Case turned on the foam and Molly cursed him softly for disturbing her. The telephone rang. He pulled it into bed. “Yeah?” “We’re going to Istanbul,” Armitage said. “Tonight.” “What does the bastard want?” Molly asked. “Says we’re going to Istanbul tonight.” “That’s just wonderful.” Armitage was reading off flight numbers and departure times. Molly sat up and turned on the light. “What about my gear?” Case asked. “My deck.” “Finn will handle it,” said Armitage, and hung up. Case watched her pack. There were dark circles under her eyes, but even with the cast on, it was like watching a dance. No wasted motion. His clothes were a rumpled pile beside his bag. “You hurting?” he asked. “I could do with another night at Chin’s.” “Your dentist?” “You betcha. Very discreet. He’s got half that rack, full clinic. Does repairs for samurai.” She was zipping her bag. “You ever been to ‘Stanbul?” “Couple days, once.” “Never changes,” she said. “Bad old town.” “It was like this when we headed for Chiba,” Molly said, staring out the train window at blasted industrial moonscape, red beacons on the horizon warning aircraft away from a fusion plant. “We were in L.A. He came in and said Pack, we were booked for Macau. When we got there, I played fantan in the Lisboa and he crossed over into Zhongshan. Next day I was playing ghost with you in Night City.” She took a silk scarf from the sleeve of her black jacket and polished the insets. The landscape of the northern Sprawl woke confused memories of childhood for Case, dead grass tufting the cracks in a canted slab of freeway concrete. The train began to decelerate ten kilometers from the airport. Case watched the sun rise on the landscape of childhood, on broken slag and the rusting shells of refineries.
It was raining in Beyoglu, and the rented Mercedes slid past the grilled and unlit windows of cautious Greek and Armenian jewelers. The street was almost empty, only a few dark-coated figures on the sidewalks turning to stare after the car. “This was formerly the prosperous European section of Ottoman Istanbul,” purred the Mercedes. “So it’s gone downhill,” Case said. “The Hilton’s in Cumhuriyet Caddesi,” Molly said. She settled back against the car’s gray ultrasuede. “How come Armitage flies alone?” Case asked. He had a headache. “‘Cause you get up his nose. You’re sure getting up mine.” He wanted to tell her the Corto story, but decided against it. He’d used a sleep derm, on the plane. The road in from the airport had been dead straight, like a neat incision, laying the city open. He’d watched the crazy walls of patchwork wooden tenements slide by, condos, arcologies, grim housing projects, more walls of plyboard and corrugated iron. The Finn, in a new Shinjuku suit, sarariman black, was waiting sourly in the Hilton lobby, marooned on a velour armchair in a sea of pale blue carpeting. “Christ,” Molly said. “Rat in a business suit.” They crossed the lobby. “How much you get paid to come over here, Finn?” She lowered her bag beside the armchair. “Bet not as much as you get for wearing that suit, huh?” The Finn’ s upper lips drew back. “Not enough, sweetmeat. ” He handed her a magnetic key with a round yellow tag. “You’re registered already. Honcho’s upstairs.” He looked around. “This town sucks.” “You get agoraphobic, they take you out from under a dome. Just pretend it’s Brooklyn or something.” She twirled the key around a finger. “You here as valet or what?” “I gotta check out some guy’s implants,” the Finn said. “How about my deck?” Case asked. The Finn winced. “Observe the protocol. Ask the boss.” Molly’s fingers moved in the shadow of her jacket, a flicker of jive. The Finn watched, then nodded. “Yeah,” she said, “I know who that is.” She jerked her head in the direction of the elevators. “Come on, cowboy.” Case followed her with both bags.
Their room might have been the one in Chiba where he’d first seen Armitage. He went to the window, in the morning, almost expecting to see Tokyo Bay. There was another hotel across the street. It was still raining. A few letter-writers had taken refuge in doorways, their old voiceprinters wrapped in sheets of clear plastic, evidence that the written word still enjoyed a certain prestige here. It was a sluggish country. He watched a dull black Citroen sedan, a primitive hydrogen-cell conversion, as it disgorged five sullen-looking Turkish officers in rumpled green uniforms. They entered the hotel across the street. He glanced back at the bed, at Molly, and her paleness struck him. She’d left the micropore cast on the bedslab in their loft, beside the transdermal inducer. Her glasses reflected part of the room’s light fixture. He had the phone in his hand before it had a chance to ring twice. “Glad you’re up,” Armitage said. “I’m just. Lady’s still under. Listen, boss, I think it’s maybe time we have a little talk. I think I work better if I know a little more about what I’m doing.” Silence on the line. Case bit his lip. “You know as much as you need to. Maybe more.” “You think so?” “Get dressed, Case. Get her up. You’ll have a caller in about fifteen minutes. His name is Terzibashjian.” The phone bleated softly. Armitage was gone. “Wake up, baby,” Case said. “Biz.” “I’ve been awake an hour already.” The mirrors turned. “We got a Jersey Bastion coming up.” “You got an ear for language, Case. Bet you’re part Ar- menian. That’s the eye Armitage has had on Riviera. Help me up.” Terzibashjian proved to be a young man in a gray suit and gold-framed, mirrored glasses. His white shirt was open at the collar, revealing a mat of dark hair so dense that Case at first mistook it for some kind of t-shirt. He arrived with a black Hilton tray arranged with three tiny, fragrant cups of thick black coffee and three sticky, straw-colored Oriental sweets. “We must, as you say in Ingiliz, take this one very easy.” He seemed to stare pointedly at Molly, but at last he removed the silver glasses. His eyes were a dark brown that matched the shade of his very short military-cut hair. He smiled. “It is better, this way, yes? Else we make the tunel infinity, mirror into mirror…. You particularly,” he said to her, “must take care. In Turkey there is disapproval of women who sport such modifications.” Molly bit one of the pastries in half. “It’s my show, Jack,” she said, her mouth full. She chewed, swallowed, and licked her lips. “I know about you. Stool for the military, right?” Her hand slid lazily into the front of her jacket and came out with the fletcher. Case hadn’t known she had it. “Very easy, please,” Terzibashjian said, his white china thimble frozen centimeters from his lips. She extended the gun. “Maybe you get the explosives, lots of them, or maybe you get a cancer. One dart, shitface. You won’t feel it for months.” “Please. You call this in Ingiliz making me very tight….” “I call it a bad morning. Now tell us about your man and get your ass out of here.” She put the gun away. “He is living in Fener, at Kuchuk Gulhane Djaddesi 14. 1 have his tunel route, nightly to the bazaar. He performs most recently at the Yenishehir Palas Oteli, a modern place in the style turistik, but it has been arranged that the police have shown a certain interest in these shows. The Yenishehir man- agement has grown nervous.” He smiled. He smelled of some metallic aftershave. “I want to know about the implants,” she said, massaging her thigh, “I want to know exactly what he can do.” Terzibashjian nodded. “Worst is how you say in Ingiliz, the subliminals.” He made the word four careful syllables.