"You'd need a day or two for this place alone,” Ives marveled.

  "I wish we could get to Topkapi,” Stanton said, “but I guess there's no time before dinner."

  Ives gave him one of her famous looks. “You don't want to miss your belly dancer."

  "How can I resist her with a name like Turkish Delight?"

  They found the Bosphorus Cafe without difficulty, taking a yellow taxi that reminded them of New York cabs. The cafe occupied the first floor of an ornate three-story building that may have been a bank in some prior life. There were Gypsy beggars in the street outside, and young men passed by carrying boxes and crates on their backs. The food was passable, and at the end of the meal everyone was served a single piece of unwrapped lokum, the local name for Turkish Delight. A note on the menu explained that lokum became popular in Turkey during the nineteenth century, only becoming known as Turkish Delight after the name was changed by a British company. The confection was said to have been a favorite of Napoleon, Picasso, and Winston Churchill, among many others.

  "We're in good company,” Ives remarked.

  Then the lights dimmed and an announcer introduced, in Turkish and English, “The toast of Istanbul, the fabulous Turkish Delight!"

  Stanton had never found belly dancers particularly erotic, but he had to admit that Miss Delight was quite good at what she did, appearing in a striking red costume and veils that, naturally, left her midsection exposed. She danced to the beat of the music, moving her body in rolling waves that seemed endless as the tide. “She's really something,” he told Ives.

  "I can see you're impressed."

  As she danced close to the ringside tables several men reached out with currency to tuck into her skimpy sequined costume. Up close she appeared older than at a distance, perhaps nearing forty, with hair black as midnight and makeup a bit too thick to be convincing. “She has a few tricks,” he admitted.

  "Let's go back to the hotel. I can show you more tricks than that."

  He downed the rest of his drink. “Sounds good to me."

  "Let me stop at the ladies’ room first."

  Turkish Delight was just finishing her dance, bowing low to the audience, when Ives left her seat and scampered toward a lighted doorway across the room. Stanton signaled their waiter for the check and put it on his business credit card.

  The waiter was back in a few minutes for his signature. He slipped the credit card into his card case and listened to a singer give a passable rendering of a French song popular some decades earlier. He looked around for Ives, but couldn't see her anywhere. Turkish Delight was nowhere in sight either. He'd expected her to be lingering at the bar as they sometimes did in New York clubs.

  After waiting some fifteen minutes, he called a waitress over. “My—my wife has been in the ladies’ room a long time. I wonder if you could check on her, see if she's ill. Her name is Juliet."

  Happily, the waitress understood English and went off to see about Ives. She returned after a few moments looking blank. “She's not there. The place is empty right now."

  "Strange. Is there a back way out of here?"

  "Just through the kitchen."

  Stanton left the table and wandered up to the bar. “I came in with a young woman, tall, long legs, long blond hair, full lips, a cute nose—” He stopped, realizing the bartender didn't understand a word he was saying.

  He looked around in frustration, seeking out the waitress who understood English. She was nowhere to be seen, but a small boy was approaching his spot at the bar. He was one of the beggars they'd seen outside. The boy muttered something he couldn't understand and forced a folded note into Stanton's hand. Then he was gone.

  Stanton unfolded the note and read the words he was dreading: Get the calligraphy from the hotel safe and await our call. Otherwise she dies.

  * * * *

  Ives awakened as if from a dream. Her head seemed about to burst, but when she tried to soothe it with her hand she realized she could not move her arms.

  She opened her eyes and imagined she was in hell. The walls of the room were red and she rested on a red velvet sofa. A single floor lamp lit the room. “What happened?” she asked out loud, but there was no one there to answer her.

  Presently, perhaps a quarter-hour later, a Turkish man entered the room. He was a handsome fellow with a dark moustache and deep dark eyes. She guessed his age to be around forty. “I see you are awake,” he said in passable English.

  "What happened to me? Where am I? My head hurts."

  "We are sorry such tactics were necessary. You were struck from behind with a cosh, then injected with something to make you sleep. They removed you from the Bosphorus Cafe by way of the kitchen."

  Ives realized for the first time that she could not move because her hands and feet were bound to the sofa. “Why have I been taken here?” she asked. “Where is my partner?"

  "He is well, and has been informed of your situation. As soon as he turns over the painting you will be released."

  "Who are you?” she asked.

  "You need not know that. It is better you don't, if you expect to leave here alive.” He poured a glass of water from a pitcher and allowed her to drink, lifting her head with a helpful hand to the back of her neck.

  "Thank you,” she acknowledged. Then, “Is Stanton doing what you asked?"

  "We will know soon. You must rest now."

  "What time is it?"

  "After eleven.” He cut a piece of duct tape from a roll on the floor. “I'm going to have to gag you."

  She started to object, but the tape was already over her mouth. He left her alone and closed the door behind him. Glancing around as best she could, she saw no windows, but the red drapes on one wall could easily hide such an exit. There was another red sofa across the room, but there was no sign of her purse there or on the floor. She thought about her cell phone but decided there was little chance she could find it, much less use it to call Stanton. And what would she tell him, anyway? She had no idea where she was, though the place could well have been a room in a harem for all she knew.

  She knew Stanton would find her somehow, even if he had to give up the painting. He would do that for her.

  Wouldn't he?

  Stanton's first move was to ask for the owner of the Bosphorus Cafe. He was taken to a second-floor office where a bald man wearing thick horn-rimmed glasses sat at a computer screen. A tray of candy cubes sat on his nearby desk, each encased in a bit of rice paper. He looked up as Stanton entered. “I'm the building manager, Guzine Guler. What is your problem?"

  "I wanted the owner."

  "The owner is not on the premises."

  "Very well. My name is Walt Stanton. I arrived here nearly three hours ago with a young American woman, my companion. We had dinner and watched the show. As we were about to leave, she went off to the ladies’ room and never returned. I believe she has been kidnapped and is being held for ransom. Unless you want me to call the police, you'd better see that she's freed right away."

  The bald man held out his empty palms to Stanton. “I know nothing of this. I can assure you no one here had anything to do with this supposed kidnapping."

  "It's a real kidnapping. I'm not imagining it.” He was tempted to show the note he'd received, but it might have led to questions he wasn't prepared to answer.

  "I would suggest returning to your hotel, Mr. Stanton. Certainly your companion will return, if she isn't there already. It is not uncommon for young foreign ladies to meet a handsome Turk at the bar and go off with him for a brief dalliance. But they always come back."

  Stanton's growing panic was fast turning into anger and he knew he had to control himself for Ives's sake. “I'll take your advice for now,” he managed to reply.

  He started to rise and Guler slid the tray of candies forward. “Here, take a Turkish Delight before you go."

  Stanton left the office and went back downstairs, forcing himself to gaze at the faces along the bar. Ives was not among them, of course. He took a chance and had a taxi deliver him to the art gallery where they'd met with Bruno Tranle earlier in the day. The door was locked but he could see a light in the back office. He rang a bell by the door and waited. When nothing happened he rang again. This time Tranle poked his head out of the office and recognized Stanton.

  "What are you doing here?” he asked as he opened the door.

  "There's been a slight problem. We took your advice and ate at the Bosphorus. Somebody grabbed Ives when she went to the restroom. Now they want your calligraphy before they release her."

  The color seemed to drain from Tranle's face. “I should never have suggested that place. Go back to your hotel and let me handle it."

  "I—"

  "Go quickly. I will contact you."

  Stanton could see that his news had devastated the man. “Is there anything I can do?"

  "Just wait for my call."

  A taxi returned him to the hotel and Stanton made a point of going to the front desk and requesting the parcel he'd left in the safe. There were only a few people in the lobby, but he felt sure one of them was watching his every move. He took the canvas bag from the desk clerk and went up to his room with it.

  The place seemed bare without Ives and he had difficulty remembering the last time they'd been apart. Opening the tube, he verified that the ancient Ottoman calligraphy was still intact. That was when the phone rang. They weren't wasting any time. He picked it up.

  "Hello?"

  "You did very well, Mr. Stanton,” a husky male voice told him.

  "Let me speak with Ives."

  "That is impossible at the moment. She is being held elsewhere."

  "You don't get the calligraphy until I know she's all right."

  Silence. Then, “I will phone you back in thirty minutes’ time. Be ready to make delivery."

  * * * *

  After several minutes of slow and tedious work, Ives had managed to get her left hand free of the knotted cord that held it. Quickly she released her right hand and pulled the tape from her mouth. Then she freed her ankles and got unsteadily to her feet. The redness of the room seemed to engulf her and she made for the door as quickly as possible. Surprisingly, it was unlocked. She held her breath, expecting the Turkish man to come through at any instant, perhaps with gun in hand. When nothing happened she turned the knob slowly, then gradually inched the door open, revealing another red room, a parlor of sorts.

  A man was sprawled on the floor. She knelt and turned him over, but it was no one she knew. There was blood on the back of his shirt, and a bloody dagger lay on the red carpet a few feet away, near a canvas bag somewhat similar to the one containing the calligraphy. Ives thought the dagger appeared to be a war souvenir, with a Nazi eagle on the hilt and a German inscription along the blade. She had no doubt the man was dead.

  This room had a visible window and she went to it at once. It was dark out and she could see very little. She appeared to be on the third floor of a building, and there was no fire escape visible. She turned to look again at the body. Dead people didn't frighten her anymore, and she went quickly through his pockets. Wallet, handkerchief, keys, and a wrapped cube of Turkish Delight. Next she opened the canvas bag, revealing a large flat box and a tube of gold dust. She couldn't imagine what it was for.

  The box, larger than a cigar box, intrigued her and she picked it up. For some reason the killer hadn't taken it, so apparently robbery wasn't the motive. She started to open it, then noticed a line of holes little larger than pinholes.

  Could they be air holes?

  She unlatched the lid of the box, opened it, and sprang back. The box was filled with spiders, perhaps two dozen of them, larger than the usual garden variety. They seemed a bit drowsy, but as one of them attempted to exit the box she quickly closed and latched the lid.

  Had they brought in the spiders to torture or kill her? She needed to get out of here right away, before the Turk came back and found the body. The apartment door opened onto a corridor with a stairway at one end. She closed the door behind her and moved toward the staircase, drawn by the distant sound of Turkish music. Suddenly a figure all in red appeared at the top of the stairs and in that instant she realized where she was. It was Turkish Delight in her belly-dancing costume.

  "What are you doing out here?” the dancer asked.

  "I think I've just escaped from your apartment,” Ives told her. “I like those red walls. They match your costume."

  The belly dancer grunted and leapt at Ives with outstretched fingers, as if to scratch out her eyes. Ives ducked aside but Delight's hip caught her off balance and knocked her to the floor.

  * * * *

  Thirty minutes passed and Stanton had heard nothing. He'd left the room briefly but now he was back by the phone, tense with fear, his gaze frequently returning to the slender canvas tube at his feet. Then, some fifteen minutes late, the telephone rang. His throat was dry when he picked it up and said, “Yes?"

  "Bring the painting to the courtyard in front of the Blue Mosque,” the same familiar voice demanded. “Your friend will be released then."

  "Not unless I have proof that she's alive. Put her on the phone."

  There was a moment's pause and then a whispered female voice said, “Walt? It's Juliet. I'm in big trouble. You gotta bring the painting or they'll kill me."

  "I'll be there,” he promised and hung up. Of course the whispered voice wasn't Ives. They never called each other by their first names. His only question now was whether she was still alive.

  It was well after midnight when he took a cab to the courtyard of the Blue Mosque, clutching the canvas bag under one arm. The streets in this part of the city were all but deserted now, and only a few lonely beggars loitered on the corners. Stanton paid off the driver and walked toward the mosque with its six distinctive minarets outlined against the night sky. The courtyard was surrounded by a wall, but there were large gateways on each of its three sides. He chose the nearest one and walked through it, hoping he'd arrived before the others.

  He hadn't.

  Two men with handguns had been waiting near the sadirvan, a handsome octagonal building at the center of the courtyard. Stanton knew it contained an ablution fountain, one of many in the city, but right now he was more interested in the thugs with guns. “Give us the tube,” the closest one demanded.

  "Not until I see Juliet Ives."

  From across the courtyard came a woman's voice, cut off in mid-scream. Stanton could see her, a long veil obscuring her face and body. A tall man held her tightly by the arm. “Take it from him,” he ordered the gunmen.

  "Hold on,” Stanton told them, unzipping the canvas tube and reaching inside. “I'll give it to you."

  The blast from his sawed-off shotgun caught both men, knocking them over like tenpins. Then he was running across the courtyard toward the veiled woman and her captor.

  "Stop!” the man shouted, trying to use the woman as a shield.

  "I've got another barrel here. You'll get the same as your goons."

  "You wouldn't shoot Miss Juliet."

  "That's not her.” As if to verify his statement, he reached out and grabbed a corner of the veil, ripping it away.

  He was right. It wasn't Ives. It was Turkish Delight.

  * * * *

  When she went down on the carpet of the upstairs hallway, Ives managed to kick out at Delight's ankle, bringing her down too. She wasn't up to wrestling the woman, but she was nearly twenty years younger and was on her feet before Delight recovered herself. “Don't try anything,” Ives warned, showing her fist, “or you'll be dancing your next set with a very bloody nose."

  "What do you want?” Delight asked, not looking for a fight.

  "What do I want? I was in the ladies’ room, minding my own business, and I wake up tied to a sofa in your apartment, with a dead man in the next room!"

  "Dead man? Who is dead?” The words brought fear to Delight's face.

  "You tell me,” Ives replied. “Go look, but be careful of the spiders."

  That seemed to trigger something in Delight. “Prattos! What did that fool do?” She hurried to unlock the apartment door, then gasped when she saw the body and the bloody dagger.

  "Who was he?” Ives asked.

  "He was a merchant. He was delivering spiders and gold dust."

  "Did he have a key to this apartment?"

  "No, of course not. He was bringing these things for my wedding."

  "Wedding?"

  Delight smiled. “I'm to be married day after tomorrow, to Wesley Fazzis.” For a moment they were no longer enemies, just women talking.

  "But why did you kidnap me?"

  "To retrieve the calligraphy Bruno was selling to that German. It belongs to me. I want it at my wedding."

  "If it's yours, what was Bruno Tranle doing with it?"

  Delight took a deep breath. “Bruno is my father."

  "Your father!"

  "He just phoned me and warned me not to injure you. We had no intention of doing harm."

  The man who'd been with Ives when she recovered consciousness appeared at the top of the stairs. “What's happening here?” he asked, seeing them in the apartment doorway.

  Delight smiled. “This is Wesley, my husband-to-be."

  Ives grimaced. “We've met. I was tied to a sofa at the time."

  "I am sorry about that,” he told her. “I tried not to make the ropes too tight, but perhaps that is how you got free."

  "It helped,” she admitted. “Now where is Stanton?"

  "Your partner? He has the calligraphy. We are meeting him in the courtyard of the Blue Mosque."

  "If you harm me, he will kill you both,” Ives told them, somehow doubting it was true.

  "I will bring two of the Gypsies with weapons. He will surrender the calligraphy without a struggle. But you'd better come along too, just in case."

  "You'll stay in the car,” Delight told her. “I'll be you until we get the calligraphy."

  "How do you intend to do that?"

  "These veils can hide a great deal."