“No, no!” The driver was vehement. “Is OK. Is all OK. We be there soon!”
He maneuvered the subcompact through the labyrinthine streets of a shabby Istanbul neighborhood. Loud music blared from the car’s stereo. Daniel had never heard its like before. A quavering wail with heavy brass accompaniment. It sounded like nothing so much as a cat being stuffed inside a tuba. When he thought his eardrums could stand the assault no more, the racket ceased. The driver switched off the radio, eased into a very tight parking space, and turned off the engine. Daniel’s ears continued to ring.
“We are here,” the driver announced happily. He slid his bulky form out from under the steering column and bustled around to the back of the car to unload suitcases from the trunk.
Hunt got out and stretched his limbs. His eyes traveled up the hilly cobblestone street. Laundry was strung overhead from one building to the next. Women in headscarves called out of open windows to children playing ball below. “Nice,” he said sarcastically. “It’s got what you call local color.”
Daniel watched as the driver dragged their luggage toward the dark entry of a three-flight walk-up. There was an iron grille over the door. All the street-level windows were covered by metal bars as well.
“We’re staying here?” he asked in disbelief.
“Is OK!” the driver protested. “Is all OK! You follow.”
Daniel and Hunt exchanged a puzzled look.
The mercenary shrugged philosophically. “Better do what the man says.”
The stairs were ancient, rickety and dark. As they trailed their guide ever upward, Daniel could detect the odors of highly-spiced food emanating from several apartments along the way. The clash of aromas made him slightly nauseous.
On the third-floor landing, the driver paused to catch his breath. “We go inside here,” he panted, fitting a key into the door at the top of the stairs.
He ushered them proudly into a studio apartment with a small galley kitchen, a pullout sleeper couch and an open balcony overlooking the street. Immediately upon entering, the driver turned on the stereo which seemed to contain another cat in a tuba only this time both were encased in a bass drum. The speakers took up an entire corner of the room.
Daniel’s head began to pound in time to the music. “Brother Ilhami!” He had to shout to get the man’s attention. “Would you mind turning down the music?”
Their host looked at him blankly for a second as if the concept was entirely alien to his experience. “What you say?”
“The music!” Daniel shouted a little louder. “I’m sorry. I have a headache.”
The Turk finally nodded and smiled. “You wait. I fix.” He unceremoniously pulled the plug to the stereo system out of the wall. “Is better, yes?” he asked hopefully.
“Yes,” Daniel exhaled thankfully. “Much better. Thank you.”
Hunt stood watching the interaction, his hands in his jacket pockets and an amused grin on his face. “You sure do love your music, Brother Hammy,” he observed.
“In Turkey, we say music is life!” the man replied.
“I expect it’s gonna be the death of Brother Dan’l here.” Hunt smirked. “Ain’t that so, Brother Dan’l?”
The scion rubbed his brow bone and gave no answer.
“Here. You sleep here.” Ilhami gestured to the foldout couch.
“Like fun, I’m bunkin’ with you,” Leroy muttered to Daniel under his breath. “We’ll flip for it.”
“You may have the couch, Mr. Hunt,” Daniel answered wearily. “I’ll take the floor.”
“Well, all right then.” The mercenary nodded his approval. “This is shapin’ up better than I expected.”
“You like something to drink?” Ilhami asked, looking from one face to another.
“That all depends,” Hunt replied warily. “You got anything with a kick to it?”
The Turk smiled broadly. “Oh yes, I have raki. Very good. First rate.”
The mercenary’s face lit up. “Now you’re talkin’. I do believe I’ll have me a sip.”
Daniel recognized the name of the beverage because Hunt had sampled some of Turkey’s national drink on the plane on the way over. According to him, it tasted much like the ouzo to which he’d become addicted when they were in Greece.
Brother Ilhami looked quizzically at Daniel. “You like some too?”
The scion shook his head. The motion made his temples throb. “Nothing for me, thank you.”
Their host bustled into the kitchenette.
Hunt leaned closer and asked in a whisper, “You sure he’s one of yours?”
Daniel was as baffled as his companion. Unlike every other member of the Nephilim that the scion had ever known, Ilhami didn’t wear the black suit and white shirt of the order. He was dressed in blue jeans and a striped polo shirt that bulged over his considerable paunch. While some order members wore beards, Ilhami sported a bushy black moustache and two days worth of razor stubble. His entire appearance was scruffy and unkempt. When the man first approached Daniel at the airport, he couldn’t believe the rotund little Turk was an emissary of the brotherhood.
The scion replied to Hunt’s question in a low voice. “I was told he was a recent convert. The Nephilim have had difficulty establishing a presence in this country because of the large Muslim population. The nearest compound is in Armenia. It’s obvious to me that no one in authority is nearby to regulate this man’s behavior.”
“Gone native, has he? Well, this ought to be interestin’.” Hunt was all smiles as Ilhami returned with two glasses half full of a milky white substance.
Daniel noticed the second glass which he assumed was for Ilhami. “You also drink spirits?” he asked, slightly askance.
Their guide looked at him uncomprehendingly. “No spirits. Just raki. I like raki. Is good.”
Hunt chuckled and slapped him on the back. “Well, well, Brother Hammy. I never thought I’d live to say this about any of you Nephilim, but I’m takin’ a shine to you.”
“We sit outside,” Ilhami suggested. “Is hot in here.”
This was one idea which Daniel supported enthusiastically. The tiny apartment was stifling on this summer evening, and the ceiling fan did little more
