Istanbul (10 page)

The woman smiled and Nick saw that she was toothless. She came toward him, holding out her hand.
"Backsheesh! Lutjen oturunuz"

Nick handed her a sheaf of pound notes, without letting her see the wad in his pocket. He looked around for another door and saw none. There was a window covered with a heavy drape. He went to it, pulled back the drape and opened the window. A terrible smell came into the room.

Nick Carter, not for the first time that night, was truly disgusted. He swore softly to himself, then turned to the woman. She gave him a toothless smile and started to undress. Nick held up a hand.
"Yok!"

She already had her blouse off. Nick regarded the pendulous dugs with something akin to illness. He pointed to the window and asked if it were the only way out.

The woman nodded brightly. She told him the sewer was down there — the big sewer that flowed into the Horn. She seemed puzzled — Why was
Effendim
so interested in sewers?

"Thank you," Nick told her. "You have saved my life. Anyway my liberty. You are truly a daughter of Fatima. Goodbye."

Nick began to climb out the window. It was probably a long drop down to the slough but it wouldn't hurt him. It would be — soft.

The daughter of Fatima gazed after this crazy
Effendim
in puzzlement.

The
Effendim
let go and fell twenty feet into what the French call
merde.
It sounds a little like murder — and it is!

From certain suites in the Hotel Hilton in Istanbul it is possible to look south through the gardens to Taxim Square. The view is fine and clear, especially if the trees in the gardens are not yet in full leaf — and if one has a pair of powerful glasses.

Mr. Grover Stout of Indianapolis, Indiana, had such a pair of glasses. German made binoculars, the best and most powerful in the world. Mr. Stout sat on his sun balcony now and used them to sweep the vista to the south. Mr. Stout evinced no interest in the Taxim Gardens or the pretty shop-girls and secretaries who were strolling there on their lunch hour. Mr. Stout was watching the Divan Annex, a brand new apartment house which stood very close indeed to the Divan Hotel which had been a landmark in Istanbul for many years.

He was thinking, a little petulantly, that they might have built the damned Annex a little lower than the hotel itself, instead of a good ten feet higher! It was going to present problems. He had already ascertained that it was going to be next to impossible to get into the offices of the Defarge Exporting Co., Ltd., in the normal manner. Without being noticed too much, which he certainly did not want. He did not want to be noticed at all! But Defarge, Ltd., was security minded. A little too much so, perhaps. The firm employed the services of a private detective agency which furnished armed guards. Passes were required for all personnel. The excuse was that a great deal of money was kept on the premises at all times.

Perhaps, thought Mr. Stout now as he scanned the upper façade of the Divan Annex. And perhaps there were other reasons.

Mr. Stout noted, with an odd expression of pleasure on his round ruddy features, that the security guard had been doubled today at Defarge, Ltd. His powerful glasses looked right into the main corridor on the top floor and he could see that there were two uniformed guards on duty today. Normally, or so he had been informed, there was only one. Mr. Stout smiled placidly, very much in his role. Had the cat been after the goldfish, perhaps?

Mr. Stout smiled again, benignly, as befitted a man of his age, background and amplitude. He had news for Defarge, Ltd.! The water was going to get a lot muddier! Mr. Stout switched his gaze from the Annex to the Divan Hotel next door. The two buildings, old and new, were separated by a gap of only about fifteen feet. Not insurmountable, thought Mr. Stout with a sigh. He had, in his younger days, been known to leap almost that far. It would be a lead pipe cinch — downward going! But that bastard of an architect, whoever he was Allah curse him, had built the Annex half a floor higher! It was going to present problems.

Mr. Stout sighed again and lit a cigar, a round fat oily Corona that cost a dollar and a half at the stand in the lobby. He hated round fat cigars — but Mr. Grover Stout of Indianapolis smoked them. He lit up, made a face, and put the glasses to his slightly myopic eyes. A few drops now and then did
that
trick — and the heavy glasses he wore completed the illusion.

They were building something atop the old Divan Hotel. A penthouse, maybe? They wouldn't have much room for it. There was already a children's play ground and pool on the roof. Mr. Stout smoked and watched the busy scene — workmen hammering and sawing and carrying planks about, while anxious mothers and nannies kept the kids out of the way, continually chasing them back to the pool and the swings and the trampoline.

One kid got a resounding smack on the fanny from his nurse. Mr. Stout grinned. Kids like to live dangerously, he thought. But then who doesn't! At that moment there was something very un-Stoutesque about Mr. Stout! A casual observer might have remembered Byron's famous
mot:
In every fat man there is a lean man striving to get out!

Somewhere in the suite a door opened and closed. Mr. Stout listened to the spate of Turkish within, heard her giving directions for the disposal of packages. Then there was the business of handing out
backsheesh.
Mr. Stout waited patiently until he heard the other door close.

Then he called, "Mija, baby?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Bring your poor old fat Daddy a drink, uh? A scotch and water?"

"Coming right over, Daddykins. One moment."

Mr. Stout appeared to wince for a moment, then his pudgy features regained their placid look. It occurred to him that he was not the only person in Istanbul who possessed a pair of field glasses; he did not think they were being watched, not yet anyway, but Mr. Stout had not made a fortune in real estate by being careless.

The fact that Mr. Stout had never really made a fortune in real estate, and was not even really Mr. Stout, did not signify at the moment. When Nick Carter played a part he played it to the hilt. The trick was to live the part, to convince yourself that you
were
the character you were portraying. This technique had both its advantages and its disadvantages.

Some of the latter became apparent now as Mija Gialellis came onto the balcony with a tall tinkling glass in her hand. This was a new Mija, a tall and toothsome dish of Turkish delight wearing a pale green knit that loved every beautiful curve of the athletic body. High heels arched the line of her magnificent legs. A less than nothing bra supported the splendid bosom. The dark hair glistened in the sun like burnished obsidian, the soft red mouth was skillfully brushed to enhance its sensuality, the long oval brown eyes were smoky with tender invitation.

Mija handed him the drink and perched on the arm of the chair. She leaned to kiss his bald spot and said, "Ug... that wig does not taste fine, I think. How long we do this foolishness, Nick?" She kept her voice low; nearly a whisper.

"As long as necessary," he said. "And I told you — stay in character! Even now. Even when we're alone. Because we don't really know that we
are
alone."

"Yes. I am sorry. I forget. But you have look everywhere for the bugs and not find any, so I think..."

"Never mind what you think, Mija. Just do as you're told." Mr. Stout's voice was hard. "This isn't just a silly game, you know! Anytime you think it is just remember Mousy!"

A shadow crossed her lovely face. "Poor little Mousy. I am so sorry — he keep me away from them and save my life and now he ..."

Mr. Stout patted her knee. "Forget Mousy. He's dead. I want to keep you alive. It's not going to be easy as it is — so don't make it any tougher."

N3 had already, to a certain extent and in a certain manner, forgotten Charles "Mousy" Morgan. When a soldier is killed by your side in battle you do not linger to mourn the corpse!

Mr. Stout allowed his lecherous nature to take over. He fingered the girl's shiny nylon leg above the knee. The flesh beneath the stocking was wonderfully soft-firm. Mija's skirt was very short, in the current mode, and Mr. Stout's hand had free play. Mija leaned against him, her firm breasts pressed against his cheek. Suddenly she shivered and clamped her knees together on his hand. "You are a nasty old man! You get me excite and then you can do nothings!"

Mr. Stout grinned. "I might surprise you, baby doll! For all you know I might have a
harem
back in Indianapolis."

Mija giggled. She disengaged herself from his hand and stood up, smoothing down her skirt. "You will not need a
harem,
old fat one! I am all the
harem
you will need — if ever we have a chance!"

She stretched, her arms over her head, pulling her taut young breasts hard against the thin stuff on her blouse. Mr. Stout, looking at the tender little buds her nipples made on the cloth, was inclined to agree with her. Patience was, at times, a virtue hard to come by.

He followed her back into the suite, drink in hand. Seen upright, with his wrinkled linen trousers over a fat behind, the garish sport shirt worn outside his pants, the black and white shoes with perforated toes, Mr. Grover Stout was something of an artistic creation. Close to perfection — this middle-aged hick from Indiana, this aging Pan who was having a last fling before returning to the wife and kiddies. Even the flat, nasal accent was right, along with the bumbling
gaucheries.
Mr. Stout was all check book and big stupid heart. Mr. Stout and his pretty little Turkish trollop who had checked into the Hilton shortly after ten that morning.

Nick Carter patted his rubber belly in contentment as he watched Mija's
svelte
little fanny sway into the living room where a pile of bundles and parcels lay in the middle of the floor. Stout and doxy, he thought, wouldn't play for long, wouldn't hold up forever — the enemy was too murderously keen for that — but for now it was working. Twenty-four hours was all he needed!

Now he watched from a sofa as the girl, on her knees among the parcels, tore them open with the undisguised glee of a child on Christmas morning. Frocks, suits, stockings by the dozen, dainty underwear of every shade, girdle and garter belts — even a fur piece.

He said, "I see you've been obeying orders. Buying out the shops in the lobby. You've been sufficiently loud and vulgar about it, I hope."

Mija nodded. "I have been, yes. I almost drive the sales people from their minds. I charge everything to you in a loud tone."

Mr. Stout nodded. "Good. That's what we want. A smoke screen. From the bottom of the cave to the top of the Hilton. They'll be looking somewhere in the middle."

His words to Hawk early that morning, over the scrambler phone in the Hole, had been: "I've got a plan, sir, but to put it into effect I've got to get out of this hole. I've been low — I'm going high. Fast. I'll need unlimited funds."

Hawk did not hesitate. The news of Mousy's death had not upset him — nothing short of an atomic blast on Pennsylvania Avenue could do that — but his voice was like broken glass as he said, "You've got it. You had it, anyway, you know. You heard what the man said — the entire resources of this country. What else do you want and what are you going to do with all this — if I may ask?"

"I really can't tell you, sir, because I don't exactly know myself. My plan is sketchy. I'm going to play it by ear, by guess and by God. I think boldness is the answer — boldness and speed. Things can't go any worse than they have been. I'm going to stop that! Now I want a switch over to Ankara, sir. I think I'd better talk to them myself."

Nick had talked to Ankara for half an hour. He explained in meticulous detail what he wanted and how he wanted it done. This done he was switched back to Hawk.

"I'm taking the girl and cutting out now, sir. Ankara is sending two men to take over here. Old Bici will hold things down until they get here."

"You think it's wise to take the girl?"

Nick grinned at the phone. He knew Hawk wasn't being moralistic this time — it was a legitimate doubt.

"Ordinarily no, sir, but this time yes. For one thing I want to keep her alive — and since Narcotics here is a shambles just now I'd have to hand her back to the Turkish police. They'd try, but they wouldn't have the interest I do. Besides I think she might be able to help me — she speaks most of the Anatolian dialects, I don't. And I need her for the cover I'm establishing. That most of all. Really, sir, I think I'd better keep her with me."

"Okay. You're running the show. You'll be listening to Singing Sam, of course?"

"Yes, sir. I'll tune into the barber. Goodbye, sir."

"Goodbye, son. Stay alive."

Mija was holding up a sheer pair of black panties. "You like, Daddykins?" She winked at him and made a face.

It was probably unnecessary — Nick had searched the suite thoroughly upon their arrival — but a role was a role, a cover had to be played all the way.

"Daddy likes," he smirked. "Daddy would love to see his baby doll in them. Go and put them on for Daddy." He gave her a lecherous smirk.

"Later," said baby doll. She held up a tiny scarlet Bikini. "This is how you say — cute? I think I will go try it in the pool, no?"

"Yes," said Mr. Stout. "A good idea. I'll come along and watch." He sure as hell couldn't join her, Nick thought. He'd look damned funny swimming in fanny pads and rubber belly, not to mention a bald wig that might or might not stay on in the water.

So he watched that afternoon as the girl swam and went off the high board. Soon everyone at the pool was watching. Not only was Mija a sleek skinned, phocine beauty in the brief scarlet, she was also a terrific diver. Before long there was a ripple of applause after each perfectly executed dive. This Mr. Stout did not like. As soon as he decently could, he got her out of there. Mija did not demur. She understood. Too much attention was not good. When they got back to the suite she was still flushed and happy with her little triumph.