I Spy (21 page)

“Guests can usually say when they go home; in Turkey, at least.”

“Don’t do anything stupid, Mr. Hendek, you will be home soon enough.”

Baba Duan watched the man walk up the steps to his front door, then sat back and lit himself a cigarette; he thought about offering one to the two men, but in the end he didn’t. Some time
after stubbing the cigarette out he’d begun to think that Mr. Stanhope-Leigh must have stopped for a light snack (it was, according to his own watch, some ten minutes before nine
o’clock and therefore over two hours since he himself had last eaten, so this would be completely understandable), then the Englishman appeared at the front door with a very formally dressed
older man who was, he noticed, wearing white gloves. Mr. Stanhope-Leigh’s face was thunderous.

“Trouble.” The man on the right looked at his colleague.

“Guvnor’s
not
an ’appy man.” The driver continued cleaning his nails with a small penknife.

“Best-laid plans, as they say.” The first man nodded to himself.

“Very true, Jimmy. Very true.”

Stanhope-Leigh got back in and slammed the car door. “I
told
the man to stay put and stay out of sight –
for his own safety
! How difficult is that to understand?
Particularly as I was under the
distinct
impression we and our American cousins spoke the same language.”

“Guvnor?”

“Mr. MacIntyre has gone, we know not where, Taylor.” Stanhope-Leigh steepled his fingers and remained silent for a second or two, thinking. “Right!” He clapped his hands
together, a decision obviously made. “Let’s get a move on, Taylor – how far is it to where you say Gessler has his place, Mr. Hendek?”

“Rumeli Kavagi? I should imagine something not less than thirty kilometres, possibly? This road is not the very best, but it has not rained...”

“Take the coast road, Taylor. Fast as you like.”

“Guvnor.” Ernie Taylor (according to the Consulate’s official listings the Trade Secretary’s driver, but also a trained MI6 agent) started the car and moved smoothly away
from the kerb.

“Did you bring everything, Wallace?”

Jimmy Wallace looked over his shoulder and nodded. “Got enough in the boot to start a small war, Guvnor. Just in case.”

Baba Duan swallowed hard. “There is to be very much shooting?”

“Hopefully not.” George Stanhope-Leigh leaned forward and got a copy of
The Times
from the seat pocket in front of him. “But, as Mr. Wallace says, it’s always best
to be prepared for all eventualities.”

“And Mr. Macktire?” Baba Duan enquired as the car picked up speed. “What about him?”

“In this life, Mr. Hendek, if you don’t do as you’re told, then whatever happens will be upon your
own
head. The person I must help now is his son, if I’m not too
late...”

T.
Drummond MacIntyre II had been warned that this European trip was going to have its fair share of testing, not to say unusual circumstances, but
being blackmailed by a gang of children was one he was sure he could never have imagined, even in his wildest dreams. But young Arthur Stanhope-Leigh, a real chip-off-the-old-block, had made it
very
clear that if he and his friends weren’t allowed to come along there would be trouble. They somehow knew that he wasn’t supposed to leave the grounds, and the girl,
Christina, had even quoted her father’s phrase – “under
any
circumstances” – word for word and in the same tone of voice.

Glancing down the street he saw the two girls, Christina and the Turkish one whose name he couldn’t recall, watching him; at least
they
were doing what they’d been told.
Unlike himself. That notwithstanding, if Trey
was
here in this house, surely Arthur’s father would understand that he had a duty to get him back. Keeping his right hand in his jacket
pocket, anxiously gripping the small Colt .32 automatic (a bullet in the chamber and ready to go, he reminded himself), he hammered on the door of the house for a second time and waited.

Still no reply.

Thinking about it, he should probably have held on for a bit. The Turkish boy had gone to get Ahmet, and it might have been better to wait for them, but he felt he’d waited long enough and
that action
had
to be taken. Standing back from the door he scanned the windows, a number of which he noticed showed signs of having been recently re-glazed, and saw that someone on the
first floor was observing him from behind a curtain. Then the front door quickly opened and closed behind a nervous-looking man who pretty much fitted the description the Turkish kids had given
him.

Mr. MacIntyre tipped the hat he’d decided to wear, along with a pair of dark glasses, as the nearest thing he had to a disguise. “Stanislaus Levedski?”

“
Was machen Sie hier
?” the man snapped, frowning tensely.

“I don’t ‘
sprechen Sie Deutsch
’, or Russian, for that matter.” Trey’s father looked sideways and saw the Turkish girl, Neyla, giving him a subtle
thumbs up; this was the right guy. Awkwardly he shoved the gun forward in his pocket, aiming it at the man’s stomach. “Look, Mr. Levedski,” he said, trying to sound a whole lot
tougher than he felt, “give me back my son
now
, before I plug you!”

“
Have you gone mad, Gessler?
” Levedski said in a hissed whisper, a fixed grin glued on his face as he tried desperately to appear, to those he knew for sure were watching
them, as if everything was just fine. “
Why are you here? You
must
go away from here
now
... Sofort –
right
now!
”

The front door opened again and a grim-faced older man, balding and wearing glasses, came out; staring at Trey’s father, he spoke in hushed tones to Levedski, who was shaking his head.
Without warning, the older man grabbed at Levedski’s jacket and, yelling fit to bust, tried to drag him back into the house.

T. Drummond MacIntyre was a man of business, and by no means a natural Man of Action, but, with the fate of his only son at stake, something inside of him decided that now was not the time to
worry too much about the differences and distinctions. Now was the time to
do
something, or he’d end up on the losing side (which was not where he
ever
liked to find himself),
but just as he was about to wade in the cavalry arrived!

A horn blaring down the street, accompanied by shouts from the kids, signalled that Arthur’s young Turkish friend, who had scuttled off claiming that he would have no trouble in finding
Ahmet the chauffeur, had indeed succeeded in doing so. And not before time.

The car pulled up, disgorging the boy, as Mr. MacIntyre pulled the pistol out of his jacket pocket and jabbed it at the bald man’s head. “Let him go!” he yelled, grabbing hold
of Levedski’s shirt front.

As if having to deal with a wild-eyed, pistol-wielding man first thing in the morning wasn’t bad enough, with no warning at all, the man attempting to drag Stanislaus Levedski back into
the house found himself being attacked by a pack of unhinged children. They punched, they kicked, and the rather dainty girl with the blonde curly hair even bit his hand; but it was the hail of
stones which eventually forced the bald-headed man to retreat into the house and close the door, leaving Mr. MacIntyre and Levedski outside alone.

“Where’s my son – where’s Trey?” Mr. MacIntyre growled, his nose inches away from Levedski’s.

“Who is this Trey?”

“Is he in the darn house?” Mr. MacIntyre shook Levedski like a doll. “Tell me, or I’ll...”

“Who
are
you?” Levedski broke in, peering at his inquisitor, the penny dropping that this man definitely wasn’t
at all
whom he, even at
rather-too-close-for-comfort inspection, appeared to be. This was not Gessler! So whom had they been following these last few days? And why did this person now want to know where the boy he’d
brought with him, for some inexplicable reason, was? The gears in Levedski’s head meshed and spun as he tried to work out what these oddest of events could mean; it took a matter of seconds,
because he was a clever, if deceitful and treacherous man, for him to calculate that he was in extremely deep trouble.

Gessler, the real one, worked for the German spy service, the
Abwehr
. He, Levedski, worked for his own country’s secret service, the OGPU,
and
the
Abwehr
, and it did
not do for double agents to get caught. He had witnessed what could happen when one was and it wasn’t a pretty sight. Ever since the first report had come in that Herr Gessler had been
spotted, here in Constantinople and acting very oddly for a German intelligence officer, Levedski had been completely on edge. And his nerves were being rattled even more by the fact that his
clandestine and
very
secret association with the man had never
ever
included him turning up on his doorstep!

All their communications were done through coded messages in newspapers and “dead letter drops”, special places where messages, and money, could be left at designated times; the last
one had been very odd, with Gessler informing him he was back in Constantinople to “sort out the problem”, and that he would be up at the house in Rumeli Kavagi so there would be no
more communications for a bit. No mention of what he was up to, or any boy.

From Levedski’s point of view, the problem that needed sorting out was standing right in front of him: this man, who
definitely
wasn’t Reinhardt Gessler, could get him killed.
Or worse: tortured,
then
killed. Because his boss, Paklov, was profoundly suspicious – that was his business, after all – and in his world suspicion and guilt were often treated
as one and the same thing. His boss would see he was talking to a German spy and be very quick to put two and two together. So he needed a way out, and fast. “I don’t know about any
boy, but I know where Gessler is, I will take you...” Levedski saw the front door open again, and he knew his time was running out. “Now, we must go
now
!”

Levedski broke away from Mr. MacIntyre and dashed straight for the car, flinging himself into the back. For a split second it seemed as if everyone was waiting to see what would happen next: the
shirt-sleeved beetle-brow who’d come out of the house frowned at Mr. MacIntyre, who sized his opponent up and made for the car himself.

Beaten to it by Arthur, Neyla and Evren, only at the last moment did Trey’s father realize that someone was missing; he turned to see Christina, who was dressed more for a light luncheon
than this sort of undertaking, frozen between the car and the advancing Russian. Before Trey’s father had a chance to do anything (he was considering a warning shot) Evren leaped past him
like a whippet, grabbed Christina’s hand and had her in the back of the car so fast it was almost magical.

“Go,
effendi
?” enquired Ahmet.

“
GO!
” came a chorus of voices from the back of the cab, which took off as Mr. MacIntyre, holding his hat on, just made it into the front passenger seat.

“But go to where, if I may ask?” Ahmet changed gear and the cab speeded up.

“Mr. Levedski?” Mr. MacIntyre turned round and pointed the gun at the Russian.

“Rumeli Kavagi. There is a house.”

“How long will it take?”

“It is only maybe less than thirty or so kilometres.” Ahmet answered the question as he swung the cab round a corner. “But the roads...” He shrugged expressively, not
needing to finish the sentence.

“Step on the gas, Ahmet, I think that’s where my boy is.” T. Drummond MacIntyre II, known during his school years as Deuce, had, unlike his son, never liked his nickname. But,
after this morning’s exploits, he thought Deuce MacIntyre sounded exactly like the kind of fellow Trey read about in his magazines, and he had to admit he quite liked the sound of it.

Ahmet tapped his wrist. “What is the time, can I ask?”

“Just after ten to nine,” said Arthur. “Oh-eight fifty-one, to be precise.”

“Arthur,
really
...” Christina sighed loudly. But she let her brother’s annoyingness go because she was far too excited about being rescued –
rescued
, just
wait till she told her friends – by a handsome, if slightly scruffy, boy! She hadn’t had such an exciting day
ever
!

George Stanhope-Leigh’s driver cursed roundly under his breath. The traffic in Constantinople, at almost any time of day, was enough to drive a saint to drink, it was
really. He was a man who lived by rules, and here he was, living in a city that didn’t seem to have any. At least not on the roads, that was for sure. He pulled out to get past a man leading
two slow, heavily laden donkeys to find the way blocked by a cart that had lost a wheel and spilled its load of hay across the road.

“When in Rome,” said Mr. Stanhope-Leigh from the back of the car.

“Pardon, Guv?”

“Go up on the pavement; no one will mind a bit, I’m sure. Wouldn’t you say, Mr. Hendek?”

“I think you are very possibly absolutely quite correct,” Baba Duan nodded, “otherwise we will be here a lot of time. And there is no one of too much importance
on
the
pavement.”

Shaking his head at the foreign ways he had to put up with in his job, the driver followed orders and a couple of minutes later he was turning left onto the main shore road that lead all the way
up the Bosphorus to Rumeli Kavagi.

A few minutes later, some way down the street, a taxi cab made a similar left turn and also started to drive north.

W
hy the horse finally decided to come to a halt Trey had no notion, but he guessed exhaustion would be pretty high up on the list of reasons. After
all,
he
was pretty much dog-tired himself just from hanging on. So, one moment he was on the wildest rodeo ride of his life, and the next the horse was standing, its head bowed, covered in
soapy sweat and with wisps of steam rising off it. This was, thought Trey as he slid to the ground, one animal which was not going to be going
any
where for quite some time. Something of a
problem when you were being chased by The Enemy in a car.