The suddenly found themselves in a dark bar. There were a few Turkish soldiers sitting around and plenty of James’s goons, and girls, girls, girls. Their guide pointed to two chairs. They sat down.

“Is this a brothel?” asked Agatha.

“Yes,” said James curtly.

“Are those Turkish girls?”

“No, they call them Natashas. They come from the old Soviet Bloc countries- Hungary, Romania, places like that.”

A slim man with a triangular face approached them and said in perfect English, “Can I help you?”

He was wearing a well-tailored suit and his eyes were bright and merry. He looked like a picture of harlequin without the white paint and he was somehow more frightening than the goons. Agatha decided in that moment that intelligent evil was more frightening than anything else and she was sure this harlequin was evil.

“I am James Lacey. I rented a house from Mustafa and it is in a disgraceful condition. Where is he?”

“Mustafa is in London.”

“And when will he return?”

The man spread his hands and shrugged his well-tailored shoulders.

Then he said, “If you leave your phone number, I will get him to call you when he comes back.”

“I don’t have a phone,” said James crossly. “In fact, that is one of my many complaints. Does Mustafa own this place?”

“Yes.”

James’s lip curled with distaste. “Then he is no longer the Mustafa I knew.”

“If I may show you out…” said the man politely. His eyes looked amused, amused at their outrage.

“Probably drugs as well as being a Natasha pasha,” said James as they got back into his rented car.

“What’s a Natasha pasha?”

“Brothel-keeper.”

“I don’t know what took you so long to complain,” said Agatha. “Let’s find the tourist office and put in a complaint.”

“It wouldn’t do us any good. I think I should cut my losses and find somewhere else. The manager at the Onar Village Hotel, Stefan, has been letting me use the telephone and fax. I’ll call there and see if he knows of any place I can move to.”