Paradox. Alex Archer

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      LIKE A LOT OF OLD CITIES Ankara had narrow twisty streets right alongside broad well-traveled thoroughfares, giant skyscrapers rubbing glass-and-steel shoulders with brick tenements and blocks of modest shops. Some of that could be found in the Kavaklidere south of the Sheraton.

      Annja preferred the dimmer backstreets to the bright modern lights. They allowed a more pleasant walk with a degree of solitude. Even if her thoughts were too roiled and dark for her to enjoy walking through the exotic Turkish capital as much as she usually would. She still found it both odd and pleasing that she had these streets, even this particular relatively long and straight uphill stretch, pretty much to herself, when just a few blocks away on Talat Pafla Boulevard the traffic was flowing bumper to bumper and the nightspots were hopping.

      A brisk wind edged with cold like broken glass sent dry leaves from the avenue’s many trees skittering along past Annja’s feet like small frightened animals. Not all the trees were bare; some were evergreen here, too, as in the botanic garden, and most impressive in size. The smell of spices and boiling water was stronger here than the inevitable city-center diesel stink. Floating from somewhere came the faint strains of Turkish music.

      She didn’t know what to make of the aged Mr. Summer. It was tempting to dismiss what he said as nonsense. But there was the fact that he knew Roux. And Garin.

      And also that she was off on a quest to prove the literal truth of the Old Testament, totally against the laws and wishes of their host country. Surreal? The whole damned thing was surreal.

      She trudged up the hill toward the light-encrusted tower of the Sheraton. It was steep here. It didn’t tax her particularly. In fact she was thinking of hitting the hotel’s beautiful and well-equipped exercise room when she got back—maybe take a few laps in the indoor pool afterward. She was wary of jogging on the street under the circumstances; best not to attract undue attention to herself….

      Striding down the hill toward her from the hotel she saw a familiar figure: the lean, beak-nosed general Orhan Orga. For all his near-depressive appearance at the negotiating table he walked with erect military bearing, looking taller than normal in his high-peaked cap, with his black leather greatcoat flapping around his stork legs. Behind him, and seemingly having to hustle to keep up, were a pair of huge and burly plainclothes goons. Apparently a Turkish army general worried more about being mugged on the Ankara streets than Annja. Then again, he probably had higher-level enemies than random street criminals on his mind.

      A black SUV with dark tinted windows waited gleaming by the curb, nose toward Annja and two blocks uphill. Its lights flashed and its alarm system beeped reassuringly twice as Orga gestured grandly with a gloved hand. He thoughtfully slowed enough to allow one bodyguard to scuttle ahead of him to open the driver’s door and lever his bulk inside. The other stepped fast to open the passenger door for his master, then clambered into the backseat.

      She heard the car’s big engine growl alive. The SUV rolled away from the curb toward her like a big black cat headed out for a nocturnal prowl.

      Then it exploded with a brilliant yellow-white flash.