THE KIA WAS NOW SO CLOSE BEHIND that Mansoor Zahed could actually see the hunger that was blazing in Reilly’s eyes.
He saw Reilly drop back as the cars behind him slowed down and settled back into their lanes.
Zahed knew the traffic could snarl up again the minute they left the bridge. He had to do something now, quickly, if he was going to avoid another running chase with the bloodhound that was breathing down his neck.
With his hand hard on the Mondeo’s horn, he muscled past a few more cars, leading one of them to ride up the low curb of the sidewalk that ran along at the water’s edge.
That, and a crowded bus up ahead—an old, 1970s-era Mercedes, its roof stacked with luggage, its exhaust spewing out a thick black cloud of diesel—inspired him.
He raced on until he was almost alongside the bus, then jinked his sedan left and right and rammed it sideways. The bus groaned and bounced off to the right, its windows suddenly crammed with the startled faces of its passengers, suitcases and boxes snapping their ties and tumbling down off its roof and into the path of the cars behind it. Zahed jerked the wheel to keep the Mondeo pressed against the side of the bus, shepherding it off on an angled trajectory and sending it bounding onto the sidewalk and pulverizing the thin metallic railing before flying off the bridge.
Zahed straightened his own car’s trajectory and eyed his mirror, where, much to his delight, he saw Reilly do exactly what he’d hoped the agent would do.
REILLY’S FACE CLENCHED as he watched the white Mondeo launch the old bus over the curb and off the bridge.
It just flew off with little fanfare and dove out of view for a nanosecond before a huge white plume erupted out of the estuary. Given the mountain of luggage that had been stacked precariously on its roof, Reilly knew it was probably packed with people—people who he could imagine were about to be dragged underwater.
The car ahead of him slammed on its brakes, and he did the same. Screeching brakes and crunched fenders chased after him. He saw that there was room for him to squeeze past the cars ahead of him, but he couldn’t do that. Not with a bunch of people possibly sinking to their deaths.
He had to help.
He scrambled out of the car and ran toward the big gap in the railing. In the distance, he could see the back of the white Ford disappearing down the bridge, and for an instant he imagined the smug face of his quarry.
In the water, the old bus was only partly visible, the back of its roof sticking out like a tiny iceberg. Reilly scanned the surface of the water, but couldn’t see anyone floating around. The windows of the bus looked like they were sealed shut, with only a narrow section at the top that slid open and wasn’t anywhere near wide enough for anyone to slip through. Reilly watched for an extended second or two, wondering if the doors were hydraulically operated, if they were jammed shut since the electrics had shut down, if the passengers were too shocked to figure out where the emergency exits were. No one was coming out. They were trapped inside. And no one was doing anything about it.
He glanced at the stunned faces around him—a mixed bag of young and old, men and women, all in shock, blabbing and looking down gloomily—and moved.
He kicked off his shoes, yanked off his jacket, and leapt in.
The water around him was littered with pieces of luggage and cardboard boxes, hampering his progress, but he managed to reach the back of the bus and grab on to its roof rail just before it disappeared with a final belch of air.
He hung on as the bus slid under, slowly. Through the murky water, he could see the ghostly, fear-stricken faces of the passengers on the other side of the bus’s rear window. They were tugging at the emergency release handle, which wasn’t responding, and banging their fists against the glass in desperation. Hanging on with one hand, he reached down to his side holster and pulled out his gun, then waved it at the passengers closest to him, hoping they’d understand. They weren’t moving away, but it didn’t stop him. He just put the gun against the very top of the glass and angled it right up, aiming it at the underside of the bus’s roof—and fired, again and again—five quick shots that punched through the window before dying out in the water inside the bus. The shots weakened the window enough for him to be able to kick and hammer it in with the butt of his handgun, until it finally gave way and blew out with a big whoosh of trapped air that almost made Reilly lose his grip.
One after another, the trapped passengers streamed out in a mad frenzy, a shoal of desperate arms reaching out to Reilly and taking hold of his outstretched hand before kicking away and gliding up toward the light. He hung on as long as his lungs could last, then he finally let go and followed them up to the surface, the elation of knowing all the passengers were safe not quite making up for the bitter frustration that was gnawing at his gut.
Chapter 22
By the time Reilly made it back to the Patriarchate, the compound was one big, chaotic mess. The approach road was choked by fire engines, ambulances, and police cars. Emergency services personnel were swarming around frenetically, doing what they did best.
He’d swum onto one of the support piers and climbed back onto the bridge. A cop had finally made it onto the scene and, after some wrangling, agreed to drive him back to the Phanar. He’d taken off his shirt and slipped on his jacket, which he’d pulled off before jumping into the water, but his trousers were still drenched, which hadn’t exactly endeared him to his driver either. Because of the mess and the security lockdown, he’d had to walk the last couple of hundred yards and found Tess standing by the gates. Ertugrul was alongside her, as were a couple of young paramilitary soldiers who looked a bit too trigger-happy for comfort. Frustrated cops were having a hard time keeping reporters and curious bystanders away while a small army of cats—revered in Istanbul as the bearers of good luck—sprawled on the walls and sidewalks around them and calmly observed the proceedings.
Tess’s face erupted with relief when she spotted him, then her expression went all curious as his shirtless- and-soggy-pants look came into focus.
She gave him a quick kiss and held his arms. “You’ve got to get out of those clothes.”
“My bag still in the car?” he asked Ertugrul.
“Yeah,” the legat answered. “It’s parked down the road.”
Reilly glanced into the compound, where some paramedics were loading a gurney into an ambulance. The body lying on it was fully covered up by a gray blanket, head included. A gaggle of priests were crowding around it, their expressions forlorn, their shoulders sagging.
Reilly looked a question at Ertugrul.
“Father Alexios. The grand archimandrite of the library. One bullet, right between the eyes.”
“They also found the body of a dead priest in an alleyway down the road,” Tess added.
“No cassock,” Reilly deduced.
Tess nodded.
He expected as much. “And the fire?”
“It’s out, but the library’s a mess, as you can imagine,” Ertugrul said. After a frustrated grunt, he added, “I guess he got what he came for.”
“Again,” Reilly noted, the word laced with acid.
He stood there, his fists balled with rage, and took in the scene silently for another moment, then said, “I’ll
