Bloodline [antikvár]

CHAPTER 1 Istanbul. Saturday, September 5. Ten p.m. He was seated in the dark, alone, behind the desk of Hajib Kafir, staring unseeingly out of the dusty office window at the timeless minarets of Istanbul. He was a man who was at home in a dozen capitals of the world, but Istanbul was one of his favorité cities. Not the tourist Istanbul of Beyoglu Street, or the gaudy Lalezab Bar of the Hilton, but the out-of-the* way places that only the Moslems knew: the yalis, and the small markets beyond the souks, and the Telli Baba, the cemetery where only one person was buried, and the people came to pray to him, His waiting had the patience of a hunter, the quiet stillness of a man in control of his body and his emo tions. He was Welsh, with the dark, stormy good looks of his ancestors. He had blaek hair and a strong face, and quick intelligent eyes that were a deep blue. He was over six feet tall, with the lean muscular body of a man who kept himself in good