The bodyguard would catch the older man, though they were both good athletes. Military, of course. Intelligence, Levent knew. The old man—his name was Tolga and he was in his sixties—was one of the few operatives who was given lifetime protection. For the things he had done, the Kurds would kill him on sight. Some Arabs, too. Only the Israelis and Americans approved of the mayhem that was synonymous with his career in the service. They may have put up the money for the bodyguard. This government certainly would not.

“What did you say you do?”

Levent looked at the bearded man across the table. An Italian named Federico, he had spoken in English. “I’m an off-line consultant,” said Levent. “In Istanbul.”

Federico nodded as if he understood. Levent did not usually tell civilians he was a police inspector in one of the world’s largest cities. That often made them ill at ease. It sometimes made them disappear.

“So far,” said Federico, using his eyebrows forcefully, “I haven’t met one person in Bodrum who’s from Bodrum. Everyone’s from Istanbul.”

“In summer, yes,” said the third man at the table, a Turk named Turan. “It’s a colony, and it was founded by people from the mother city to draw more people from the mother city. Istanbul is such a big busy place. If you want to see your friends, you have to come to Bodrum in high season.”

“So they’re not here for the water,” said Federico. “Seems a shame. Offshore or down deep it’s some of the best I’ve seen.”

“Certainly they come for the water,” said Turan. “There always has to be an excuse for social occasions.”