I Spy (15 page)

He wished these stupid ideas would go away, but, now he was all alone and locked away in this small attic room in a house right on the shoreline of the Bosphorus,
somewhere
outside of
Constantinople, he couldn’t stop them. What if...? What if...? What if his father
had
been here before? Was it possible? Because when he thought about it, he did go away a lot and
never said where. But then he’d never really asked him, had he? Trey balled his fists, gritted his teeth and shook his head –
No! No! No!
– in a concerted effort to dismiss
the terrible thoughts that were eating away at him.
Why the heck would his father lie? He wouldn’t! It was all baloney, a load of hooey – his father was no liar!

Trey stopped pacing and stood still for a moment. He could put an end to this. Deep down he knew he was only thinking these crazy thoughts because he was scared, and being scared was going to
get him exactly nowhere. He had to remember what Trent Gripp always said about fortune favouring the brave...he
had
to be brave, he didn’t have a choice, even if it was the last thing
he felt like after what he’d just been through. And one of the things that was going to help was only to think about what he
did
know, rather than all the stuff he didn’t. Like
the fact that the flight in the seaplane hadn’t been that long, therefore it was logical to assume that he wasn’t
that
far away from Constantinople.

Which was good.

But then again he didn’t know how fast the plane had been flying. If he’d been in a car he might’ve had some chance of calculating
roughly
how far they’d
travelled...he kicked the metal bed frame in sheer frustration edged with despair. He was never going to get out of this place...

Think positive, Trey, think positive!
He could almost hear his gramps talking to him, almost feel him patting his back and urging him on. He’d get out of this room and this house
and it wouldn’t take
so
long to get back to the city. It wouldn’t. Even without his trusty compass and penknife, which the pilot had found when he’d searched him, still
blindfolded, before bringing him up to this room.

Thinking as confidently as he could, under the circumstances, he walked over to the door and turned the handle again, checking once more that it indeed was locked and he hadn’t just been
imagining it. He turned and slowly looked around at the room, examining it from top to bottom: one door and a small dormer window set into the sloping roof, and no other visible ways in or out. A
couple of minutes later he was pretty sure that there were no trapdoors under the single bed or secret exits behind the wardrobe, and that (as he suspected) the window would not open.

Sitting on the bed, its thin mattress sagging and the sprung steel mesh it lay on creaking like a set of unoiled hinges, Trey took stock of his situation. So what else did he know for sure? He
glanced out at the sky and then at his watch, which thankfully seemed to have survived the manhandling he’d had well enough; it was almost 8.00 p.m., and dusk was beginning to fall outside.
Trey got up and went to the window where he saw the last of the sun casting great elongated shadows across the waters lapping the front of the house. Okay, so now he
also
knew that he was on
the western side of the Bosphorus, which he remembered ran vaguely north/south. And that meant, even without his compass, he was sure Constantinople was somewhere to his right. Useful information
if –
when
– he got out of the house.

Trey was standing so close to the glass that his breath misted, so he took a step back...and noticed that the reason the window wouldn’t open was that it had basically been
painted
shut, and that more than likely all he really needed to get it open again was a penknife. Which, of course, he didn’t actually
have
with him any more. As he cursed his bad luck his
stomach growled back at him, a reminder that he hadn’t eaten a thing since the sesame breadsticks he’d bought in the market.

As if in answer to his silent wish for food Trey heard the rattle of a key in a lock. Not wanting to be caught looking out of the window, as if whoever came into the room would somehow know he
was thinking of ways to escape, he quickly sat back down on the bed and waited. When the door finally opened it revealed a young square-jawed, blond-haired man almost standing to attention as he
held a tray in his left hand.

“
Bleib dort
– stay!” he grunted, frowning.

“Okay...” Trey did as he was told and stayed exactly where he was. This person was someone new, another German he’d not seen before, and he wondered who else was in the house.
Just the two of them? And maybe his father?

“For you to eat.” The young man bent down and put the tray on the floor, pushing it into the room before closing the door and firmly relocking it.

Trey went over and took a look at what had been left for him, much like you’d leave food for a dog: a plate of food – an unappetizingly grey piece of meat, a few pale over-boiled
vegetables, a slice of bread, a mug of water...and a knife and fork. A bone-handled knife with a serrated blade. Just the thing for attempting to open a window that had been painted shut. Which he
would set about doing just as soon as he’d eaten the food...

“I really must apologize for my brother’s behaviour, he honestly really is the
most
terrible show-off...the limit, really,” Christina announced, a few
minutes after Arthur had exited the taxi, leaving everyone a little flummoxed. “But I’m
very
glad you all came as we really
must
find a way to help poor Trey and his
father.”

“Yes...” said Ahmet from the front of the car, where he sat, tapping the steering wheel with his thumbs. “But how?”

“I suppose we shall just have to wait and see if Arthur really
does
have a file with anything in it...” Christina’s tone of voice made it obvious that she didn’t
think it especially likely.

“And if he does not?” Evren asked as Neyla whispered something in his ear and Ahmet turned round and looked over into the back of the taxi.

“What’s she saying?”

“Neyla ask when your father and mother they come back.”

“Late, why?”

Before anyone could answer Christina’s question the front passenger door opened and everyone jumped as Arthur appeared out of nowhere and got in next to Ahmet; he had a number of
buff-coloured foolscap folders tucked under one arm and was looking extremely pleased with himself.

“Very quick jiffy!” Evren said.

“I should say so – I’m in the 100 yard sprint team at school!”

“What you have there with you?”

“Valuable information!” Arthur grinned, switching on his torch and opening the top folder with a flourish. “The man who looks like Trey’s pater is a German called
Reinhardt Gessler, and my investigations at the party showed that he works for the
Abwehr
.”

“
Investigations
...” huffed Christina. “And whatever are the
Abwehr
when they’re at home?”

“The German intelligence service, actually, Tina. So there.”

“He is spy, also?” Evren leaned over between the seats to look at the open folder on Arthur’s lap.

“Looks like it, chum.”

“What is in the other that you have?”

“The other files?” Arthur opened the second folder in the pile. “This is a group photograph – you know, everyone who was at the party at the Consulate? They always have
one taken.”

Ahmet reached over and, much to Arthur’s surprise, took the photo and torch out of his hands, examining the large black and white print extremely closely. “I know this man,” he
said at last, indicating a man standing, half-hidden, at the back of the photograph; he gave the torch and picture back to Arthur. “This is a Russia man. He is absolutely one of them who has
been following Mr. Macktire.”

“Really? Let me just check who he is...” Arthur ran his finger down a list of names. “He’s called Stanislaus Levedski – but how’d
you
know he was
Russian?”

“They are not the only one who can make the follow,” Ahmet said, proudly patting his chest. “I go behind the man, without him knowing, and see where in the end he
stops.”

“And where was that?” asked Arthur.

“A house.”

“A house? Do you mean the Russian Consulate, Ahmet?”

“No, but not so far from it. I make secret enquiries from someone and they tell me all who live there are Russia people.”

“But why would the
Russians
want to kidnap Trey, Arthur?” asked Christina.

“I think maybe they are the people who take his father also,” said Evren. “Maybe they think they have Herr Reinhardt Gessler. My father say that Rusya and Almanya – the
Russia and Germany – don’t one agree with the other. This could be the reason, maybe?”

“D’you know,” exclaimed Arthur, “I think you might have something there, old chap! These upstart Soviet types have been acting like pirates recently, and things
aren’t so chipper in Germany right now...I’ve read about it in Pater’s newspaper.”

“Are you going to tell Papa, when he and Mama come back, so he can get them released?”

“No.”

“No? But why not?” Christina rolled her eyes. “Oh
Arthur
...you haven’t got another one of your silly ideas up your sleeve have you?”

“It is
not
a silly idea, Tina. It’s one of my very best.”

“But...”

“You know Pater isn’t going to listen to me, not after the last time. So, if this job’s going to be done, it’s going to
have
to be done by us!”

“Excuse,” Ahmet butted in, “but what you have up your sleeves?”

“It’s a bit complicated, old chap...”

“It’s not, Arthur, it’s quite simple, really.” Everyone turned to look at Christina, who, this time, didn’t seem to mind. “My papa thinks Arthur is a bit of a
fibber, you see.”

“Fibber?” queried Evren.

“He makes up stories,” explained Christina. “And so Arthur thinks Papa won’t believe it when he tells him that Trey and his father are being held captive by the
Russians.”

“It’s the Soviets, and I
didn’t
make up the story about the chap from Serbia...he
was
a bounder, he just didn’t have a
bomb
!”

“A bomb?” Ahmet’s eyebrows shot up.

“Can it be possible to tell this so that we,” Evren indicated himself, Neyla and Ahmet, “should know what you are saying?”

“The truth is, Tina –
Chris
tina – is right; my pater probably
wouldn’t
believe me if I told him what we think has happened to Trey and his father. So my
idea is that
we
all go to the house where the Russians are and get them out—”

“But we don’t know that’s where they’ve been taken, do we, Arthur?”

Arthur looked at his sister through slitted eyes. “Well we
won’t
know unless we go and take a look, will we?”

Christina smiled sweetly. “I just thought that should be clear.”

“Right...” Arthur took a deep breath. “So, later on tonight, when everyone else has gone to bed,
we
go to the house Ahmet found...what d’you chaps say?”

“What do you think?” Evren spoke to Ahmet and Neyla in Turkish. “No one is going to believe
us
either if we tell them.”

“Not even Baba Duan?” asked Neyla.

“My baba would believe us, but who would believe
him
?”

“But Baba Duan is a good man!”

“True, but he always tells me that, because he’s a journalist, people believe his job is to tell lies for money, which he says is only true sometimes.” Evren glanced at Arthur
and Christina, who were both listening intently, but not understanding a word of what was being said. “What should we do, Ahmet?”

“I think we must try to at least see if they are in the Russians’ house.” Ahmet rubbed his chin as he thought everything over. “And
if
we find them, we can make
another plan to get them out.”

“Do I need to tell him?” Evren nodded sideways at Arthur.

“He is clever,” mused Ahmet.

“And he is English, from a rich family,” said Neyla. “If we get into trouble, he could pay to get us out of it.”

Ahmet’s face broke into a wide grin and he snorted with laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Arthur frowned. “What have you been talking about?”

“Just discuss,” said Evren. “We will meet you, where we are now, at two hours in the night-time – is that good, Ahmet?”

Ahmet nodded.

“I’ll be here.” Arthur gathered his papers together. “Two o’clock on the dot!”

“Why for you do this?”

Arthur’s hand stopped halfway to the car door and frowned at Evren. “What d’you mean?”

“You are not such big friends with Trey, I think.”

“We like him,” said Christina. “At least I do.”

“That’s not
really
the point... Look, when a chap’s in trouble, well, you have to do the right thing, don’t you?” Arthur got out of the car, then turned back
round and poked his head back inside. “And of course, it’ll also be a
beezer
wheeze!”

S
craping layers of paint off parts of a sash window – even a relatively small sash window – turned out to be no easy job, especially
when all you had to do it with was a fairly blunt knife, and a fork. But, Trey reminded himself as he quietly chipped away flake after flake, a fairly blunt knife (and a fork) was so much better
than having nothing at all to do the job with.

It was now completely dark outside – and inside the room, as there was no light – and all he could do was mentally keep his fingers crossed that the blond man would
not
come
back upstairs to take away his plate, instead leaving the job till morning. By when, if his luck held, he’d be miles away.

Think positive!

Trey had been hard at work for well over an hour and his hands were aching, fingers getting raw and tender, but at least he was getting results for all his efforts: the fork had proved to be a
pretty useless tool, but he was now able to get the knife blade in down both sides of the window and almost all the way along the top edge. Once he’d managed to clear that there would only be
the bottom to go.