“Dessert is for him, not us,” he replied quietly. “Make a show of heading for the restroom, then wait for me by the kitchen.”
Loren responded immediately, pretending to whisper in Pitt’s ear, then slowly rising and moving down a short hall that led to both the kitchen and restrooms. Pitt noted the man at the door stiffen slightly as he observed her movement, then relaxed when the waitress delivered the coffee and dessert to the table. Pitt surreptitiously slipped a stack of Turkish lira on the table, then poked a fork into the thick slab of baklava. Taking a peek toward the door, he saw the blue-shirted man turn again toward the street. Pitt dropped his fork and rose from the table in a flash.
Loren stood waiting at the end of the hallway as Pitt rushed by, grabbed her hand, and yanked her into the kitchen. A startled chef and dishwasher simply stopped and stared as Pitt smiled and said hello, then squeezed past some boiling pots with Loren in tow. A back door opened onto a small alley that curved to the main front street. They hustled up to the corner and turned to head away from the restaurant when Loren squeezed Pitt’s hand.
“How about that trolley?” she asked.
An antiquated open-air trolley used to shuffle locals and tourists from one end of town to the other was moving slowly down the street toward them.
“Let’s board on the other side,” Pitt agreed.
They crossed the street just before the trolley approached and then quickly jumped aboard. The seats were all taken, so they were forced to stand as the trolley passed by the front of the café. The man in the blue shirt still stood out front and casually surveyed the trolley as it motored by. Pitt and Loren turned away and tried to screen themselves behind another passenger, but their cover was limited. The man’s eyes froze at the sight of Loren’s purple blouse, then he swung around and pressed his face to the restaurant window. Pitt could see the shock in the man’s face as he turned back and watched the trolley recede down the street. Quickly stumbling after the trolley, he yanked a cell phone from his pocket and frantically dialed as he ran.
Loren looked at Pitt with apologetic eyes. “Sorry, I think he spotted me.”
“No matter,” Pitt replied, trying to stifle her fears with a sure grin. “It’s a small town.”
The trolley made a brief stop at the fish market, where most of the passengers climbed off. Observing their tail still in pursuit a block away, Pitt and Loren grabbed a seat and crouched low as the trolley resumed speed.
“I think I saw a policeman earlier near the dock,” Loren said.
“If he’s not around, we might be able to short-hop another ferry.”
The trolley cruised another block, then approached its stop near the ferry dock. The old vehicle’s wheels were still turning when Pitt and Loren jumped off and scurried toward the dock. But this time, it was Pitt’s turn to grab Loren’s arm and freeze.
Ahead of them, the dock was now empty, the next ferry not due for another half hour. Of greater concern to Pitt was the appearance of two men near the dock’s entrance. One was the Persian from the Blue Mosque, pacing about the quay, alongside his friend in the sunglasses.
“I think we best find some alternate transportation,” Pitt said, guiding Loren in the other direction. They quickly stepped toward the road, where a 1960s-era Peugeot convertible rambled by, followed by a small group of locals on foot trailing it to the waterfront park. Pitt and Loren approached the Turks and tried to melt
into the small party for cover. Their attempt failed when the blue-shirted man from the restaurant appeared down the road. Shouting to his cohorts on the dock, he waved excitedly, then pointed in Pitt’s direction.
“What do we do now?” Loren asked, seeing the men on the dock move in their direction.
“Just keep moving,” Pitt replied.
His eyes were dancing in all directions, searching for an avenue of escape, but their only immediate option was to keep moving with the crowd. They followed the group into the park, finding the open grassy field now lined with two uneven rows of old cars. Pitt recognized many of the highly polished vehicles as Citroën and Renault models built in the fifties and sixties.
“Must be a French car club meet,” he mused.
“Wish we could actually enjoy it,” Loren replied, constantly gazing over her shoulder.
As the group of people around them began to disperse across the field, Pitt led Loren to a cluster of people in the first row. They were congregated around the star of the show, a gleaming early-fifties Talbot-Lago with a bulbous body designed by Italian coach-maker Ghia. Working their way to the back of the crowd, Pitt turned and surveyed their assailants.
The three men were just entering the park together at a brisk pace. Sunglasses was obviously the team leader, and he promptly directed the other two men to either edge of the field while he slowly moved toward the center row of cars.
“I don’t think we’ll be able to leave the way we came in,” Pitt said. “Let’s try to keep ahead of them. We might be able to cut up to the main road from the other end of the park and flag down a car or bus.”
“I wouldn’t be opposed to attempting a carjacking at this point,” Loren replied grimly. She moved quickly, skirting around and between the cars, with Pitt a step or two behind. They tried as best they could to use other onlookers as cover, but the crowds thinned as they moved down the row. They soon reached the last car, a postwar two-door convertible painted metallic silver and green. Pitt noticed an older man seated inside taping a “For Sale” sign to the windshield.
“The last of our cover,” Pitt remarked. “Let’s move fast to the trees.”
Pitt grabbed Loren’s hand, and they started to run across the last section of grass field. A thick line of trees circled the park’s perimeter, beyond which Pitt was certain the coastal road lay just to the west.
They’d run just twenty yards when the sight ahead ground them both to a dead stop. Beyond the trees, they could now see a high stone wall that enveloped the southern half of the park. As a deterrent to the private residence on the other side, the wall was topped with shards of broken glass. Pitt knew that even with his help there was no way Loren could quickly scale the wall and outrun their pursuers, let alone avoid a bloody scrape in the process.
Pitt wheeled around and quickly spotted the three men. They were still picking their way through the cars, slowly converging on them. Tugging Loren’s hand, Pitt began walking back toward the line of cars.
“What do we do now?” Loren asked, fear evident in her voice.