The Istanbul Puzzle by Laurence O’Bryan

battalions, and the US Marines.’
    ‘Busy little road,’ I said.
    ‘Some of the locals claim there are djinns – evil spirits – in the hills around here who bring bad luck,’ said Mark.
    ‘That’s a bit pessimistic,’ I said.
    ‘The two sons of Saddam were cornered in that suburb we just passed. Human djinns are the only ones they should worry about,’ said Mark.
    The road narrowed. It was winding up the foothills of the mountains that marked the horizon. On each side there were trees now, pine and oak. They grew thicker and greener the further up we went. The few houses we passed looked older, and they were made of stone and wood, rather than concrete or mud plaster. I saw a shepherd with a flock of fat-tailed dirty-looking sheep.
    Finally, after slowing down for some hair-raising bends and turning off on to a rock-strewn single-lane track, we arrived at a flat open area, with stunted oak trees around it. Two yellow Hummers blocked the track. I saw the glint of weapons pointing at us.
    Mark got out as soon as we stopped. He put his hands high in the air as he walked towards the Hummers. He’d left his door open. The heat and the noise of birds twittering rolled in. My skin prickled. Sweat broke out. Peter sat up straight.
    ‘Say nothing about why we’re here to these guys. I’ll answer any questions. You’re just along for the ride, Sean, OK?’ he said.
    Thankfully, there was no need for any explanations. Mark had a few words with a soldier dressed in a bottle-green uniform, who I glimpsed in the door of his Hummer. The man could have been a local – he had a thick beard – but he could have been a European or an American too.
    When he returned, Mark didn’t say a word. We all just watched as one of the Hummers reversed to let us through.
    About half a mile further on, we stopped in a clearing beside a green Toyota pick-up. A mountain was towering above us now, craggy grey peaks, and up ahead there was a cliff of streaked white limestone. The streaks were like tears running down the cliff.
    As I stepped out of the vehicle the first thing that hit me was that it wasn’t nearly as hot here as below on the plain. Then, on a puff of wind, I caught the scent of something decaying. There was a strange feeling about the place. We all looked around. Then someone shouted. A tall thickly-bearded, black-robed young man was running towards us with his hands in the air. At first I thought he was greeting us. Then I deciphered what he was saying.
    ‘You must go. You must go. No visitors are allowed. This is sacred ground. I will call the escort. You must leave.’
    I felt a chill. What a welcome. Mark was the nearest to the guy, a monk, I presumed from the way he was dressed. Mark walked towards him. The monk still had his hands in the air and he was waving them about, trying to shoo us all away, as if we were foxes who’d strayed into his pasture. Peter, Isabel and I walked behind Mark.
    ‘You have been warned. You must go. Go now.’ He turned, as if he was finished with us.
    ‘I’m in charge of a project at Hagia Sophia,’ I said, loudly. ‘I need to see Father Gregory.’
    He stopped, turned, peered at me. He must have been six foot six tall, at least. I stared back at him. At six foot one, I hadn’t felt small in a while.
    ‘What do you want?’ he said. His tone was still far from friendly, but at least he wasn’t shouting. His accent was thick. He reminded me of a Greek boy I’d known at MIT.
    ‘Are you Father Gregory?’ said Peter.
    The monk made a sour face.
    ‘We want to see Father Gregory,’ I said, softly. ‘We need some advice about something we’ve found, something that will interest him.’
    ‘I’ll find out if he will see you,’ said the monk. He turned, walked towards the cliff face.
    We waited by our Hummer. Mark took a large blue refrigerated box from the back of the vehicle, fed us with delicious wraps, chunky pieces of chicken, sticky rice, tomatoes and crisp cucumber, all