AUSTIN STROLLED ALONG the Bosporus past the ferry terminal and sleek tour vessels until the smell of decaying fish told his nostrils he was near the working waterfront. Raucous squadrons of gulls grew more numerous as he approached the ragtag fleet of fishing boats nuzzled up to the dock. With their paint-flaked woodwork and corroded metal, the sea-beaten rust buckets seemed to remain afloat by a miracle of levitation. Austin stopped at one exception, a solid-looking wooden boat that appeared to have under- gone heroic maintenance. The black hull and white wheelhouse gleamed with many coats of paint, and the brightwork was liberally soaked with oil.

Reaching into his pocket, Austin pulled out a folded piece of notepaper and matched the scrawled word Turgut with the name painted in white on the stem. He smiled approvingly. He liked Captain Kemal without having met him. Turgut was a renowned sixteenth-century admiral in the reign of Süleyman the Magnificent. Anyone who would name an ancient fishing vessel after such a towering naval figure displayed a sense story and humor.

The deck was deserted except for a man in a double-breasted black suit. He sat on a coil of thick rope mending a net spread across his knees.

Austin called out a greeting in Turkish. “Meraba. May I come aboard?”

The man looked up. “Meraba,” he said, and beckoned Austin aboard.

Austin climbed a short gangway and stepped onto the deck. The boat was about fifty feet long, with a wide beam to provide stability as a fishing platform. His eyes swept the Turgut, taking in the extraordinary efforts that had been made to maintain a vessel that looked as if it went back to the Ottoman Empire itself. He went over to the seated man and said, “I'm looking for Captain Kemal.”

“I'm Kemal,” the man said. His fingers flew over the mesh without missing a loop.

The captain was a slightly built man in his fifties. His face was narrow, his olive skin burnished to a reddish glow by sun and wind. He wore a woven skullcap over dark brown hair going to gray, and he was clean-shaven except for a toothbrush mustache that seemed to be held in place by the curve of his prominent nose. The soft wail of Turkish music came from a portable radio at his feet.

“My name is Kurt Austin. I'm with the National Underwater and Marine Agency. I was on the NUMA ship Argo when we found your cousin Mehmet's body.”

Kemal nodded solemnly and put the net aside. “Mehmet's funeral was this morning,” he said in well-spoken English. He plucked at his sleeve to show that he was wearing his best and only suit.

“They told me on the Argo. I hope I'm not intruding by coming by so soon.”

The captain shook his head and indicated a nearby waist-high stack of netting.

“Sit, please, Mr. Austin.”

“You speak English very well.”