Istanbul Express (19 page)

“Really, Colonel, I must protest. This really does go beyond the bounds of decency.”

Jake did his best to ignore the Russian, looked around, saw that their car had been pushed to one side of the road. The traffic roared by, unimpressed with just another roadside tangle of metal and broken glass. “What happened?”

“You got blindsided, sir.” Samuel Bailey did not try to keep his words from traveling over to where the Russians stood. “We had these two in our sights, stayed between them and you the whole way, but just after we got through the village, this truck appeared out of nowhere and did its best to take you out.”

Jake examined the wreckage, saw how his side had been bent to an almost horseshoe shape, gave silent thanks for the gift of coming out alive. “Where's the truck?”

“It backed out and took off,” Bailey said.

“Not before the driver waved over at your little friend here,” Adams added.

“This is preposterous,” Kolonov snapped. “Such wild accusations are beneath men of our stature, Colonel.”

Jake ignored the Russian. “Can we take your car?”

“We could have,” Adams rapped out, remaining a one-man barrier against Kolonov's advance. “But our Russkie friends here managed to plow us into a wall.”

“Outrageous. Colonel, I must protest. We were simply trying to avoid striking your unfortunate vehicle.”

“You can go sell that one to the navy,” Adams snarled, and shoved the burly guard hard when he took another step toward the group. “Back off, I said!”

“And now you resort to violence. Tch, tch, what a pity it had to come to this.” Dimitri Kolonov gave a regretful smile and motioned toward a gap in the wall. Instantly two additional men appeared. “I regret to inform you, Colonel, that
your man has provoked an international incident. These men are empowered by the Turkish Security Force and are here to place you all under arrest.”

“They are as Russian as you are,” Jake said.

“Acting as instructors to the local police, all official and aboveboard, I assure you.” Dimitri showed a smooth palm. “I do hope you intend to come along without causing further embarrassment, Colonel.”

“We've been set up,” Adams snarled, trying to cover three directions at once.

“I thought there were more than two of them in that car,” Bailey muttered.

“We are protected by diplomatic immunity,” Pierre protested.

“Naturally, this must be checked out thoroughly,” Kolonov purred as the two guards, joined by Kolonov's burly companion, began a flanking action. “But until such time as your consulates can confirm your official status, I fear that you must be treated as common criminals.”

“It won't work,” Jake said.

“Ah, but, Colonel, this is why your country fails so miserably at the great game. A delay here, another postponement there, and suddenly a new policy appears, making all your efforts futile.”

Jake played for time, willing strength back into his legs, knowing he was not up to this. Not yet. He sensed more than saw both Bailey and Pierre begin sidling away from the confines of wall and car. “What is it that is so important about Kumdare?”

Kolonov gave the smile of a hungry cat. “A pity you shall never have the chance to find out, Colonel. I must warn you, my men are armed and prepared—”

A squeal of rubber, the blare of a horn, and a familiar voice shrieked, “
Jake!
”

“Now!” shouted Pierre, already airborne and spinning before the single word was out, slamming into one guard
before the man had time to recover and go for his weapon. Adams and Bailey moved like a well-trained team, making short order of the other two. In the space of two breaths, the roadside was littered with three crumpled forms.

Pierre bounded to the waiting Citroen, pulled open the door, called back to Jake, “Anytime will do, my friend.”

Jake refused either to limp or to wince. He moved stiffly but steadily for the car.

“I formally protest,” Kolonov started. “This is a most—”

Jake looked through the open window as the Citroen rolled away and said, “Why don't you just blow it out the old kazoo.”

“We are not out of the thicket, I fear,” Phyllis declared above the sound of wind and roaring engine and squealing tires and a chorus of protesting horns. “Not yet.”

“Their car wasn't in much better shape than ours, ma'am,” Samuel Bailey pointed out.

“Unfortunately, most of their vehicles carry portable short-wave radios,” Phyllis replied.

Pierre continued to look from Phyllis to Jasmyn and back as though to say, Look, see, this is how a woman should drive. “It is doubtful that a portable voice set would be able to reach Istanbul.”

“They are highly amplified,” Phyllis replied. “The most modern available.”

Jake slid down another notch, so that the wildly swinging scene in front was more fully blocked by Bailey's shoulders. “How do you know all this?”

“I told you about the Circle of Friends,” Sally said. She was wedged so tightly into the backseat that even turning toward him was an effort. She asked for the tenth time, “Are you sure you're all right?”

“Fine, just a little bruised.”

“You look so pale.”

Jake winced as the great black Citroen hurtled around a slow-moving cart, into the flow of incoming traffic and back
again so fast it was hard to believe it actually happened. He held grimly to his thought rather than give in to the rising terror. This woman was worse than Pierre. “No amateur organization would make it a practice of knowing the type of equipment carried by Soviet spies.”

“Speaking of amateurs,” Pierre murmured from the other side of the backseat, “my hat goes off to you, madame. I would be most grateful for the chance to take driving lessons from you someday.”

Corporal Bailey swung around to nod agreement in Pierre's direction. “I gotta agree with you, Major. Up to this point, I would have said you were the cat's meow. But this dame, I mean, Mrs. Hollamby here, she's in a class of her own.”

“Nonsense,” the old lady demurred, as a faint flush of pleasure crept up her neck. “I have simply adapted to the world in which I live.”

The two Marines sat up front with Phyllis; Pierre and Jake manned the two backseat windows with their wives in between. Jasmyn had hardly breathed, much less spoken, since the journey began. The one advantage to their cramped backseat was that it kept Jake from bouncing about. Every inch of his frame seemed to be bruised and complaining.

From his corner position, Jake watched Sergeant Adams grimace and shut his eyes as they came within a hairsbreadth of plunging over yet another cliffside curve. It gave him a sliver of comfort to know the leatherneck found this journey as nerve-grinding as he did. “I still want to know—”

“You are quite right, Colonel,” Phyllis calmly acknowledged. “It is both a relief and a pleasure to know that we have allies of such caliber. You see, my husband was more than simply the head of a British company's local subsidiary.”

“A spy,” Jake said, the pieces falling into place. “He worked for the British Secret Service.”

A flicker of approval passed through the rearview mirror. “Just so. He was a remarkable man, my husband, and it was a pleasure to work alongside him. As his health deteriorated,
he increasingly came to rely on me. His decline began at the onset of war, you see, and he felt it would be an absolute crime to let our side down. Then, within a ten-month period, I suffered the double loss of both my husband and my son. Despite all my prayers, the resulting void threatened to consume me. Thankfully, by then Whitehall knew of my own efforts and began to treat me as an agent in my own right. The pressure of supplying them with information helped enormously to see me through that critical period.” Another glance in the mirror, this one directed toward Sally. “It was a true godsend, the fact of being not only needed, but actually important in such a crucial period.”

Sally asked, “And the Circle of Friends?”

“All true,” Phyllis replied. “And all amateurs. Which is one reason they have continued to remain such a valuable asset.”

“And you are their conduit.”

“Quite so, Colonel.” Phyllis entered and departed from a village so fast that all they saw of it was dust and blur and a few scattered feathers. “And their filter. I fear the dear ladies in their unbridled enthusiasm pass on a great deal of chaff with the grain.”

“I would be honored if you would call me Jake.”

“Why, how very gallant. It would be an honor.”

Pierre cleared his throat. “I still fail to see the need for concern over what the Russians will be able to pass back to Istanbul.”

“As to the exact range of their radios,” Phyllis said, “I am not certain. But I do know they would have been able to pass on the information through a more powerful channel.”

“Of course,” Sally cried. “The ships!”

Jake winced at the sudden pain of trying to swivel and look down at Sally. “What ships?”

“This way, hurry!” Despite the need for her cane, Phyllis set a pace down the boarding ramp that had them all trotting to keep up. The next departure was a passenger ferry, so she had
blithely swung into a space far too small for her enormous vehicle, and led off on foot. She had timed their rush for the boat perfectly, for as the last of them scampered on board the ropes were cast, the whistle blown, then the ferry shuddered and started off. Jake leaned heavily against a metal pillar and searched the docks, but could see no sign of pursuit.

“Maybe she gave them the slip,” Bailey offered hopefully.

“More likely,” Pierre replied, moving up alongside, “they have decided to concentrate their forces closer to the lair.”

“I fear the major is correct,” Phyllis said.

Sally slipped her arm around Jake and asked yet again, “Are you sure you're all right?”

“How could he be? He has survived an attack from the Russians that clearly has rattled his bones.” Phyllis pointed her cane toward a set of empty deck chairs. “Really, Colonel, I must insist that you sit down. Your day is far from finished.”

Jake sighed his way over and down, as tired and battered as he had felt in his entire life. The group moved with him, settling into nearby benches, pulling over available chairs. “I do not see,” Pierre said, “how you can be so sure this Kumdare site is truly intended as an observation post.”

“Harry told me the same thing on the phone,” Jake said. “Or tried to.”

“It is the perfect location,” Phyllis replied. For all her years, the day appeared to have left no mark on her at all. If anything, she seemed to have taken nourishment from the excitement. Her voice remained fresh, her eyes sparkling and alive. “This stretch of water is like the narrow neck of a bottle. Any ship wishing to enter the Mediterranean Sea from either the Caspian or the Black Sea has to pass through the Bosphorus.”

“And those two seas,” Pierre murmured, “are the locations of the Soviet Union's only warm-water ports. The only ones not shrouded in ice for several months a year.”

“Precisely,” Phyllis said approvingly. “Russia has sought to conquer Istanbul for centuries, back even when it still was known as Constantinople. Czar Ivan the Great went so far
as to call it the key to world dominion. Capturing it would open the vast wealth of all southern Europe and northern Africa to direct attack. Britain has gone to war with Russia over this narrow passage no fewer than four times. After the last battle, a pact was finally signed that permitted Russian vessels free passage through the strait, but only so long as they carried neither weapons nor munitions.”

Jake struggled to cast aside the rising wave of fatigue and demanded, “Then why all this subterfuge about a cultural center? Why not simply open up a watch station and be done with it?”

“Two reasons. First, because Turkey stands at the edge of a political precipice. And second, because too many of our politicians stubbornly insist on seeing Russia as our gallant ally. They have too much invested in this friendship to accept that Stalin and his minions are as power mad as the worst of the old czars. What they fail to accept is that the Soviets are seeking to gain through subversion and deception what they could not obtain through force of arms.”

“They are trying to install a Communist government here,” Sally offered.

“Not only Communist,” Phyllis said, casting her an approving glance. “They want a puppet regime under Moscow's direct control. Even as we speak, we are witnessing the same tragedy happening throughout all of Eastern Europe. That is why this station is so vital to all our interests.”

Despite his best efforts, Jake found it impossible to keep his eyes open any longer. The lids fell as though louvered down, the voices mingled with the rumbling motor and the wind and the cry of gulls, and he was gone.

Chapter Fourteen

“Jake?” Sally's gentle hand rocked his shoulder once more. “We're there.”

He groaned his way to wakefulness, feeling he had been asleep for less than five minutes, then groaned a second time when his muscles complained stiffly. He let Pierre and Samuel Bailey help him to his feet because he had to. Phyllis watched sympathetically as he tried to unleash his complaining limbs with a few simple stretches. “If it is any consolation, Colonel, the fact that the Russians went to all this trouble is a clear indication that they consider you a grave threat to their plans.”

“I guess I should be grateful,” Jake said, wincing as the boat jammed the dock and knocked them about.

“Be glad you are alive,” Pierre said, offering Jake his arm. “When that truck appeared from nowhere, I thought we were both leaving this earth for good.”

“Don't talk like that,” Jasmyn said sharply. “Not ever.”

“Come,” Phyllis said, starting for the lowered docking platform. “Those waiting taxis will soon be taken.”