Cumali had slowed down as we approached, allowing me to view the ruins in all their glory, and I had reacted with appropriate wonder, as if I had never seen them before.
The cliff face and the parking area on top were as deserted as ever, and the only sound as we passed the sunken dance platform was the wailing of a few circling gulls. Their mournful cry seemed a fitting accompaniment as Cumali steered the little cruiser up to the rotting jetty.
I grabbed the mooring line, swung off the deck and made the boat secure. On the beach, host to clots of tar and the bodies of two dead gulls, hordes of crabs ran for cover like roaches in a tenement kitchen. I hated the place.
Cumali came to my side, carrying the picnic basket, and I took it from her, indicating our surroundings. ‘It doesn’t look like much of a spot for a picnic.’
She laughed, more relaxed now that she had got me to the designated place and her part in the plan was almost over.
‘We’re not picnicking here. There’s a tunnel that leads into a Roman amphitheatre – the experts say it’s the best example in the world after the Colosseum.’
I did my best impression of being pleased. ‘Sounds great. Where are the kids?’
She had obviously thought of it – or her brother had. ‘Already here,’ she said easily. ‘They came by bus; there’s a path that comes down into it from the road.’
I knew it wasn’t true – the area had been reconnoitred when the hit on Finlay Finlay was being planned, and Control had warned us that, if things went wrong, not to shoot open the gate on the tunnel and try to find refuge in the ruin. It was a dead end; there was absolutely no way out.
‘I’m looking forward to seeing the little guy,’ I said as we picked our way across kelp-strewn rocks.
‘He’s so excited,’ she said. ‘I could barely get him to eat his breakfast.’
We found a rough path that led towards a dark opening located in the side of the cliff just above the beach.
‘It’s the start of the tunnel,’ she said. ‘The dignitaries and generals used to arrive by barge. Accompanied by fanfares, they walked down it and into the amphitheatre.’
‘I would have thought the place would be better known, there’d be more tourists,’ I suggested.
‘Years ago, it was packed, but they did so much damage it’s just for archaeologists and school groups now.’ The lies were coming more easily to her.
‘What’s the amphitheatre called?’ I asked.
She said something in Turkish, which, of course, I didn’t understand.
‘In English?’
‘I don’t think there’s a direct translation for it, I’m not sure what it means.’
I guessed she didn’t think it was a good idea to tell me I was about to enter a place called the Theatre of Death.
We stopped at the mouth of the tunnel and I saw, half hidden in the gloom, a gate made of heavy, rusted bars. If it had ever been chained and padlocked, it wasn’t now. ‘They don’t keep it locked?’ I said.
‘The only access is by boat, and hardly anyone knows about it. It hasn’t been locked for years,’ she said.
That was their first mistake. I could just make out marks in the rust where a chain had been pulled free, probably cut through a few hours ago. It didn’t help me, but I found it reassuring – it meant they were hurrying and overlooking details. Experience told me that would be an advantage.
Cumali pushed the gate open and was about to step inside when I stopped her. ‘Here, let me go first,’ I said, acting like a perfect gentleman.
I think good manners are very important when you are being led to your death. It also meant that, if everything went to hell, I would have a clear field of fire in front of me.
I walked through the gate, headed into the darkness and felt the sweat start to pool around the Beretta nestled in the small of my back. I knew that at the other end of the tunnel the Saracen was waiting.
Chapter Thirty
BRADLEY HADN’T ENCOUNTERED any difficulty in finding the right house. As planned, he had left the hotel five minutes after I was picked up by Cumali and, using a detailed map I had drawn for him, walked straight to Bodrum’s best-stocked store for boating supplies.
Three minutes later he left the store carrying a plastic shopping bag holding the one item he had purchased and, once again following my map, headed south-west. After eleven minutes he turned into the street he was looking for and saw, halfway along it, the Coca-Cola distribution warehouse. He approached it, crossed the street and stopped in front of a small dwelling.
After checking its appearance and recalling six items about it, he was certain he had located the correct property. He opened the gate, passed the garden gnomes and knocked at the door. The time was 11.25: he was right on schedule. A few seconds later he heard a woman’s voice from inside calling in Turkish and, though he didn’t understand the language, he was sure that she was asking: ‘Who is it?’