The Assassin

Начало книги

The flight from Kiev had been uneventful, passage through customs no more than routine, and his introduction to his contact in Istanbul equally dreary. Sergi Doronkin had been in the car only a few moments when it occurred to him that he had finally met someone who appeared to be less inclined to be sociable than he. Josef Solkov had met him at the airport, made no inquiries about his health or the pleasure of his flight, seldom looked over at him as he drove, and confined his conversation to terse comments about the miserable nature of the weather.

The icy streets, first encountered when they left the airport at Ataturk Hava Limani, had worsened as they continued up Highway 100, and somehow seemed to get even worse as they negotiated the bridge over the Bosphorus. The going had improved only slightly when they turned back to the south as they headed to Kadikoy.

In all, Doronkin’s brief odyssey through the city of Istanbul had taken him the better part of an hour despite the fact that by the time the sleet storm had occurred, traffic had already thinned.

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