Istanbul Express (20 page)

By the time they made it to the rank of antiquated vehicles, Jake's legs and his mind were moving a bit more comfortably. He said to the two Marines, “I want you to take a second cab.”

“Good, a plan,” Pierre said, his mobile features rising in a vast smile. “I find great relief in the news, my friend, that your head is working once more.”

Jake ignored him. “They'll probably be watching the consulate entrances.”

“Most certainly,” Phyllis interjected.

“We'll take one taxi and work up a diversion. See if we can get them to follow us. Then you two scramble over the side wall and make like greased lightning for the consul general's office.”

“You can count on us, sir,” Bailey said.

“An excellent plan,” Phyllis said. “I remain most impressed with you, Colonel.”

“If for any reason Knowles isn't available, head for Barry Edders. Tell him we have concrete proof that the Russians are sabotaging the construction of our observation post in Kumdare. Inform him also of the reason behind it, this sighting of Soviet warships making way for the Bosphorous, and through that into the Mediterranean, in direct breech of international treaty.”

“Consider it done,” Sergeant Adams assured him.

Jake turned to Phyllis. “I can't thank you enough for everything, ma'am.”

The old lady raised herself to full height. “And just what do you intend to do,” she demanded imperiously, “once you have managed to draw attention your way?”

“Run,” Jake said, turning back to the Marines. “Everything depends on you getting through.”

“Like the corporal says,” Adams replied, his chin as aggressive as a battleship's prow. “We won't let you down.”

Jake nodded, turned to Sally. “I want you to go with Phyllis.”

“There is absolutely no way I am letting you go off on your own, the state you're in,” she said, her eyes flashing fire. “So you can just put it out of your tiny little mind.”

“And you, don't even start,” Jasmyn warned Pierre before he could even get out the first word.

“Quite right,” Phyllis said crisply. “I shall not be brushed off so lightly either, young man.”

Jake looked from one stubborn woman to the other. “Listen—”

“You're wasting valuable time, Jake,” Sally snapped.

“Indeed so,” Phyllis added primly. “And just where on earth did you intend to run?”

“Heads up, everybody,” Jake said, as their taxi rounded the
final corner and the consulate gates came into view. “Here we go.”

Their vehicle had the single grace of being large; the ancient Packard had no doubt once been a proud touring car, but time and neglect and countless miles of bad roads had reduced it to a creaking, amiable wreck. The driver was as friendly and elderly as the car and as tiny as it was huge. He was almost lost behind the massive steering wheel. A change of gears meant lunging to one side and ducking his head beneath the dash, momentarily losing sight of their direction, so he drove almost entirely in second. Jake felt his hackles rise at the thought of trying to lose a pursuit in this rocking bucket of bolts.

The simple fact of being the only person who could communicate with the driver had granted Phyllis pride of place. She sat erect in the middle of the front seat, with Jasmyn beside her. Sally sat in the backseat between Jake and Pierre.

When the consulate came into view, Jake tensed at the sight of three cars and a dozen stern-faced men blocking their entry. A pair of Marine guards were arguing and gesticulating for the men to move their vehicles. They refused to budge.

Sally abruptly leaned across Jake and shouted through the open window, “Oh no, it's them! Quick, quick, let's get out of here!”

The angry arguing cut off as though a switch had been hit, and the men watched open-mouthed as the car ambled good-naturedly past their station. “Hurry, hurry, they'll see us!” Sally added for good measure. Then she leaned back and accepted the men's astonished gazes with a satisfied smile. “I think that probably lit a fire under them, don't you?”

Phyllis directed the driver down a narrow side street. He cackled delightedly and did as he was told. Jake shot a glance through the back window and caught sight of a Keystone Cops maneuver, a dozen men colliding with one another in a mad scramble for their cars. When an ancient building
blocked them from view, he turned back and asked, “Any chance of going a little faster?”

“This appears to be the best he can manage,” Phyllis said, pointing him down another lane more narrow than the last. “Besides, our best hope rests not in speed, but in subterfuge.”

The old city's lanes were a maze of contradicting directions. Jake soon lost all track of where he was or where they were headed. Phyllis, however, did not waver for an instant. The driver followed her directions with affable chatter, clearly enjoying himself immensely.

They entered a small square and stopped before a cavernous opening. “This is it,” Phyllis said. “Everyone out.”

The driver clutched his pay in one hand and waved them away with a final cackle and a grin of dark-stained teeth. Jake eased the ache in his back and legs, asked, “Where are we?”

“The Grand Bazaar,” Phyllis said, stumping ahead at a rapid pace. “And now I really must ask that we make haste.”

Cool shade swiftly replaced the sun's blazing heat as they walked down the gently sloping avenue and entered the bazaar. Within the winding lanes, walking vendors sold sticky sweets from great wooden trays, while others advertised water and tea with creaking cries, dispensing their wares from huge copper urns carried on their shoulders. Shop displays spilled out into the lanes, colorful pageants of carpets or spices or bronze tables or gold jewelry, stacked far above Jake's height. Old men sat outside shops now run by a younger generation, playing backgammon on boards so battered the triangular patterns were mere shadows on the wood. Their fingers picked and tossed the dice and slapped the pieces with such rapidity that from a distance the games sounded like a continual drumroll. Occasionally a youngster would come and whisper in an elder's ear; replies and advice were granted without a moment's pause in the game.

“Under the Christian emperors, traders from Amalfi, Genova, Pisa, and Venice were all granted commercial rights on the boundary between Europe and Asia.” Despite her rapid
pace, Phyllis still found both breath and interest to tell them of their surroundings. “The Grand Bazaar is the largest commercial site of its kind in the world and was established and built for these traders, largely in the form you find it today. Just as then, its sixty streets are divided up among various crafts. There are more than four thousand shops, backed by small factories and countless warehouses. Come.”

She led them into a tiny store selling bright multicolored cloth for drapery and upholstery. She stopped and shook hands with the stallholder, turning to introduce her gathering. The slender merchant bowed his welcome and made a gesture for them to be seated. Politely Phyllis spoke a few words, and instantly his demeanor changed. He gave a second bow, this one of hurried respect, then walked to the back of his little shop. He glanced to ensure that the front entrance remained empty, then swept back one broad Venetian cloth to reveal a small door. Jake ducked his head and followed the others through.

Behind was a narrow series of chambers, one after the other, each occupied by a hand-operated loom. The men worked in undershirts—not against the heat, for the rooms were almost chilly in the enclosed gloom, but rather against the closeness of the air. As Phyllis led the others unerringly down the constricted passage, the workers observed their progress without pausing in their work.

Phyllis stopped within an end chamber that obviously served as storeroom, empty and dark save for the light from the previous chamber. She pointed at a ring set within the floor. “I must ask the major to kindly assist me.”

“Most certainly, madame,” Pierre said, and bent to the task. The thick-planked door creaked and groaned and reluctantly opened. Jake peered through, saw only blackness.

Phyllis lifted a battered lantern from its nail and carefully lit it. “There is a compass in the base. Be careful that you do not spill fuel when you take it out, for this is your only light.”

Sally peered into the gloom and asked, “What is it?”

“The reservoir. Take care. The steps have not been used in years.”

Even Pierre showed doubt over the sheer blackness beneath them. Phyllis gestured impatiently. “You must hurry. A boat waits at the base of the stairs. And be most careful.” She jammed the lantern into Jake's hand. “Go directly north. About a kilometer away there will be a series of slits making a circular pattern of illumination. It is an ancient water tower. There are stairs leading up to a street-level door. I will be waiting for you there with a car.”

Jake fingered under the lantern, undid rusty catches, pulled out an ancient compass in a cracked leather case. “You're sending us down into the sewers?”

“Listen to what I am saying,” she said impatiently. “This was the city's water supply, built by the Romans. It is vast. A hundred years ago, two British explorers set out by boat to find the other side. They were never heard from again.” She gestured toward the black hole. “Remember, go directly north. Do not stray at all from the course.”

Jake watched Pierre gingerly feel his way down, bent over, and handed his friend the lantern. In the ruddy glow he glimpsed a small concrete station with dark waters lapping on all sides. He helped Sally and Jasmyn down, then looked at Phyllis. “What about you?”

Despite the gloomy shadows, her smile showed clear. “Who on earth would dream of making trouble for a harmless old woman? Now go. I will meet you at the water tower.”

Jake was greeted underground by a sleeping head.

The stone guardian had long since fallen over on its side, the face now resting half submerged. Even so, it was broader than Jake was tall. He stepped onto the nose, grasped the ear, and swung himself up and over the chin. He stood and saw that attached to the back was a small rowboat. “It's here.”

“So are they,” Pierre hissed. “I can hear them talking above us.”

Sally hesitated and demanded, “What about Phyllis?”

“We won't do her any good in jail,” Jasmyn pointed out.

“Or wherever else it is they plan to keep us,” Jake agreed, and eased himself down by a series of pitted footholds. He helped Sally and Jasmyn down to Pierre's waiting arms, watched them settle in the stern, then stepped into the unstable boat and centered himself with one hand on each gunnel. Once in the bow, he accepted the lantern from Pierre and watched as his friend stripped off his shirt and draped it over the light. Instantly they were enveloped in impenetrable gloom.

Sally started, “What—”

Pierre hissed for silence just as the darkness was illuminated again, this time by a flashlight beam from above. Not trusting the oars to move silently, Pierre lifted one out of the oarlock and gingerly steered them away. Voices called back and forth, the noise echoing through vast distances. Jake craned, searched, saw no end or wall or marking. Just a forest of huge pillars rising from the black waters, stretching out in every direction as far as he could see.

Quietly Pierre paddled on one side, then the other, steering them from one great pillar to the next, placing ever more distance between them and the searching light.

“We might as well admit it,” Pierre said, not bothering to whisper any longer, and uncovering the lantern to reveal worried faces.

Jake leaned back from his turn upon the oars, agreed wearily, “We've gone a lot farther than a kilometer.”

“We are well and truly lost.” Reluctantly Pierre turned to where voices bounced and echoed behind them.

“I guess you know what that means.” Jake massaged his back with both hands, searched the great vaulted ceiling overhead.

“It is our only hope of ever finding our way out again,”
Pierre agreed resignedly. “Here, my friend, let me take up the oars again.”

Carefully Jake traded places, then tried to give Sally a reassuring smile as Pierre steered them around and back toward the echoing voices. She did her best to reply in kind, despite the worried light to her eyes.

It had proved far harder than they had expected to maintain a steady northward course. The vast reservoir was actually split into a myriad of chambers by pillars that grew into long sweeping walls. Earthen embankments rose like shallow shorelines, looming suddenly upward to connect with the ceiling high overhead. Jake held his lantern up high, recalled Phyllis's warning about the two British explorers, and hoped desperately they would at least be caught in time.

Time passed in agonizing dips of Pierre's oars until a flashlight beam split the darkness and a great shout of triumph sounded from close at hand. Soon a pair of boats were winging toward them, hemming them in, as more shouts and calls bounded back and forth around them. They were swiftly ringed by boats. Turks rowed toward them, under the careful supervision of lighter-skinned silent men. A rope was tossed and made fast to their bow. They were all too tired and dejected to protest as they were rowed back in the direction from which they had fled.

Wearily Jake assisted the ladies up and back over the great leaning face. He ignored the proddings and shouted orders, and climbed up the rusting ladder into the little storeroom. It was almost without surprise that the first words of English he heard came with the polished accent of a victorious Dimitri Kolonov. “You have given us quite a mad chase, Colonel. A pity that it must now end with you and your associates occupying a pair of rather dank and musty cells.”

“I think not,” another voice said, startling them all.

Jake raised his exhausted head, squinted through the gloom, and saw Consul General Tom Knowles stride into the crowded room. He was flanked by a grim-faced contingent of Marines.
Knowles marched straight up to the dumbfounded Russian and said, “I am formally taking charge of these people.”