They walked to the end of a boardwalk and descended to a platform. Two thick columns rested on bases carved into the faces of Medusa. One face lay on its side; the other, upside down. A steady stream of tourists came and went, after pausing to take snapshots of the curiosity.

Finally, the only other person left was a middle-aged man who had been there since they arrived. He carried a camera but hadn’t used it. He was wearing dark slacks and a white short-sleeved shirt with no tie, the standard uniform for many Turks. He wore aviator-style sunglasses, although the light was low in the cistern.

“Why do you think the Romans put the heads in this strange position?” he asked Carina, speaking English with a slight accent.

Carina studied the sculptures. “Maybe it’s a joke. One face looks at the world as it should be and the other as it is. Topsy-turvy.”

“Excellent. Would you be Signorita Mechadi?” the man said.

“Cemil?”

“At your service,” he said with a smile. “And this must be your friend, Mr. Austin.”

Austin shook hands with the Turk. After hearing of Cemil’s underworld exploits, he had expected a Damon Runyon character with a Turkish twist. This man looked more like someone’s favorite uncle.

“It’s good to meet you after all our dealings, Señora Mechadi. How can I help you?”

“We’re looking for a statue that’s the twin of one stolen from the IraqNationalMuseum.”

Cemil glanced at a new group of tourists and suggested a walk. As they strolled between rows of columns, he said, “There’s been a steady stream of Baghdad merchandise through Istanbul. It’s depressing prices. Do you have a photograph?”

Austin handed over the Navigator figurine. “This is a scale model. The actual statue is almost as tall as a man.”

Cemil produced a loupe-penlight instrument and examined the figurine. He chuckled. “I hope you didn’t pay too much for this artifact.”

“Do you recognize it?” Carina said.

“Oh, yes. Come with me.”

Cemil led the way to the exit, and they climbed back into the bright sunlight. The Grand Bazaar was a short tram ride away. The bazaar was a labyrinth of hundreds of shops, restaurants, and cafés, and former caravan-storage depots called hans. Politely aggressive proprietors lurked like trap-door spiders ready to pounce on passing tourists and talk them out of their Turkish lira.

They went through the Carsikapi Gate and made their way through the hot, unventilated maze of roofed streets. Cemil navigated the twists and turns as if he were operating on personal radar. He took them deep into the heart of the bazaar and stopped at a small shop.

“Merhaba,” Cemil said to a man in his sixties who sat in front of the shop, sipping tea and reading a Turkish newspaper. The shopkeeper smiled broadly. Putting the newspaper aside, he rose from his chair and pumped Cemil’s hand.

“Merhaba,” he said.