Dorac stared at the dark waters of the Bosporus slipping past the ferry's hull. He wondered vaguely how deep the strait was, how cold, and how many ships had followed its course out to the Mediterranean. Millions perhaps, of all sizes and shapes. Ferries, such as he was on now, rowing boats, fishermen, warships, ocean liners. It was an ancient stretch of water, one of the most important waterways in the world, dividing two continents. There were wrecks on the bottom, no doubt, tales of adventure and sorrow, more stories than could be told in one lifetime. Entire civilizations had come and gone on its shores, whole nations had risen and fallen while those quiet waters bore silent, impartial witness.

He chucked his cigarette butt into the water and turned to look at Istanbul on the distant shore.

He'd seen only a few Earth cities, and hadn't liked them much: too many Sapes in them for a start, and too much foreign food that didn't agree with him, and too much emphasis on history. His people had little history, only a couple of hundred years' worth, which was nothing to this place. Sirians were more concerned with the present and family than with what dead people had done.

But Istanbul was attractive, he'd give it that: sprawling and loud and full of colour. Like the rest of Europe and Asia, it was now a combination of old and new. It had once been a religious city, and the eastern side of the strait still had many ruined buildings, mementos of what had been. Now the modern city, on the western side of the strait, lay sprawled across several low hills, rising up between the ancient buildings.

The ferry pulled into a dock and the passengers began to disembark. He hung back until most of the crowd had left—too often Sapes got the wrong idea when a Sirian tried to push through. A few people turned their heads to stare at him, but most had at least seen pictures of Sirians before. There were a few muttered comments, but Dorac didn't speak Turkish and couldn't be bothered turning his fone's translator on.

He scanned the dock. She was there, waiting. It was hard to miss big-boned, hefty Agnes Lawson. When he finally disembarked he walked forward without looking at her and went through to the street. It was crowded but orderly, as pedestrians used the actual street while cars and other vehicles were confined to raised platforms that criss-crossed between and through buildings. A truck rumbled overhead as he stood for a moment checking a map on his fone.

A message came through from Agnes.

ARE YOU SURE THIS IS THE PLACE?

He didn't look around to see where she was, but she had to be close by. He turned off the map and tapped his keydisc without looking at it.

YES. SHUT UP.

He grinned to himself. He'd never been able to tell a superior officer to shut up before. A year ago Agnes would have had him arrested for that. His day felt better already.

Across the street and a few buildings along was a bakery. The front part was a shop with baskets and tables of wares on display. A young boy was serving an old woman with a basket, a scenario that would have looked the same a thousand years ago. The boy was about twelve. The two were arguing over the merits of some flat, circular loaves.

Trying to appear casual, Dorac walked out into the street. A passing man said something that was almost a hiss, and he presumed he was saying something derogatory at the sight of a Sirian. Best to ignore it.

He reached the bakery and looked at some of the wares. Bread wasn't a usual part of the Sirian diet but he picked up a few loaves and peered at the prices and pretended it all looked familiar.

The argument between the boy and the old woman seemed to be building to some kind of climax. Experienced with itsu, Dorac might have listened to it if he could have understood it. But here was Agnes, also doing her best to look like a customer. He still found it odd to see her in civvies—and her long dark hair, which she'd let grow over the last year. She looked awkward in street clothes. He probably did too.

For one fraction of a second, their eyes met. Agnes straightened her jacket and made access to her pistol in the belt holster a little easier. Dorac walked into the shop. There were more wares on display there, and a strong smell of flour. At the back through an open door was the bakery itself, full of ovens and heat. A couple of men worked there. They looked up as Dorac hesitated in the door.

'Can I help you?'

'I'm looking for Franco.'

The taller of the two men slapped his hands together so flour dusted onto the floor. 'Who are you?' Dorac was alert immediately. This man was no simple baker—too much hardness and speed in him, despite his innocent occupation. He didn't look like a baker.

'My name is Dorac.'

'And who is Franco?'

'I was hoping you were.'

The two men glanced at each other. 'No Franco here.'

Dorac nodded. 'Well, someone must have given me bad directions.'

'No Franco here.'

He turned and walked back out to the street. Agnes was still there, holding a long stick of bread in her hand. He almost laughed; she seemed so ordinary. He touched his fone's keydisc.

I RECOMMEND THE CEVIZLI.

She seemed to have a hard time not looking at him, and didn't reach for her fone. Instead she put the bread down and shook her head at the boy serving customers, who had started to approach. The boy swung onto Dorac, who waved him away and left the front of the bakery.

Forty metres down the street, outside an office building, they paused together at a bus stop.

'He's there,' said Dorac. 'Big ugly guy.'

'That'll be him.'

'There's a back door like we figured, but it's not easily accessible. There are racks of bread and a couple of hot ovens between it and the front entrance. No other exits I could see. One other man, but he's harmless. No weapons visible, but lots of knives and bread-making stuff that might be useful in a crisis.'

'Back when I was Commander of a navy frigate,' Agnes observed gloomily, 'I had a crew of twenty-two and a couple of Surface Activity Vehicles that could reduce that bakery to rubble in seconds.'

Dorac knew what she was talking about. Now all he and Agnes had were each other.

'Jackie Szymanksi would be useful to have around right now,' she continued.

Dorac didn't doubt it. Little Jackie was half his weight, thirty centimetres shorter, and deadly as hell.

But of course, combat wasn't the idea here.

'Your call,' said Dorac. 'You outrank me.'

She scanned the street, which was crowded with Sapes and a few Helots. It was obvious Istanbul was not the sort of place that went quiet just because night fell. The city woke early, too, to prepare for each busy day. This street would never be entirely quiet.

'Let's wait until he goes home,' she said.

***

Any more coffee, Agnes thought, and she would burst at the seams. She'd never been a coffee drinker, but Dorac seemed to inhale the stuff. For the sake of appearances, she'd tried to match him cup for cup but had given up after four. He slurped down another two and finished off several small dishes of olives and yoghurt. She slapped a hand on her chunky hips and nibbled a few olives.

Franco's bakery was a going concern. The small boy at the front was kept busy, and fresh supplies were brought from the kitchen at the back on a constant basis. Judging by the amount that was being sold, Turks liked bread with every meal.

'Being a hired killer doesn't seem to pay,' she observed. 'He needs a day job.'

Dorac was standing at the gutter, staring for the hundredth time at the front of the bakery. Agnes had decided it was unlikely Franco would sneak out the back—there was no cause for him to be suspicious, and the back door would only lead to a small yard anyway. Dorac looked over his shoulder at her.

'It's not income; it's cover. A respectable businessman providing a service to little old ladies with baskets. The salesboy's a nice touch too—who's going to suspect a kid of mixing with a criminal? Or a terrorist, for that matter?'

'You were one once.'

She saw his shoulders stiffen, and wondered if the memory of the events on Lizard were still too raw—he'd been badly wounded that day. But all he said was, 'I didn't even know what ideology meant back then. Even now, don't ask me to spell it.'

'That Helot...what was his name? Igil Hoo.'

Dorac came and sat back down at the table and picked up his half-empty coffee cup. 'Igil Hoo, yes. He was a terrorist. But despite what you once told me, Maddy Hawthorn wasn't. Or at least, she was the same as me, angry at everyone and wanting people to know it.'

'I never got to know her. Where is she now?'

'No idea. And I don't want to know.' She frowned at him and he added, 'Not like that. I meant for her own safety. She's gone into hiding and if I knew where someone might force it out of me. She doesn't know where I am and I don't know where she is. Best for us both.'

Over at the bakery, the small boy started packing up. The two men appeared and helped him carry in the unsold bread and deconstruct the tables on which the wares had been set out. Shutters were pulled over the front of the shop.

'When we take him,' Agnes said as they rose and walked along the street to the ferry pier, 'do you really mean to torture him?'

'You're having doubts?'

'I don't know. I've seen men tortured before. Helots, anyway. One was in Cairo last year, in one of those Interrogators that can deliver pain wherever the torturer wants. It was a stupid thing to do because the guy didn't know anything.'

'Franco knows things.'

Commuters were crowding around the ferry terminal, shuffling for place and buying passages across the Bosporus to the Asian side, where many of the city's inhabitants lived. A lot of the crowd were tourists, going to view the sights over there. It was a long walk or drive across one of the numerous bridges, and the tunnel under the Bosporus had a heavy toll, so the ferries plied all day with many thousands of passengers, as they had for hundreds of years.

As the crowds jostled by, they watched the closing up of Franco's shop. The boy and the man left together, leaving Franco somewhere inside. It was another ten minutes before he emerged and locked up the shop. He carried a small bag as he headed across the road towards the ferry terminal, walking within a couple of metres of Dorac without recognising him. As he lined up they fell in behind and purchased tickets using their fones.

There was a constant stream of ferries at this hour. The seats were quickly taken up by the initial rush of passengers on board, and then it was standing room only. As soon as one boat left the dock another pulled in. They only had to wait a few minutes and then step forward with the rest of the crowd. It was easy to keep sight of Franco, who shoved his way to the railing and stayed there, looking across to the eastern side.

The ferry left the shore and began a slow chug across the strait, its fusion engine not hurrying as the afternoon wind stirred up the waves. Agnes and Dorac kept close to Franco but still pretended not to know each other.

About mid-channel, their eyes met and Agnes nodded. They both shuffled closer to Franco and the Sirian pressed his shoulder against the heavy-set man's own. Franco glanced sideways, his eyebrows rising as he recognised the Sirian.

'Hello, Franco,' said Dorac.

'No. I'm not Franco!'

'It's useless to pretend. Now, before you decide to make a fuss, I have a gun in my pocket and it's pressed against your back. And see that woman over there? The one with the scar on her forehead? That's my friend, and she has a gun too. Over the side, if you care to look, are the chill, deep waters of the Bosporus. That's your only way of escape. But if you choose to adopt that exit, I'll be forced to shoot you anyway. Do you understand all this? Please nod and remain silent.'

The man stiffened for a moment, but Dorac just pressed his shoulder in harder and Franco nodded.

'Good. When we reach the other side you will exit last and we'll accompany you for a little chat. Nod your head again.'

He did so.

It was a quiet ride the rest of the way.

On the other side, Franco waited as instructed and didn't head for the dock until the last of the passengers were stepping off the boat. Dorac kept pace just behind him, while Agnes scanned the shore for anyone who might be meeting Franco or might have an interest in protecting him.

Most of the crowd moved towards the transports that would carry them to the suburbs. Dorac and Agnes steered Franco towards their car which was in a small parking area surrounded by sand dunes. A long way off, over the top of the hills that lay just a few kilometres inland and hid the rest of the city on that side, a plane descended vertically.

At the car Dorac shoved Franco hard against the vehicle and patted him down for weapons. There was a gun under his jacket, a small but deadly one. Dorac put it in his own pocket as Agnes joined him.

'This is my friend,' Dorac said. 'She's in a bad mood. Keep nodding so I know I'm not talking to myself.'

Franco nodded.

'You're being most co-operative,' smiled Agnes. 'Get in the car.'

The man was pushed in the back and Dorac sat on one side of him and Agnes on the other. When the doors closed the AI was instructed to carry out its orders and the car started and moved out of the car park. It drove past a bus loaded with tourists and turned into a side road that went into a gully leading down from the hills. The last vestiges of civilisation quickly fell away.

The Asian side of Istanbul was a plunge back in time. The modern steel and concrete city in Europe was left behind. Here, houses were still made of stone and wood, and the twisting, narrow roads brought back much of the history that had been lost on the European side. That was why it was such a popular destination for the tourists.

They went to none of the tourist traps. In a gully in the side of the hills that overlooked the Bosporus was a small tomb of a nameless minor official that attracted no sightseers, and had long ago ceased to be of interest even to archaeologists.

The car pulled up under the shadow of the tomb's entrance, which consisted of an overhang of worked stone. Sand-covered steps led down from a rusted metal gate which gave way when Dorac gave it a hefty shove.

'Move,' said Agnes, pushing Franco forward so the man almost tripped down the steps. At the bottom a dark doorway led into a small chamber. Dorac closed the metal gate and followed them in. An electric light flickered on.

It was stinking hot in the chamber, which had a few worn and faded murals on the walls and only a single loose block of stone to show it had ever contained anything at all. The original occupant was long gone, as was anything he'd been buried with. Eternity, too, came to an end.

They pushed Franco onto the stone block as a seat. Dorac undid his collar and wiped the sweat off.

'I'm Sirian and even I think it's hot,' he said. He took out a length of plastic cord and proceeded to tie Franco's hands and feet.

Agnes kept her gun visible but no longer threatened the man with it. Dorac had decided on a more practical means of persuasion and picked up a thick wooden club from where he'd placed it on a previous visit to the tomb.

'All right,' said Dorac, 'let's get to it.' He had thought about doing the interrogation himself, but Agnes had the upper hand, being the actual investigating officer rather than the client. 'I'll hit you if you don't answer the lady's questions. Do you understand how the process works?'

Agnes squared her shoulders. 'As you can see, Francisco Eduardo Bail, we're quite alone here. If you shout out, only the birds will hear you and I don't think they'd give a shit.'

Franco sneered. 'I do not fear death,' he said. His voice was remarkably high toned for someone who was supposed to be a ruthless killer, and his accent lent it an even more exotic quality.

'Well, that's commendable,' said Agnes, 'if a little useless when it comes to putting up any sort of fight. If I led a troop of fighters into combat, I'd hope they'd value their lives enough to put on some sort of show. But never mind.'

'I will tell you nothing.' His eyes moved from one face to the other, and a big drop of sweat had started on his brow, but Dorac put that down to the temperature of the chamber. It really was remarkable how the thick stone walls warmed up under the scorching Mediterranean sun.

Dorac raised the wooden club, which had once been part of a fence post. It had some nasty splinters and even a nail still protruding from one end. 'Some people might object to me hitting you when you don't answer,' he said. 'But since you're a known murderer, we feel it's justified.'

The man said nothing, just kept looking back and forth between them. The drop of sweat had dripped down to just above his left eye; another had started where the first one had started, up near his thin hairline.

Looking at Agnes's face, Dorac could see doubt. Perhaps she was thinking again about the torture she'd seen in the past, which she herself perhaps had inflicted. Only on Helots, she'd said. But this was a Sape, and a helpless one.

'Now,' Agnes said, activating the record mode on her fone, 'what do you know about the assassination of the Nuncio on Eridu a few months ago?'

When Agnes finished the sentence Dorac raised the club high over his head until its tip touched the roof of the chamber.

'Nothing! I never heard of it!'

Dorac brought the club down over his shoulders. The man yelped. It wasn't a hard blow, but the nail must have hurt.

'One more time,' Agnes said aloud. 'My friend likes hitting people.'

Over Franco's head, Dorac frowned at her and mouthed a swear word. Agnes smirked.

'What do you know about the assassination of the Nuncio?'

Franco fell forwards into his face, his tied hands beneath him.

'Do not hit me! Do not!'

Dorac reached down with his free hand and hauled the man back onto the stone. 'I won't,' he said, 'if you tell us what we want to know.'

The sweat on Franco's face had combined with the dust of the floor to leave dirt streaked across his face.

'What is there to tell you?' he muttered.

'Speak up!' Agnes held her fone closer to him. 'We can't hear you!'

'I know nothing of the Nuncio. Why don't you ask someone who does?'

'I guess you aren't as important as we were told,' said Dorac.

The man turned his eyes on the big Sirian. 'What do you mean?'

'Well, you were recommended to us by important people,' said Agnes. The man swung his gaze back to her. 'The Syndicate Police, for instance. You've got quite a record, Franco.' She indicated her fone. 'I have your rap sheet here. That's what it's called, isn't it?'

Franco glanced at the words on the fone's screen.

'There is nothing in there about the Nuncio.'

Dorac raised the club again. Franco cowered but said nothing more.

'I'm not saying you had anything to do with it, Franco.' Agnes had modulated her voice a little, but the heat seemed to be affecting her, too, or maybe it was the dust in the tomb. 'But you seem to know a lot about a lot of things.'

'You can be helpful to the police if you want to,' put in Dorac. 'Be helpful now.'