Istanbul (13 page)

He opened the padded leather door — and there she was. The blonde from
Le Cinema Bleu.
Marion Talbot. Defarge's secretary. She had a tiny automatic in her hand and it was pointed straight at Nick's belly. Behind her was the uniformed guard, revolver in hand.

Think fast, Mr. Carter!

Mr. Carter thought and acted at the same time. With incredible speed. He would have liked to put the collar on the willowy blonde and asked some pertinent questions at leisure, but the guard ruined that project. Probably had spare rounds in his pocket, Nick thought even as he was going into action. Black mark for me. Careless.

He kicked the little gun out of the blonde's hand and grabbed her in the same quicksilver motion. He kept her between himself and the guard, using her soft, fragrant body as a shield. The guard backed away, revolver at the ready, looking for an opening.

The girl fought silently except for a hissing noise. She clawed at Nick's face. He picked her up and threw her bodily at the guard. He went backward over a desk, the girl on top of him in a froth of skirts and pink underwear and black elastic and dazzling white thigh.

Nick ran like a thief. Great bounding kangaroo leaps that took him down the office and across the landing and up the iron stairs to the roof before they could disentangle themselves. He had a very good idea that the guard wouldn't shoot at him — the girl wouldn't let him. She wouldn't want the police anymore than Nick did. She was in on this deal somehow — no matter what Mousy had said!

He gained the roof, lined himself up with a certain spot on the tile coping and ran for it at full speed. He went out and over into the void in a smooth sailing dive. Midway down he twisted into position for a perfect fireman's fall. He would land on his back, clutching his knees, a compact ball of muscle and bone.

If no one had moved the trampoline!

They hadn't. Nick hit it squarely, bounced high, twisted erect and came down to bounce once more, then from the canvas to the roof top. He lit running.

By the time the guard and the girl reached the roof of the Annex Apartments nothing was to be seen on the adjacent roof but the silent and motionless moon shadows.

Nick Carter and Mija Gialellis left from Yesilkoy Airport in the small hours of the morning. He had roused her from the soft bed at the Hilton — a bed still redolent of passion — and hustled her unmercifully. Mija did not complain — she was too sleepy. Now, in slacks and a bush jacket, wearing a tawny little trenchcoat and a dark red beret ornamented with the silver pin Nick had given her, she slept with her head on N3's shoulder as the AXE plane droned through the night.

There was not much time. They must be dropped with the dawn and find cover before the sun came up. If it came up. The forecasts, including Turkish, U.S., and AXE's own were uniformly bad. Nick sat quietly smoking and pondered what lay ahead of him.

Southeast by east from Istanbul, roughly 600 miles, lies some of the roughest and most treacherous country in the world. In this irregular triangle formed by the sourcing Tigris and Euphrates rivers the earth was badly plowed by the Gods and then forgotten. It is a lonely desolation of towering mountains and unscalable cliffs and narrow gorges that twist and intertwine like giant intestines.

This wild and forbidding country, long forsaken by Allah, is cherished only by its kindred souls, the Kurdish tribesmen. They are as wild as the mountains — and much more deadly.

Nick and Mija were dropped just before dawn. There was a chancy moonlight and very little wind, which allowed Nick to slip the chute enough to get them down without breaking any legs or hanging up on a cliff. Mija had not jumped before, and since Nick did not want to lose her now, after having kept her alive so long, he took her down with him in the black chute. They landed with a jarring thump on a smallish plateau that somewhat resembled a moonscape. The AXE plane made another pass and dropped a jeep, also by black chute, and loaded with supplies. Then the AXE plane waggled its wings at them for luck and droned away to the north.

N3 was, as usual, very much on his own. True that the response from the Ankara
depot
to his demands had been prompt and nearly awesome. He had gotten everything he wanted, with a few extras thrown in. Nevertheless here he was again, in the midst of the savage Kurdish Taurus, in a country the Devil wouldn't claim. Looking for a certain Basque named Carlos Gonzalez. Object — to kill!

By the time a watery sun, obscured frequently by rain and sleet, peered over the towering peaks to the north and east Nick and the girl were snug in a cave on a ledge overlooking a gorge that led into the Edessa Pass. The jeep was concealed in another cave nearby.

"This is mountain goat country," Nick had cracked as they made a turn in creeper gear with the off front wheel hanging over a chasm that fell away for a thousand feet. "I don't think we'll be using the jeep much."

But the Basque, he remembered, was reputed to get around in this country without too much difficulty. Maybe he knew a few tricks, remembered from his youth in northern Spain.

Mija was too terrified to speak. She rode with her eyes closed most of the time, reaching to touch Nick every now and then for comfort. He sensed that it was not only the dizzy trail that frightened her — it was the entire setup, everything. The brooding weather, the high stab of gloomy peaks on which the snow never melted, the terrible depressing sense of isolation. Nick felt it himself. It would pass, he knew, as soon as he got into action.

After they found the cave and settled in, as snug as possible in the circumstances, Mija still wanted comforting. Outside the rain was sloshing down in a gray curtain of discouragement. It was impossible to build a fire in the cave, even had they had dry fuel — the smoke would drive them out. And Nick dared not risk a fire on the ledge.

Partly to comfort her, and because the urge was moving him again, he crept into her sleeping bag. It was tight quarters — Mija had to wriggle out of her clothes somewhat like a snake shedding its skin — but the result was happy for them both. Mija sighed and moaned and finally cried — and enjoyed herself immensely. When it was over she went promptly off to sleep.

N3 wriggled out of the sleeping bag and went to where the rifle was standing near the cave entrance. He very seldom had use for a rifle on these jobs, and did not think he would need it now, but it had seemed wise to bring it. Wolves ranged these mountains and gorges — wolves and packs of huge Anatolian sheep dogs gone wild.

Nick took up the rifle, a Savage 99 using high velocity ball, with a Weatherby scope, and bent low to pass out on the ledge. He turned up the collar of his heavy sheepskin coat against the pelting rain and made his way along the ledge to the cave where the jeep was hidden. Once there he took stock. He sat in the jeep, fiddling idly with the short-wave set, and let plans and events spin through his agile mind like an unreeling tape.

By orders, and also by his own desire, he would preserve radio silence except in the event of a top level emergency. Ankara would feed him information at specified intervals.

In the time since he had leaped from the Annex roof to the trampoline much had transpired. It had been a time of frenetic rush-rush, with things going well — a nice switch — and everyone cooperating beautifully. The Turkish and Syrian police and military were working well together, which was practically unheard of. So were Interpol and the CIA and what was left of U.S. Narcotics in Asia — all working together. Nick sat now in the clammy, dark cave and stroked the sleek barrel of the Savage and knew that he was the apex, the sharp driving point, of all this effort. He must kill the Basque, of course, but he had another job. To raise so much hell, to sow so much devastation, that it would be months, perhaps even years, before the Syndicate — and now it would seem the Chinese Reds, who were muscling in on a good thing — before they could
get
operations back to normal. That it was only a stopgap, Nick understood. The opium trade would go on. Somehow the poppies from the small Turkish farms would find their way over the border to the clandestine processing factories; they would be transformed into heroin which would be pumped into the shrieking veins of addicts all over the world. Men and women — and a lot of kids, teenagers — would die from that heroin! Die of infections from filthy, unsterilized needles. Die of over-doses. Die of police bullets while committing crimes to get money for dope! And those who did not actually die a physical death would still be dead! Hopeless. Nick thought of Mija and the white needle marks on her lovely arms and his mouth quirked in something that was nearly tenderness. It wasn't really — it was admiration. That kid had come back a long way. But she was one in a million. One of the lucky ones. He caressed the long shining barrel of the Savage and wondered about the Basque. The Basque had been reported in Urfa — fat Defarge had not lied on his death bed — and it was believed that a caravan was being organized. Turkish secret police knew that much — what they did not know was how to stop it.

If the Basque came to the Edessa Pass, two miles away down the gorge from where N3 now sat, if he came there to rendezvous with his fierce Kurds, why not creep to within range and shoot the bastard in cold blood?

The short wave set on the dashboard of the jeep began to buzz. Nick glanced at his watch. Time had slipped away. Ankara was coming in. The broadcast would be short and to the point, he knew. They were reckoning on the Basque having a DF set among his "oil prospecting" equipment.

The voice rasped into the little cave, loud and clear, scale five.

"Turkey to Pilgrim
—
Turkey to Pilgrim
—
the Arabs have folded their tents. The bird is on the wing. Fat man's truth to tell. Dark of moon is danger. Believed two pints vermilion saffron accompany shipment. End of transmission."

Nick lit a cigarette and straightened the message around in his mind.
Arabs had folded their tents
— the thing was getting under way. The TSP thought a smuggling train was being organized.
The bird is on the wing.
The Basque had left Urfa.
Fat man's truth to tell.
Defarge had not been lying.
Dark of moon is danger.
That meant they would go the next night, when there would be no moon.
Believed two pints vermilion saffron
— Nick smiled a cold little smile. No doubt now that the Red Chinese were getting into the act. Hawk and the CIA were right. Two Chinese gentlemen would be with the caravan. Inspecting their new property, no doubt. What had Defarge said — ten million Turkish pounds! The Syndicate really should have known better! They had a million — it was all they would ever get. Sooner or later the Chinese would pay them off — in treachery!

The octopus that lived in Peking had long tentacles. And the Red octopus, Nick admitted as he stubbed out his cigarette, was getting quite a bargain this time. It was to the Reds advantage to promote the use of dope wherever they could. It weakened morale, sucked away the will to resist, save the West another huge problem. So the Reds took over a highly organized dope smuggling apparatus. Such an apparatus could be used for other things than smuggling — espionage! Thirdly — and possibly the most important to the Reds — were the fierce Kurds. They were always rebelling against Iran and Turkey, always agitating for self government, for a Kurdish Republic. The Chinese would promise them that — would help with money and guns to see that the Kurds kept on rebelling until they got — a
Red
Kurdish Republic!

Gathering an arm-load of supplies from the jeep. Nick went back to the other cave where Mija still slept. Wheels within wheels — stroke and counter-stroke — twist upon complicated twist in the grim international game the great Powers were playing. His job was childishly simply in comparison — all he had to do was kill a man!

He and Mija spent that day and night in the cave, except for one brief scouting expedition by Nick. The gorge below was still empty. He saw a pack of wild dogs in the distance, across the gorge, and put the field glasses on them in curiosity. They were great hairy brutes, larger than the Irish wolf hound. Nick watched a dozen or so quarreling viciously over the remains of a goat they had pulled down.

When he got back to the cave he said to the girl: "You know that I'm going to have to leave you here alone for a time?"

She was busy preparing a meal over a small gasoline stove. A hissing Coleman lantern cast a fitful white light through the little cavern. Mija was pale, with little blue shadows beneath her eyes. Nick sensed that she was afraid — afraid of everything but himself. Perhaps he had been wrong to bring her — but it had seemed the one sure way to keep her alive.

Mija said: "I understand, Nick darling. You have made it very straight, the instructions. When the caravan goes you will go with it — I follow in six hours. I remain behind in the jeep until I see your flare — the AXE flare. Or until you join me. If — if you do not come back I go to Urfa and turn myself to the TSP — the Turkish Secret Police."

Very matter of factly Mija served up two tin plates loaded with canned hash. "The TSP will send me back to Istanbul, yes? And sooner or later
they,
the dope people, will kill me! No?"

Nick patted her shoulder. "No. It won't come to that. Not if my plans go well. They're going to be so damned busy trying to put Humpty Dumpty together again that they won't have any time for you."

Mija frowned. She patted the red beret into place and sat down on a rock beside him. "Humpty Dumpty? I do not get him — it?"

Nick rested his hand on the firm soft flesh of her knee. He could feel the warmth of her through the heavy twill. "Never mind. It will be all right. I'll turn the jeep and head it back down the ledge. All you'll have to do is go back the way we came and pick up the caravan's trail. Just be sure to stay six hours behind us. Now let's eat and go to work. I'll need your help — and your opinion. I've never impersonated a Kurd before."