Winters in Istanbul were often cold and wet, and at that moment, Eliot Spencer was both.
He'd spent the past hour staking out the art gallery. If it could even be called that. It was a tiny space tucked into one of the innumerable alleys of the Grand Bazaar, all but lost in the confusing labyrinth of one of the world's largest covered markets. The scent of countless spices hung in the air, the sharpness of cardamom warring with the sweetness of cinnamon. Nearby, tourists rubbed elbows with vendors, trying to get the best deals on carpets and hookah pipes. Though the cold had kept most people at home, there was a still a substantial crowd wandering around—perfect for hiding Eliot's surveillance efforts.
However, sixty minutes traversing up and down the alley, being jostled by elbows and shooed out of photos, in the chilly, damp air, had worn his patience thin. He replayed his objectives in his mind: get in, get the thing, get out. It seemed a simple, straightforward task. In fact, he had to wonder why the client had even employed his services. Yes, he was a retrieval expert, and this was essentially a retrieval, but it was such an elementary one. It was almost an insult to his abilities. The object in question wasn't even very rare or dangerous—just a commonplace bust of Marianne, a traditional symbol for the French Revolution.
He felt almost bad for what he planned to do. The gallery looked sad and neglected. It didn't seem like it could take the loss of even a single piece of art, no matter how insubstantial. Although the amount of money he'd been given to retrieve the bust seemed to suggest there was more to it than met the eye.
His job description didn't involve analyzing clients' motives, however. His job went more smoothly when he utilized a more Machiavellian approach, using whatever means necessary to achieve the desired end, though this didn't always sit well with his conscience.
Eliot watched the proprietor leave and noted that the crowd was as thin as it would ever be. He quickly scanned the area to make certain no one was paying attention to him, crossed over, made short work of the lock, and entered the gallery.
Despite the weather outside, several fans were on, creating a draft that made Eliot's teeth chatter slightly (this despite sporting two layers—a flak jacket and a leather one to conceal it). Inside, his eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim lighting. Once they did, he noted that his initial assessment of the place as only barely an art gallery was correct—it seemed the only reason it could even be called that was because of the rickety sign outside that proclaimed it so in hand-painted Turkish and English letters. Two or three paintings adorned the walls, and even to Eliot's untrained eye, they seemed amateurish. Scattered on a motley collection of side tables were various sculptures and pottery pieces, all of seemingly low quality.
Even the owner didn't think much of the art on display; the lock had been a common cylinder lock, child's play to even the most inexperienced of thieves. There were no discernible signs of any sort of security system at all—no visible cameras, no lasers, not even an alarm. The message was clear: nothing in here was worth protecting.
This set off an alarm in Eliot's mind. Why hire someone with his expertise to do a job an enthusiastic teenaged hoodlum could've pulled off? He'd been cautious upon entering, but now he became hyper-aware, engaging all his senses to determine what exactly was wrong with this picture.
The bust stood on a dilapidated wooden table with rickety legs off to one side. Its cool white marble face was placid, as if reassuring him his paranoia was unfounded.
Eliot wasn't reassured.
He took one more quick look around, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. He stepped towards the table and grabbed the bust by the head.
Nothing happened.
At first.
The moment he stepped away from the table, he noted the small switch embedded into the wood of its surface. He recognized it immediately as a pressure switch; by taking the bust, he had raised it and set off an alert somewhere. He sighed. It was a rookie mistake, and he paid for it almost the instant he realized it was a rookie mistake—the front door opened with a bang, admitting a small pack of dark-suited muscular Turkish guys, sporting sunglasses and major artillery. They swarmed into the gallery, making it seem even more cramped than before. Once they'd taken up positions around the gallery, effectively trapping him, the crowd parted, and a single man stepped forward. His clothes (definitely bespoke, and of a costly material) and the copious amounts of jewelry he sported (pinky rings, a stud earring, and long, gold chain necklace) made it clear he was the one in charge.
And he was most certainly a bad guy.
He barked something in Turkish. Eliot's command of the language was intermediate at best, Istanbul not being one of his regular stomping grounds, but he got the gist of it: "Get him!"
Immediately, he slipped into a fighter's stance. His body, used to danger, automatically prepared itself to fight (never for flight, because he'd trained that response out of his system long ago). Under his breath, he growled, "It's not even that nice a piece."
The main gangster gave a small, crooked smile. When he spoke, he had a slight English accent, which made him seem ominous, but in a vaguely comical way—like a literary villain. "That bust happens to belong to me, so I would appreciate it if you took your hands off her."
"Listen," Eliot said finally. He addressed the entire room, but kept his eyes fixed on the boss. "I don't know what the heck this thing is, but someone asked me to get it for him, and that's what I'm going to do."
The boss let out a short, hoarse laugh. He turned to the minion closest to him and said something in Turkish that caused him to burst out into laughter. He in turn whispered to the goon nearest to him, making him snort out loud. In moments, the entire room sounded like the live audience at a sitcom taping after a particularly funny joke. The only person who remained unamused was Eliot.
The hired thugs all stopped laughing at the same time. Silence, ominous in its suddenness, descended over the room. All the goons took a simultaneous step forward.
It was a warning.
Eliot sighed inwardly. One day—someday—he'd quit all this and settle down to do something that didn't involve taking down hordes of humorless henchmen. Breeding horses, maybe. Horses were honest animals, unpretentious. Unlike the peacock in front of him.
The boss was posturing again, standing with his arms akimbo so that the jewels in his rings caught the light and glinted menacingly. Eliot could tell he was no longer in the mood to chat. He wanted the bust.
In a single heartbeat, Eliot made as if to toss the bust in the air. Everyone in the room reacted immediately, rushing towards him all at the same time. Taking advantage of the mad scramble, Eliot picked his way through the crowd, past all the outstretched arms and legs, the bust tucked safely inside his flak jacket. He'd made it out the door and halfway down the street before a few of the goons wised up and followed him out, their boss bellowing after them.
A smile lit Eliot's face. It turned out this assignment hadn't been quite so simple after all. He took a perverse delight in that fact. Yes, there were some days he wanted to give it all up for an easier, more predictable life—and there were moments like this, when he wouldn't trade the adrenaline rush for anything on Earth. He wondered if this was a bad thing.
Since he'd scouted the nearby alleys, he had several escape routes on hand. He chose one that would take him to the Beyazit Gate, from which he could exit and walk to the Barceló Saray hotel, where his contact was meeting him in the Turkish bath. It was a circuitous path, and he quickly lost sight of his pursuers.
He emerged from the bustle of the bazaar to the bustle of the street. Outside the market, the air was slightly fresher, though still with a slight bite. Eliot pulled his leather jacket closer to his body, surprised anew that he was cold despite wearing two layers. The bust made a bit of a bulge beneath the jacket, so he took it out and dropped it into a plastic shopping bag someone had discarded on a table in a café he passed.
He made his way to the hotel, checking surreptitiously behind him at irregular intervals for signs of people following him. No one stood out.
The rest of his walk to the Barceló Saray was uneventful. He made it to his rendezvous point with minutes to spare.
The attendants who greeted him seemed to have been expecting him, for they quickly ushered him into the surprisingly cool interior of the Turkish bath. Eliot realized the surprising lack of heat was the fact that he'd been escorted to an office, not the bath area proper. He was just about to turn and leave, thinking his guides had been mistaken, when a disembodied voice announced, "Place the bust on the desk."
Normally, Eliot would've ignored orders from a phantom, but he'd already identified the source of the voice as an intercom on the desk. And truth be told—he'd had dealings with stranger clients. The people who engaged his services tended to be bad and/or eccentric.
He did as instructed. A few moments after he'd put the bust on the table, a hand closed over its base. Eliot looked up to see its owner.
It was Nathan Ford. Of course. An object that had attracted the attention of man who so proudly displayed the extent of his funds most certainly had to be within the purview of I.Y.S.
Eliot raised one eyebrow at Ford. The insurance man grinned in that particular way of his and asked, "Do you want to know?"
Without hesitation, Eliot shook his head "no". His was the business of retrievals, nothing more. He turned to leave, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"You were followed, weren't you?" Nate queried.
"No, I wasn't."
As if to put the lie to his words, several of the Turkish gangsters from the gallery burst into the office. The opulently clothed head guy was close behind them, barking orders in a furious tone.
The corners of Nate's mouth lifted in a ghost of a smile.
"Give me my bust!" After the goon nearest the desk handed Marianne over to him, he bellowed, "Kill them! Painfully!"
Eliot sighed. He'd been looking forward to sampling some apple tea and maybe picking up a Persian carpet. When was he going to have time to do that now? He hated dealing with bad guys. They could be so unpredictable, which, granted, was one of the more interesting parts of his job, but meant his attempts at a decent life were often shoved aside.
The first thug came at him swinging; Eliot easily felled him. The second and third came towards him, fists raised. That was when Nate spoke up.
"Excuse me," he said. "I was wondering if I could put a proposition before you."
The second thug tried to catch Eliot with a left hook. He easily ducked it. Nate went on talking.
"This object—this bust—I take it that it's a very hot property at the moment?" Nate looked inquiringly at the head guy.
"Why is this buffoon not in pain?" demanded the main gangster.
A thug stepped forward to handle the matter. Eliot punched him in the gut, doubling him over.
"See, I'm very good with hot properties. Moving them, that is, with a minimum of fuss and for exceptional financial remuneration."
Eliot stared at Nate for a few awed seconds. When had Ford defected to the Dark Side? Black market sales? He would never have thought...
"What do you say? It'll get everyone off your back, including this insurance guy here." He looked pointedly at Eliot as he said this last part.
Eliot did a double take at Nate's words. The head gangster frowned. "He's in insurance?" he asked incredulously.
"Yeah. Check him."
That was when Eliot remembered Nate clapping him on the shoulder just before the horde had arrived. He was only mildly surprised when the thugs grabbed him and uncovered a business card on his person with the I.Y.S logo that was most certainly not his. Especially since it identified him as one Nathan Ford.
Eliot glared futilely at the real bearer of the name. The bastard had the bust in hand and was set to waltz right out with it, leaving him to deal with a bunch of disgruntled Turkish gangsters.
"That much, huh?" The richly-clothed gangster was grinning like a child on Christmas morning at the figure Nate named. "Well, I like the sound of that."
"Yes, large numbers are poetic," agreed Nate. "In fact..." He turned and winked at Eliot. He held out three fingers behind his back, visible only to Eliot.
Damn that Nathan Ford.
Ford left with the lead gangster, who shooed aside his minions, apparently uncomfortable with having illiterate hooligans listen in on his business deals.
The moment they were out of earshot, those same illiterate hooligans descended on Eliot.
He sighed and met them head-on.
Three minutes. It took the entire three minutes Nate had promised for the police to arrive and for him to sneak off in the ensuing melee.
By the time he'd made it out, he was sporting a large collection of scratches and bruises and he was sure he'd sprained a pinky. He'd been hoping to make it out without having to experience pain, but of course, once Nate Ford came into the picture...pain was almost guaranteed. Well, for him anyway. It seemed Ford usually escaped from having his kidneys bruised ninety percent of the time.
Eliot flexed his jaw. It also hurt. He was not averse to pain, but the job had seemed so simple...At least he had plenty of time to drink apple tea and pick up a rug.
Damn that Nathan Ford.
That guy could be so bad sometimes.