I Spy (10 page)

Okay, back to the original plan...where would be the best place to go to find a policeman?

It was as he stood, trying to remember whether he’d actually
seen
a policeman since he’d arrived in Constantinople, that Trey remembered something that had happened. When
he’d gotten himself lost in the maze of narrow streets he’d encountered a group of kids who looked around his age, and he’d tried to get some directions from them. They’d
seemed friendly enough, crowding round him and appearing to try and understand what he was saying, but they hadn’t spoken any English and ended up kind of making fun of him. It could have
happened then...one of them
might
have picked his pocket! If he was right, what a gull he’d been!

There was nothing he could do about it now, no point in trying to retrace his steps in the vain hope that he might run into those kids again. That was a pretty stupid idea, because what on earth
was he going to do if he found them – take the gang on single-handed? Ask nicely for his money back? Well, you never knew, they might take pity on him. But it was beginning to get late
– Trey checked his watch, which showed the time was around 7.30 – and while it wasn’t getting dark yet he reckoned it wouldn’t be
that
long before dusk and he did
not
want to be wandering the streets of Constantinople, alone, at night. Not if he could help it.

Setting off, Trey kept an eye out for a cop, and viewed every kid he saw with the deepest suspicion. It wasn’t long before he saw that he himself was getting some pretty odd looks as he
trudged the streets, and he had to admit that that was
probably
because he was lost again and was somewhere he really did not fit in at all.

And then, while he was standing on a corner, attempting to work out which of the five available directions he should take, and wondering if he’d actually been down any of the roads before,
he saw the boy.

He was a little way down the road off to his left, looking his way, head cocked to one side; he was wearing grey trousers that were too big for him, cinched at the waist by a old brown leather
belt, with a similarly large collarless white shirt half tucked in. He was wearing sandals instead of shoes.

But it was the shock of wiry black hair that Trey remembered. That and the more than slightly arrogant set of his face. He had been with the kids, one of whom he’d now convinced himself
must have lifted his dad’s money clip. He’d been hanging back, observing rather than joining in. Or maybe controlling, from a distance, what was going on? Then Trey noticed there was a
girl standing behind the boy, and a couple of other kids further down the street. The gang was all here.

He had, he knew, just two choices: deal with this face to face, or walk away. And there really was no choice, because, like his gramps said, you can turn your back on a problem, but turn around
again and it won’t have gone away. Trey stuck his hands in his pockets and started walking.

Feeling like he should be wearing pearl-handled six-guns, leather boots with Spanish spurs and a red kerchief tied round his neck like Tom Mix, Trey came to a halt a few feet in front of the
boy, who hadn’t moved an inch since they’d first spotted each other. Trey raised an eyebrow and shrugged.

“Speak English?” he asked.

“Little.”

“That’s good.”

“Why you here?”

“I think one of your friends...” Trey nodded, looking over the boy’s shoulder at the other kids, who had now moved in closer, “...I think they took something off of me. A
money clip.”

“
My
friends?” The boy looked around, feigning surprise that there was anyone with him. “This people?”

“Yeah.
This
people.”

“Was mistake.”

“
Mistake?
” Trey did a double take. “How the heck can you pick a guy’s pocket
by mistake
?”

The boy brushed the question aside with a wave of his hand. “You should come me. To my father house.”

For a moment Trey didn’t know whether to laugh or land one on the boy’s nose; but, discretion being the better part of valour, he decided to save the fisticuffs for when they were
really necessary. “And just
why
should I go to your father’s house, huh? Tell me that, why don’t you!”

“You need help.”

“You think
I
need help?” Trey could feel all his frustrations coming to the boil, and, even though he knew he was outnumbered, he couldn’t just
stand
there and
take any more insults. He leaped forward, launching a terrific haymaker of a punch, which never landed. Trey was in mid-swing when everything stopped and he found himself held in an iron grip, his
feet not touching the ground. There had been someone behind him...

The dark-haired boy, whose name was Evren, turned down yet another narrow side street, but this time he stopped almost immediately at the first door he came to. Opening it, he
gestured for Trey to go in first, which he did.

There was no point in him doing anything else. Firstly, it was pitch black and he had not a single clue where he was, so making a break for it would be completely pointless. And second, even
though Trey had attempted to pulp Evren’s face, the boy hadn’t laid a finger on him – which would have been easy enough, considering a kid about twice his size had been pinning
his arms back – and he had waited until Trey had calmed down enough to talk to again.

And what he’d told Trey had made it clear he’d be stupider than a field of turnips if he
didn’t
go with him. Somehow, he hadn’t yet found out how, Evren knew his
name, that they’d been followed,
and
that his father was no longer at the hotel!

Trey walked down a short, unlit passage with a couple of doors off it, at the end of which he could see a flight of stairs leading up to the next floor. Behind him he heard Evren talking to
someone in Turkish; he glanced round to see that the girl, whom he now knew was called Neyla, had come in with them. He’d also found out that Neyla, who looked like butter wouldn’t melt
in her mouth, was the one who’d lifted the clip off him...“by mistake”.

“Where to now?” he asked.

“Upstair.”

“Who’s there?”

“My father, he need you to talk to.”

“Does he know where my dad is?”

Evren shrugged. “Have to ask. He hasn’t tell me.”

“Okay, let’s ask.” Trey licked his lips; he was thirsty, hungry, tired and not a little scared, but there really was no turning back. He cracked his knuckles and marched up the
stairs.

From a small half landing at the top of the second flight, he saw soft lamplight, heard louder voices and caught the delicious smells spilling out of a curtained doorway. It was so inviting that
his fear of the unknown melted away as he felt himself being drawn up the last few stairs as if being pulled by a magnet. At the last minute, Evren gently pushed past him and went into the room
first, holding the ancient brocade curtain back.

“I have him, Baba,” he said, and beckoned Trey forward with a nod of his head.

Brushing past Evren, Trey found himself in a large, gaslit room that was crammed with tables, chairs, milling people of all sizes, drying clothes, steaming pots and a number of brindle cats. In
the centre of this gentle chaos sat a large, rotund man wearing shiny pinstripe trousers and matching waistcoat, an off-white shirt with the detachable collar undone, and incongruously colourful
red velvet slippers. He was mopping his forehead with his half-undone dark-blue and dark-red striped tie.

“Welcome! Welcome to my most
humble
of abodes!” The man heaved himself upright and held out an enthusiastic hand, which Trey had no choice but to shake. “Duan Hendek, at
your service young Drummond MacIntyre Three, terribly glad to meet you! Hatijeh...” Evren’s father turfed a cat off a nearby chair and offered it to Trey. “Sit, sit, sit! Hatijeh,
wife of wives, scented everlasting love of my life, one extra for dinner!”

I
t was, in fact, more like three extra for dinner. Neyla stayed and a friend of the family turned up just as the food was being served.
Evren’s father, who insisted on being called Baba Duan – baba, it turned out, meaning the same as pop – couldn’t have been more delighted.

Frustrated as he was at the seemingly never-ending toing and froing (exactly
how
many times did the seating arrangements have to be changed?) and the general bedlam that kept him from
asking Evren’s father all the questions he so
desperately
needed answers to – like how he knew his name, and where the merry heck was his money? – Trey couldn’t help
but be fascinated by what was going on all around him.

It turned out to be the most extraordinary meal Trey had ever eaten – the food was vibrant, exotic and spicy, much like the company – and quite unlike meals at his house which were,
to say the least, quiet affairs. Evren’s mother, Hatijeh, never seemed to stay in her seat for more than a minute, refilling plates, cajoling Evren’s two younger brothers and baby
sister, hugging her husband and attempting to engage Trey in conversation, even though she obviously didn’t speak a word of English; all he could do was smile in reply, but she didn’t
seem to mind one bit.

At one point Trey noticed Evren looking pointedly at Neyla, who was sitting next to him; she then leaned over and quickly whispered “
Özür dilemek
...sorry much...” in
his ear. Before he could respond, Hatijeh wedged herself between them and began distributing plates loaded with various desserts; when she’d finished and moved away, Trey found Neyla had
swapped places with Evren’s little sister and was acting like nothing had happened.

And then, all of a sudden, like the tide going out, the meal was over, the guests departed, the table cleared and the younger children packed off, Trey presumed, to bed. He was left sitting at
the table with Baba Duan, Evren and Neyla.

“Tremendous!” Baba Duan patted his considerable stomach with both hands, beaming at Trey, who didn’t know whether he was referring to the meal, or its effect on his waistline.
“I think now is the time we should retreat to my office, as it is never good manners to discuss business at the dinner table, wouldn’t you say?”

Without waiting for an answer Evren’s father got up, swished the heavy curtain aside and disappeared down the stairs; Trey bit back the words “About time!” as he followed Evren
and Neyla out of the room.

Baba Duan sat in an old, leather-cushioned wooden swivel chair, his back to a large roll-top desk that was stuffed to the gills with paper – actual newspapers, as well as
bills, notebooks, flimsy typewritten foolscap sheets, telegrams and the odd book. There were, Trey noticed, also two tin rubbish bins on the floor overflowing with yet more screwed-up pieces of
discarded paper, and as he watched Baba Duan light an aromatic, oval-shaped cigarette he found himself hoping the place never caught fire.

“So, Master T. Drummond MacIntyre Three...”

Trey held up his hand. “Can I just ask you to explain something that’s been
really
bothering me, Mr., um, Hendek?”

“It is my pleasure for you to be my guest in this matter, please to go ahead and ask!”

“How d’you know my name?”

“Explaining that is most precisely what I was
about
to do, Master T. Drummond MacIntyre Three...”

“Call me Trey, everyone does...it’s, you know, easier,” Trey interrupted, then glanced at Neyla and Evren. “And I’d
also
like to know where my money
is...”

“So you shall,
Trey
, so you shall!” Baba Duan raised his eyebrows and smiled broadly, revealing a couple of gold teeth. “But first let
me
ask if
you
have
been apologized to – this has happened, yes?” He looked from Evren to Neyla and then at Trey. “Yes?”

Trey nodded as he glanced at Neyla, who was examining her fingernails rather closely.

“It was not such a good thing that she did, the girl.” Baba Duan produced the most perfect smoke ring that Trey had ever seen, and then blew a second one right through the middle of
it. “But here I
have
to say to you all just how extraordinary it is, this thing
kismet
! Tremendous! Because
if
Neyla had
not
done such a bad thing, you would
not
be sitting here tonight and
I
would not be in the position of most humbly being able to try and help you. Yes?”

Trey nodded again.

“Which would have been a
bad
thing, worse than the thing that Neyla originally did. No?”

Confused, Trey did something between a shake and a nod.

“Excellent, indeed
splendid
! Now we can say
that
is all sorted out...and, where was I?”

“About to tell me how you know my name?” Trey offered.

“Yes, yes, yes! But all in the best of time.” Baba Duan ground his cigarette out in a well-attended ashtray. “Your father, T. Drummond MacIntyre Two, who is he?”

“Who is he?” Trey frowned. “He’s my father...what d’you mean
‘who is he?’
? The thing
I
want to know is
where
is he?”

“An excellent question, absolutely excellent!”

“D’you know the answer?”

“It says on his card...” Baba Duan ignored Trey’s question and reached into one of his capacious trouser pockets and pulled out a leather wallet, extracting a small piece of
white pasteboard from it.

“Hey!” Trey leaped up off his chair. “That’s my dad’s business card!”

“And I think this is his, also,” Baba Duan handed the money clip over to Trey, “exactly as it was ‘found’, minus the business card that was with it. Which says that
your father is –” Baba Duan patted his waistcoat until he found his half-glasses – “Senior Vice President of MacIntyre, MacIntyre and Moscowitz Engineering, of Chicago,
Atlanta and New York City. And may I say, what a very
marvellous
job to have!”

“What’s
that
supposed to mean?” Trey wasn’t at all sure he liked the tone of voice Evren’s father was now using.