn’t take his eyes off the man in front of him, who was angry, but wary.  This wasn’t what he expected.

“We had some property stolen tonight.  My boss wants to talk to you.”

Dreyfus shook his head.  “Nothing to do with me.  Call the police.”

“My boss says …”

“I know who your boss is, and if he has anything to say to me, he should say it himself.  But he better hurry — we’re going home tomorrow.”

“Oh, no you don’t, Sinclair.”  Emily interrupted. “We’re not going anywhere.  You promised me Ephesus.  You promised me a proper holiday.  ‘I’ll take you to the ruins and roger you rigid.’  That’s what you said.”

“I never said that,” Dreyfus took a quick look down.

“Words to that effect.” Emily lifted her index finger, “Don’t try and weasel out of this.  I’ve spent four days watching Turkish television and getting fat on room service.  You owe me.  Now, quit playing silly buggers with your friends, and let’s go have a proper holiday.”

Dreyfus exhaled.  He could see a couple of people had pulled the wet man out of the water.

“Alright, you tell your boss whatever problems he has, I had nothing to do with it.   But …” Dreyfus pointed, “As a courtesy, I’ll call him in the morning.  Now, this is over.  Collect your boyfriend and clear off.”

The man looked as if he was going to say something, thought better about it and turned around to help the other man.  It took several minutes for them to leave and the bar to settle back to normal — although a lot of people simply paid their bill and left. 

 “Were you really going to shoot that fellow?”

“No, I gave my gun to Sylvia Harrow.”

“Let’s have a drink, and you can tell me all about it.”

“You know, we drink too much?”

The next day, Emily and Dreyfus took a flight to Izmir and rented a car (Emily drove.) They went to Sirince and for three (or was it four?) days, they sat in the sun, ate, sang, laughed and drank wine with the locals — and, more importantly, spent more than one night in the ruins, under the stars.

You can start reading Dreyfus and Emily’s adventure here

There are three bridges over the Bosporus, and Dreyfus was driving hard for the middle one, Sultan Mehmet.  He’d memorized the route and there wasn’t much traffic, but he was having trouble – a lot of trouble.  The truth is Dreyfus wasn’t a very good driver, and he knew it.  Plus, unlike lines on a map, Istanbul streets were narrow and indistinguishable.  And it didn’t help that there was a military-green Land Rover appearing and disappearing in his rear view mirror, or that Emily was on her knees beside him, leaning into the back seat with her damn ass in the air.  She was struggling to untangle a tangle of terrified arms and legs.  The five girls were trying their best, but they were frightened and confused, shaking and sobbing.  One poor thing, directly behind Dreyfus, had drunk the water too fast and was gagging it back up in long, slimy strings.  Dreyfus tightened his concentration.

“Just sit up.  Sit up!  There.  Now put your foot.  No, no, here … move just a bit … Like.  Yes, there!” Emily turned her head to Dreyfus.  “We have to stop so I can fix the seats!”

“No!” Dreyfus’ voice was measured, “Not until we get across the bridge.”  Dreyfus turned into another nondescript street.  “Do the best you can.”  Forward, he still couldn’t see the approach to the highway.  He checked the rear view mirror.  Not there now – not yet, anyway.  Then. there is was again – the Land Rover.  This wasn’t just someone out for an evening drive; it was definitely the Albanians, likely a spotter car, sent after them from the firefight and probably already calling for reinforcements.  If he could get to the highway, Dreyfus knew he could lose them in the asphalt knots of entrances and exits – but where the hell was it?

A car surprised him, coming out of a side street.  Dreyfus automatically swerved, throwing everyone screaming sideways, and the other driver jammed his brakes and lay on the horn.  Just past the avoided collision, Dreyfus stomped his own brakes, found reverse by feel, spun the steering wheel and, less than five seconds later, was accelerating backwards.  He hit the stopped car just in front of the passenger door, crumpling the hood and the front quarter panel.  More screams and Emily with some industrial-strength swearing, but the thick rubber bumper of larger Rav 4 absorbed most of the impact.  Dreyfus shifted back to drive, pushed hard on the gas pedal and sped off.  The Land Rover was trapped behind the wrecked car – for now.  But it was the two or three minutes Dreyfus needed to find the bridge and get over to the European side.  Once he was there, he could get off the highway and disappear out of the range of the traffic cameras.

Thirty minutes later, that’s where they were — away from the cameras, parked on a side street.  Dreyfus had folded the back seats down, and Emily had rearranged the girls so that, even if they weren’t comfortable, they could at least lean on each other.  They didn’t care.  They were still in shock, hollow-eyed, empty with exhaustion and clinging to Emily’s voice.  She left the passenger door open and stepped back to where Dreyfus was closing the hatchback.

“Alright, that should do for now.  Are you sure you don’t want me to drive the rest of the way?”  Dreyfus didn’t miss the slight slap against his automotive skills.  Lady Perry-Turner was nothing if not resilient.    

“No, the alibi’s more important.  But I don’t see any cabs around here.”

“Don’t worry about that.  I’ll find my way to the St. Regis.  But I’m going to have a big drink before I go back to the hotel.”

Dreyfus smiled, “Have one for me.”  He exhaled and raised five fingers.  “This blows the hell out of Plan A.  I’ll deposit our girl, whichever one she is, but I’m going to have to get the others over the border.  They’re not safe here.  Russians?”  Dreyfus shook his head, “They’ve got a long reach in this town.”

“Do what you do.  Just fix it.  I’ll be at the hotel until you get there, and if anybody asks, you’re upstairs — dying of diarrhea.”  Emily smiled.

Dreyfus rolled his eyes skyward.

“Go, you’re going to be late.”  Emily reached up and kissed him, turned and went back to the passenger door.  She stuck her head in.

“Girls.  Okay, just a little bit longer.  Stay quiet, and we’ll get you out of here as soon as we can.  Alright?”  Emily closed the door.  She wasn’t sure if the girls understood or not, but she didn’t think it mattered anyway.  She walked away.

Dreyfus got in the driver’s seat and started the engine.  He watched Emily for a few seconds, then turned the car into the street and drove past her.  He only had the original route to the Mall of Istanbul in his head.  That meant getting back onto the highway and being seen by the traffic cameras, but he knew he had at least a twenty minute head start on the Albanians, and he didn’t want to waste it.

Emily walked around the corner and stopped at the first open shop window.

“Taksi nerede?” she asked.

“One street more,” the man answered in English and pointed, “Busy street, lady.  A lot of taxis.  You go there.”

“Tesekkurler,” Emily said, turned and walked away, vaguely wondering how Dreyfus was going to get those girls over the border.

You can start reading this Emily and Dreyfus adventure here

Slightly giddy with tension, Emily looked across at the derelict buildings of the old docks and decided that all they needed was a blanket of fog to turn this into a 40s gangster movie.  They’d been sitting for what seemed like hours (less than twenty minutes) by a tangle of wire, rust and weeds that used to be a fence.  And even though they were hidden in the long shadow late evening light, they could see from the water to the roadway clearly enough to read the graffiti on the corrugated metal walls.  There were scraps of rope and wood lying around and chain and large haphazard shapes of metal, some corroded barrels and scattered dilapidated crates.  It was a lonely, dirty place that smelled thirsty, oily and stained.

But Dreyfus didn’t see any of that.  All he saw was the long open space between the buildings on the right and the one by the water that he was interested in.  He’d already mentally driven down, turned the car and sent Emily in to get the girl.  He’d already counted the seconds, and the only thought he had now was, even though he knew Emily had been right to insist on coming, he wished he’d left her at the hotel.

There was movement.

There.  On the edge of the furthest building.  Just?  But, but, Dreyfus wasn’t certain.  He clenched his eyes closed — one … two … three … and open.  Yes, it was still there.  And another one.  And … Dreyfus slightly brushed his hand against Emily’s leg and pointed his finger over the dashboard.

“Just like we talked about,” he said without moving his eyes. “Wait for me to turn and …”

“I know what I’m doing,” Emily snapped, pushed the bottle of water away with her foot and picked the flashlight up from the floor.

The shadows were real now.  Five men moving quickly, quietly, half crouching, half running across the open space from the buildings on the right.  They didn’t stop at the building by the water, but — in one continuous motion — flung open the door and were inside.  There were flashes of light through the open door and muffled pops as if someone was snapping bubble wrap.  And then the men were outside again.  They paused, looked around and started back the way they had come.  Dreyfus reached for the ignition.

Suddenly, the world burst open in sharp lines of whining fire that staccato cracked and ricocheted against the broken pavement.  One of the running men folded over like a puppet without strings and another, stuttered, fell and struggled to his feet.  The rest dropped to the ground, shooting.

“Shit!”  Dreyfus turned the ignition key and looked behind him.

“No,” Emily shouted, “We can’t leave her.”

Dreyfus turned, his face fierce with argument.

“No.” Emily shook her head.

It was Emily’s eyes Dreyfus saw, and without hesitation, he pushed the car into gear and accelerated forward into the firefight.

It wasn’t thinking anymore, just instinct — foot on the pedal, across the asphalt, behind the men, turn, turn, turn, gripping the steering wheel and leaning to help the car doughnut around to the door of the building.  The zipping, hot metal hissing chaos, coming at them, around them, trying to find them.  The tires squealed in pain, fishtailed and straightened, and Dreyfus drove his foot into the accelerator and then wham into the brake.  The car slid and screamed and jerked hard as it stopped.

“Go!” Dreyfus shouted, pulled the Beretta from under his arm and shot two-handed through the open window.

Emily lunged out of the car, stumbled, lurched and ran for the door.  Inside she turned on the flashlight.  There were three men dead at the table: one still in his chair and two more on the floor in pools of glistening blood.  Emily gagged and turned the light up to the walls.  There were two doors.  She ran to the first one, shouting.

“Hello!  Are you there?”

The door was locked.  Key!  The key!  She banged on the door.

“Are you there?  Tell me if you’re there!  I’ve come to get you!”

There were sounds, cries and, “Yes!  Yes!  We’re here!”

Key!  Emily turned the flashlight back to the table.  There had to be a key.  She ran back, the surge of adrenaline killing her gag reflex.  There was no key.  No key!  Emily fanned the light across the room.  Something.  Something heavy.  Nothing.  Shit!  Shit!  Shit!  She turned the light back to the table.  Something!  There was an assault rifle leaning on the wall.  She snatched it up and ran back to the door.  She put the flashlight on the floor, grabbed the gun with both hands and drove the butt straight down on the door knob.  The old wood groaned.  She tightened her grip and drove it down again.  The knob bent.  Once more.  She slammed the butt down as hard as she could, and there was a crack as the wood splintered.  Emily dropped the gun, turned around and kicked backwards with the flat of her foot.  The wood around the knob shattered and the door was free.

Emily picked up the flashlight, shone it forward and stepped into the room.  “Oh, my God!”  She hadn’t expected the smell, but it was the eyes that shocked her.  Fever-bright, frightened animal eyes, cringing against the light.  Emily shone the light across the floor to the open door. 

“C’mon!  Nobody’s going to hurt you, but we have to go!  We have to go now!”

She shone the light back.  The room was alive with movement.  Emily stopped.  Eyes?  There wasn’t one girl here; there were half a dozen!  There was a second, maybe two — and then another surge of adrenaline and Emily recovered.

“Come on.  Now.  Let’s go!  Let’s go!”

Emily waited until they were all out of the room. “Stay close to me.  Follow the light.  Don’t look.  Just follow the light.”

Outside, the evening was loud, popping with sound, but it was away from them – somewhere else.  Coming out of the darkness, Emily squinted against the late light.  She grabbed at the backdoor handle, missed and tried again.  The door opened.

“Dreyfus. . .”

“Later.  Karga had more men.  They’ve taken the fight to the road.  Get her in here.  We have …” Dreyfus twisted his head, “What the hell?”

“We haven’t got one girl, Sinclair; we’ve got five.”

You can start reading this Emily and Dreyfus adventure here