I Spy (11 page)

“It means, I suppose, that anyone can get a card printed saying whatever they like it to say...I myself find it necessary to use a
number
of different cards in the pursuit of my own
business.”

A phone started to ring in the room next door, its bell sounding much like a stone being lazily rattled round a tin can. Baba Duan looked at his pocket watch, wound it a bit and put it back in
his waistcoat.

“That should probably be the
Daily Register
’s New York City desk in London; Mr. Stevens approximately calls always at this hour, looking to find news to pass on across the
ocean – Evren, see please what he might have to say.” As Evren went, moving like a greyhound out of its trap, Baba Duan returned his attention to Trey. “You must tell me –
if you please – whether your father’s ‘Drummond MacIntyre’ name is a ruse or a ploy or some kind of – what can I say...
stratagem
? – or whether it is, in
fact, real...and you
must
forgive my asking such
wretched
questions as these, but, here in Constantinople, very little is ever what it at first seems...”

“Mr. Stevens say he would like a word, Baba.” Evren appeared in the doorway holding a candlestick telephone, its mouthpiece pressed to his chest; he gestured with the earpiece.
“Will you?”

“When Gotham calls –” the swivel chair creaked with relief as Baba Duan got up – “I answer.”

Taking the phone from his son, Baba Duan disappeared into the other room and left Trey feeling like a rug had just been pulled out from underneath him. How could this man possibly think that his
father was
pretending
to be someone who he wasn’t? Him too, come to that! Did it mean, for some inexplicable reason, Baba Duan thought that his father was some kind of cheap, shyster
con man? He looked up, aware that Neyla and Evren were observing him, waiting for some kind of reaction, aware also that they must be wondering if he was a liar or not.

“I
am
who I say I am!” Trey could feel his ears reddening. “And I don’t care if you believe me or not...” He got up, willing himself to stand as tall and
straight as he could. “Now I have my belongings back, give me directions to the hotel and I won’t be any more trouble to you, or your father.”

“Please to sit down, Trey.”

Trey hadn’t noticed Baba Duan had come back into the room.

“What, so’s I can listen to you spout some more baloney about my father? I’ve had enough of an earful of
that
already.”

“A thousand apologies, and more...” Baba Duan returned to his long-suffering chair, which complained quietly to itself as he lit another cigarette and leaned backwards. “In
this city it pays handsomely
never
to take anything, or anyone, at the value of their face, Trey. It may seem a poor show, coming from a place where people are very much proud of being men
of their word, but this is Constantinople! We
always
expect there to be a number of versions of every story – a Turkish one, naturally, an English one, a German, Russian or an Italian,
or even an
American
one – any of which might turn out to be true!”

“So are you saying that you now believe my father is who he says he is?” Baba Duan nodded. “Terrific – what changed your mind?”

“The admirable Mr. Stevens, working, as he does, for the
Daily Register
’s London office, was able to confirm with alacrity that MacIntyre, MacIntyre and Moscowitz is indeed an
entirely
reputable company...”

“I coulda
told
you my father would check out!” Trey grinned widely, an odd sense of relief making him feel almost light-headed – of
course
his father was who he
said he was!

“Well, I haven’t known you for a time that is long enough to trust you – and my family would never have enough to eat if I believed
everything
anyone of such a short
acquaintance told me.” Dragon-like, Baba Duan blew smoke out of his nostrils. “And as you have so recently witnessed, my family, and friends, have gloriously healthy
appetites.”

“D’you trust me enough to tell me what the heck is going on? I mean, I can see how you found out my dad’s name, but what about mine?”

“I know a lot more than that...including that your esteemed father has been of much interest to certain people, and that he is no longer to be found in his rooms at the Pera
Palas.”

Trey frowned, and he leaned forward. “Yeah, I know you know, but
how
do you know? And where is my father now, and what can I do?” Trey stood up, like his chair had burst into
flame. “I...I should go to the police! That’s what I was trying to do when I met them,” he indicated Evren and Neyla. “The police’ll help me find him!”

“Please take the seat once more.” Baba Duan waved calming hands at Trey. “In my most modest opinion it would be unwise in the most extreme to go to the police...”

“Why?” Trey looked angrily puzzled, but did sit back down.

“They generally truly know very little that is useful.”

“The police?”

Baba Duan nodded. “Unlike myself, the police do not like to pay for information, so do not get told very much. My business is the news business, young Master Trey, and I am pretty fairly
good at it. In fact,
sometimes
I know what the story is going to be even before it happens!” Two phones began ringing at the same time in the other room and Evren was out of his chair
before Baba Duan managed to even lift an eyebrow in his general direction. “I have people, they bring me scraps of information, from here and from there – a lot of people, including my
son, and his friends.” He smiled at Neyla. “They supply me with the fresh ingredients, and I, the
chef
, cook the story and sell slices of it to my customers. Your father’s
return to Constantinople – such a fuss with the luggage! – was one such particle, as was the fact that it was noticed that you were being followed. Add them together and you have, mmm
–” Baba Duan licked his lips – “maybe a taste of something about to happen? Certainly a dish very worthy of keeping the eye on.”

Evren appeared in the doorway, clasping two phones to himself with one hand and holding the earpieces in the other. “From London, Baba...
Daily Telegraph
and
Daily Mirror
.
What to do?”

“One moment, Trey, quite very possibly two...”

That had been the last Trey had seen of Baba Duan, who he could still hear talking away, nineteen to the dozen in the other room, as he was led back upstairs by Evren.
Disappointed. Irritated. Scuttled. Aggravated (and how!). He’d felt all those things, and he’d wanted to scream “Answer
my
questions first!”, but had known it
wouldn’t have gotten him anywhere.

And now here he was, lying in the makeshift bed that had been put together for him by Evren and his mother: a thin mattress, a soft cotton sheet folded over and a pillow, on the floor in the
room where he’d eaten dinner. It sure as heck was not the Pera Palas, but he felt safe, as it seemed somehow very unlikely that anyone was going to bust in and try and take him off who knew
where.

As he lay on his back, waiting for sleep to pull the shades down over his eyes, his mind raced as he thought about his day; everything that had happened (so much of it!) was all jumbled up and
kind of out of order – nearly being caught in the laundry chute...meeting Evren and the sticky-fingered Neyla...the blood on the floor of their suite...getting lost...the fortuitously soft
landing in the basement. And then there was what Evren had told him as he’d taken him upstairs – about his father being bundled into a black sedan and driven away from the back of the
hotel, according to one of Baba Duan’s informants who’d apparently witnessed the event. Plus there was also the comment about his father’s “return” to
Constantinople.

Trey sat up. He should go right back downstairs now and ask Baba Duan for some answers! He yawned and rubbed his gritty eyes. Then again, he was bushed. He could demand some action
first
thing tomorrow!
Baba Duan had mentioned going to the American Consulate, which seemed like a neat idea, so he’d insist on going there straight away – maybe after finding out more
about this nonsense concerning his father having been to the city before, as he was pretty darn positive this was the first time
either
of them had been to the place. But for now he was
going to stop trying to figure out the unfigurable, as one of the private eyes had said in a story he’d read called
The Toughest Nut
.

Instead, he thought about Baba Duan’s job. He’d told him he worked as what he called a “stringer”, a reporter who supplied stories to foreign newspapers. In Baba
Duan’s case it was rather more complicated than that because
he
worked for a number of papers, all of whom he had somehow managed to convince he was doing so exclusively (“They
pay
nothing
, these people...but they pay a
bigger
nothing if they think you work for no one else”). And it seemed like there were two papers in New York, two in London, one in
Berlin, Germany, and one in Paris, France, all of whom were under the distinct impression they had their very own, individual correspondent in Constantinople.

To maintain this illusion, Baba Duan had a number of phone lines (a “sensational” feat in itself, requiring very large amounts of bribery and palm-greasing to pull off, apparently)
and then for each of his clients he operated with a different name. Hence his need for a selection of business cards. It brought to mind an act Trey had seen once on a visit to the circus, a man
rushing about, desperately trying to keep plates spinning on the end of bamboo poles.

As he drifted off Trey wondered how on earth you could keep a racket this complicated going without being driven completely screwy; although, he thought, you’d have to look pretty darned
hard to find a more relaxed and happy person than Baba Duan – but then
his
father wasn’t missing, quite possibly kidnapped, and
he
wasn’t lying on some strange
kitchen floor trying to figure out what to do next...Trey sat bolt upright again. Check the hotel! He
must
check the hotel to see if his father had come back and this whole thing was a
horrible misunderstanding! As he lay back down, it occurred to him that he’d be in trouble the like of which he’d never been in before if he’d got everything completely wrong. He
couldn’t have...could he...?

T
rey awoke with a start, light streaming in through the room’s unshuttered windows along with the eerie, almost other-worldly wail from a
nearby mosque that heralded the beginning of a new day in Constantinople. He recalled, because his father had told him all about it on their first morning in the city, that this was a
muezzin,
“...the person who calls the faithful to prayers at the mosque, something which he will do, without fail, five times a day, every day; interestingly, in the past, son, he was
often a blind man...”

The hurly-burly of breakfast stopped him from doing anything about suggesting the hotel was checked. After it was over and cleared away, Baba Duan – looking exactly the
same as the night before, right down to what looked like an identical tie, but now cleaned, pressed and tidy – stayed at the table reading a newspaper; Trey went and sat next to him as he
took his first sips of coffee from a tiny, delicate bone-china cup which, in his hand, looked like it should be in his daughter’s tea set.

“I meant to ask you last night...”

Baba Duan looked over his half glasses. “Ask what about, young gentleman?”

“Two things...you said that my father was coming
back
here to Constantinople, right?”

“And what the question number one is?” Baba Duan put his paper down and sat back in his chair.

“What did you mean? ’Cos we neither of us – cross my heart and hope to die – have
ever
been here before, Mr. Baba Duan, sir.”

“You know completely
every
where your esteemed father has been to?”

“No, sir, but I do know he’s not a liar! He told me this was going to be some trip because he’d never been out of the country before, just like me.”

“Well...” Baba Duan stuck his lower lip out, raised his eyebrows and nodded to himself; then he got up. “Come with me. I have something you really should must see...”

Baba Duan led the way downstairs, through his main office and into the room with the telephones in it (they sat on a long table, with pieces of card that had the details and particulars of all
the different newspapers thumb-tacked to the wall behind). At the rear of the room Trey noticed there was a door with a bare light bulb over it, which was glowing red; as he was about to ask what
it meant the light went out and the door opened, revealing Evren, his sleeves rolled up and wearing a green eyeshade, like the ones Trey had seen newsmen wear in the movies.

“I have develop, Baba...” he said, wiping his hands on a grubby cloth. “Just wait the negative to dry.”

Behind Evren Trey could see a room full of equipment and what he could now see were photographic prints strung from wires like washing on a line.

“This boy! Such talent – he take the picture, he
make
the picture!” Baba Duan beamed, his arms outstretched. “Where is the one from before, Evren, the one I think
we should now show to our very good visitor and guest?”

“In the file, Baba...the Almanya file.”

“Germany, of course, of course...” Baba Duan turned on his heels and went back into his office, waving a finger in the air. “One moment, Trey, or maybe two...”

“You take pictures?” Trey asked; Evren nodded. “Is this your darkroom – can I see?”

“Yes, please,” Evren smiled, standing aside to let Trey in. “You have camera?”

Trey shook his head as he went into the small room. “I was planning on asking for one this next Christmas.”

“Christmas?”

“You know...” Trey gazed around at what seemed more like a laboratory, and certainly smelled like one. “Santa Claus and stuff?”

“We not have.”