The Snake Stone

66

The man with a knife moved easily through the city. Its blade was very bright and very sharp, and it hung openly from his belt without a scabbard.

Sultanahmet. Bayezit. It was the hour of prayer: from the minarets overhead the muezzins were calling the faithful to their devotions. The man didn’t hear them. He didn’t notice the crowds, streaming toward the mosques. He skipped the turning toward Bayezit and carried on at a loping run toward the third hill. The crowds meant nothing to him: they could not impede him as he moved across the city, always at the same pace, making the familiar turns.

Now Bayezit was behind him.

The man with a knife knew this, although his eye was fixed on darkness. This, he thought, would be his single contact today with the people who sifted and surged through the city streets.

He would fulfill his errand, and the crowd would still move in its appointed rhythm. The city’s appetite would remain unchanged.

It would pray, and wash, and drink, and eat, because it was bigger than a single man. Like a scoop of water taken from a tank, the fate of one man would make no difference to the people of Istanbul: they would close over his head like water.

And the secrets would be preserved.

Fener. At Fener he moved from the darkness into the light.

Still the people would not bother him. He had an errand to fulfill.

He followed the instructions. He located the door, which was unlocked. He did not think the door would be locked.

He went in quietly: so quietly he could easily hear the murmur of an old woman talking to herself.

He found the stairs, and they were dark and enclosed. They suited him.

At the top of the stairs there would be another door.

And the weight of the dagger that he drew from his belt felt comfortable in his hand.