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businessman to present the pistol as a gift to the Bulgarian military attaché in Istanbul. Taylor and George had gone off to a little shop in the Kapali Carsi, purchased the gun, and lovingly installed the bug. It was an ingenious device—absolutely undetectable. And the Bulgarian loved it. He placed it on the desk in his office and for a week it broadcast a delicious flow of raw intelligence (not, alas, concerning shipments of weapons into Turkey). But then the Bulgarian colonel did something nobody had expected. He took the gun home with him, bought some gunpowder and bird shot, and tried to fire it. It was a natural enough thing to do, but of course the ancient gun exploded. The Bulgarian escaped serious injury, but the microphone was mortally wounded.

Taylor had sent George the tape of the last few minutes of the bug’s life: the officer talking happily to himself in Bulgarian; the sound of him cleaning the barrel, inserting the powder and shot. The sound of him walking outdoors, a long pause while he aimed, then BLOOOEY! A terrible explosion; and then a ghastly, empty silence. Taylor thought it was funny, but George was upset. His microphones were his children, sent out into the world with all the love and care he could muster. He didn’t like it when they died prematurely.

They walked swiftly through the airport terminal.

“Let’s get to work,” said George enthusiastically as they got in the car.

“Too early,” said Taylor, looking at his watch. It was just nine-fifteen. The two Turkish agents would be waiting for them on Horhor Street at midnight. They had nearly three hours to kill.

“Have you eaten?”

George nodded.

“Eat some more,” said Taylor.

They went to a fish restaurant in Kumkapi, a district in Old Istanbul overlooking the Sea of Marmara. The area was inhabited by a rich mix of nationalities: Armenians, Georgians, Bulgarians, Kurds. Taylor chose a restaurant called Ucler, run by three Albanian brothers. They were a suspicious lot, and spent much of the evening peering warily out the door, watching for trouble.

“What’s with these guys?” asked George when one of the Albanians went to the door for what seemed the twentieth time.

“That’s the way people are in this part of the world, if you hadn’t noticed,” said Taylor. “They don’t trust anybody. The Albanians hate the Bulgarians, the Bulgarians hate the Turks, the Turks hate the Kurds, the Kurds hate the Armenians. So they all spend a lot of time watching each other. That’s the secret of politics in this part of the world. Play the little buggers off against each other.”

The Albanian restaurateurs, in fact, were so suspicious of what might be happening down the street that they all but ignored the two Americans seated in their restaurant. Which suited Taylor fine. He outlined for George the basic details of the operation: the incautious Soviet diplomat who had gone shopping for an Ottoman chair; the layout of the antique bazaar; the plan for entering the building; the support agents who would accompany them.

George nodded and grunted between mouthfuls of food. Despite the fact that he had already eaten, he proved to be surprisingly hungry, devouring most of a large bluefish and a dozen large shrimp that Taylor had ordered but couldn’t finish. He washed this down with two glasses of vodka, followed by a half bottle of wine, followed by a last glass of vodka. Taylor didn’t object. George was a professional. If he wanted to get shit-faced before installing a delicate microphone in a hundred-year-old piece of furniture, that was his business. The agency had enough nursemaids and nannies these days, and Taylor wasn’t about to join them. But as it neared midnight, he did order George an extra-large Turkish coffee, which the technician dutifully drank.

“Georgie, my boy,” said Taylor, “let’s go buy some antiques.” George said nothing. He was an artist, and his performance was about to begin.

Horhor Street was in a district called Fatih, a sprawling, dusty quarter of cheap apartment buildings and dimly lit workshops on the outskirts of the old city. Taylor knew the area all too well, for it had become in the past year a gathering place for Iranian émigrés and was the home of several of his putative agents. He parked his car several blocks from the Bit Pazar and walked silently with George.

For all his bonhomie, Taylor was nervous. He had a sensation in his gut that felt like knitting needles trying to knit with no yarn. They walked slowly up the street, passing rows of darkened apartment blocks.

As they neared the top of the street, Taylor turned right onto a small alley called Kirik Tulumba Street. In the shadows, he saw Hasan and Hamid, the two Turkish support agents, who were leaning against a building smoking cigarettes. Behind them was the antique bazaar.

“That’s it?” asked George doubtfully, motioning toward a modern five-story building.

Taylor nodded. It was an unlikely spot for a flea market. Rather than the usual warren of small shops, this was a tidy establishment with elevators and modern door locks and a night watchman. Most of the city’s best antique dealers had moved here a few years earlier when the old antique market in Kuledibi was torn down.

The Turks extinguished their cigarettes. Taylor whispered something in Turkish to the younger of the two. He disappeared into the shadows beside the building and returned several minutes later, motioning to Taylor that the way was clear.

“Hamid,” whispered Taylor to the older Turk.

“I’m Hasan.”

“Whatever, you ready?” The Turk nodded. Taylor motioned him to move out.

The Turk headed toward the main entrance. He was the decoy. It was his job to distract the night watchman—to engage him in conversation, to join him for tea, to ply him with whiskey, to offer him baksheesh, as a last resort to subdue him by force—for thirty minutes, long enough for the others to gain entry to the antique shop. Taylor waited until Hasan was near the main door and then followed Hamid to