Istanbul Express (4 page)

“You've been acting strange since yesterday,” Jake persisted. “One minute you're as worried as I've ever seen, the next and you're like a little kid at Christmas.”

“Not just Sally,” Pierre added, watching his new wife.

“It's out in the open now,” Sally said, refusing to release her excitement, her eyes stealing more glances out the window as the train wound through the slowly awakening city.

“What, the Russian?”

“He was a snake,” Jasmyn said definitely. “But at least we can now see who it is we face.”

“Dimitri Kolonov is supposed to be an ally,” Pierre reminded them.

Sally joined Jasmyn in a double-barrelled glare. Pierre raised hands in mock defeat. “I just thought somebody should mention it.”

“He is a snake,” Jasmyn repeated. “But a visible one.”

“It wasn't the threat that scared me so,” Sally said, facing Jake. “It was the fact that I was hit when I felt protected.”

“And from such an unexpected direction,” Jasmyn added.

“Seeing that these are real people brings everything back into focus,” Sally went on. “It shrinks the danger down to size.”

“There are a lot of risks here besides Kolonov,” Jake reminded her quietly.

“Of course there are.” Her dimpled smile returned. “You
wouldn't want it any other way, neither of you would. And you both know it.”

“My friend,” Pierre offered, “I think we should accept that we are surrounded by superior minds.”

The train chose that moment to slide into dusty shadows and enter the station. The engine chuffed in noisy relief, the whistle gave a long satisfied toot, the brakes squealed tiredly, and the train shuddered to a halt.

The little group remained seated, looking from one to another, until Pierre said, “Something is missing here.”

“We need to start this adventure off right,” Sally agreed, reaching for Jasmyn's hand. “Jake, will you lead us in prayer?”

“Excellent, excellent. You arrived safe and sound.” Dimitri Kolonov stepped up as they were unloading their bags, as cold and polished as an ice sculpture. “You do not have someone from your consulate here to help you with your cases? What a disgrace.”

Jake accepted the larger satchel from Sally. “We're used to getting our hands dirty.”

“Ah, but those days are behind you, Colonel,” Kolonov responded, waving one gray-gloved finger. “Remember, that is what underlings are for,
nyet?
”

“Are you traveling with your wife and children, Mr. Kolonov?” Sally asked.

“Call me Dimitri, please. After all, we shall be seeing so much of each other.”

“I can hardly wait,” she said, smiling her thanks as Jake offered her a hand down from the train.

“Alas, my wife is unable to join me just yet.” Kolonov gave a mock sigh. “The price one pays for an overseas assignment can be high.”

“Colonel Burnes? Colonel Jake Burnes?”

Jake turned and called, “Over here.”

A lean, sunburned young man hustled over. He started to salute, then realized he was in civilian clothes and forced his
hand back down. “I'm Corporal Bailey, sir. The consulate sent me over to fetch you.”

“You see, what did I tell you, my friends? A new life!” Kolonov beamed triumphantly. “Well, I simply must dash. You will all come and be my guests for dinner at the Soviet consulate, yes?”

“Soon as we're settled,” Jake assured him, accepting the hand, then turning back to the young man. “This is my wife, Corporal.”

“Ma'am.” The young man waited impatiently for the Russian to shake Pierre's hand and bow a final time to the ladies before departing. His tone was insistent as he said, “We need to be shoving off, sir.”

“Lead on, Corporal.”

“Yessir. Is this, I mean, are you Major Servais?”

“I am.”

“I have a message for you too, sir. The French consulate called to say you should check in immediately. I can drop you off, if you like. Then I'll take your wives and the gear over to your hotel.” Not waiting for a response, he hefted as many valises as he could manage, and started for the exit.

Jake caught up with him. “What's the rush?”

“The whole consulate's all sixes and sevens, sir. You were supposed to get in a couple of days ago.”

“Our train was delayed,” Sally pointed out.

“I know, I mean, yes, ma'am. There's been radio traffic like you wouldn't believe about that as well.”

Jake demanded, “As well as what?”

“I'm not supposed to say, sir,” the corporal responded carefully. “My orders are to get you back to the consulate and do it on the bounce.”

Scarcely had they all settled into the big consular sedan than the swarthy Turkish driver let in the clutch and squealed away. Jake leaned forward from his station in the backseat and demanded, “Why can't you tell me anything?”

“Leave him alone, Jake,” Sally said quietly, her gaze on the
scene zipping by outside their window. “He's just following orders.”

The corporal shot her a grateful glance, then returned his attention to the front windshield in time to call, “Heads up,” and grab for the top deck. The driver swung wide around an overloaded donkey cart, then swept back in front of the animal's nose and ducked down an alley.

Corporal Bailey turned around and said apologetically, “I'd yell at him, sir, but it wouldn't do any good.”

Pierre nodded approvingly in the driver's direction, then announced brightly, “I do believe I am going to like it here.”

The driver traveled with equal pressure on the gas pedal and the horn. The only one who seemed perturbed by their lightning dash through gradually thickening traffic was Jake. After they had come within a hairsbreadth of derailing a streetcar, Jake asked Jasmyn, “This doesn't bother you?”

“I was raised in Marseille,” she reminded him.

“The French only wish they could drive like this,” Pierre said in admiration. He turned to the corporal. “Where can I buy myself a car?”

“Here we are, sir,” the corporal announced as the car swung through great iron gates and halted in a cobblestone courtyard. “I'll let them know the colonel's arrived, then be back to escort everyone else onward.”

Jake slid from the car and turned a worried frown toward Sally, but she stopped him with a smile. “We'll be fine. You go see to business.”

He followed the corporal across the plaza, taking in the central fountain and the porticoes and the sculpted trellises around tall upper-floor windows. “This is nice.”

“It used to be some sultan's palace,” the corporal said, bouncing up grand front steps to hold the door for Jake. “There's a lot of them around here.”

The entrance hall was grand in a seedy and ancient fashion. The ceiling curved up a full two stories, and the ancient marble-tiled floor was ribbed where eons of feet had trod
shallow channels. Just inside the second set of double doors stood a waist-high desk and behind it a uniformed Marine. Corporal Bailey announced, “This is the colonel.”

“Thank the heavens above,” the second young man announced. “I mean, welcome to Istanbul, sir. I'll just go and tell the chief you're here.”

The young man trotted down the long formal hall, then took the sweeping staircase three steps at a time. Jake turned to the corporal and asked, “The chief?”

“Meester Jake!” The delighted cry turned them back around as a corpulent little man came rushing down the stairs. “Eeet ees so excellent to have you arrive, oh my, yes, so very excellent!”

“I'll just go and see to your wife and the major.” The corporal began another salute, then stopped himself, started to offer his hand, decided that was too informal, finally settled on, “Good luck, sir.”

Jake watched the round little man come bouncing down the hall. Too much too fast. “This the chief?” he asked the corporal.

“Chief? What chief?” Stubby legs carried the little man up and in front of Jake. “I am Ahmet,” he announced proudly, as though that were all the explanation anyone needed.

“He's building superintendent, but unofficially sort of chief dogsbody,” Corporal Bailey explained, sidling for the door. “Whatever you need, he's the guy. Does some of the local hiring as well. Handles official red tape.”

“Exactly, yes, is so!” Ahmet waved the corporal away without turning his dark eyes from Jake. “What you need, Ahmet finds. Even before you ask.”

“Sounds like a quartermaster I once knew.” Jake accepted the little man's hand, felt the damp fingers squeeze once and release.

Ahmet looked like a little balloon balanced on top of a bigger balloon, with almost no neck between head and body. A few remaining strands of hair had been allowed to grow
long, then were greased and plastered in black pencil lines across his otherwise bald scalp. His mouth seemed permanently creased into a smile that did not reach his glittering black eyes.

“You will soon see, what Ahmet says is true.” He waved his hand in the general direction of the consulate's interior. “I have office all ready, yes, with files and papers and desk and chair and even assistant.”

Jake stared down at the little man. “You've hired personnel for me?”

“Mr. Burnes?” Jake turned to see a woman leading the uniformed Marine across the entrance chamber. “I am Mrs. Ecevit, assistant to the political officer. Welcome to Istanbul.”

Jake straightened, forced down his ire at this Ahmet and the sensation of being railroaded. “Thank you.”

“I hope you had a pleasant trip.” The woman was as cool and official as her voice. Middle-aged, a strong face framed by dark hair disciplined into a tight bun. Dark suit, white shirt, no jewelry that he could see. Intelligent eyes. But distant. She gazed at him with calculating prudence.

“Not bad.” Jake glanced back at Ahmet, saw he had frozen up in silent disapproval. The little man did not like Mrs. Ecevit, that much was clear. For this reason alone, Jake found himself drawn to the woman and her cold stare. “Sorry we were delayed.”

“Yes, no one has been able to fathom why Mr. Grisholm suggested you travel by rail.” Her words were overlaid with a slight accent, yet her English was precise as her manner. “Your late arrival has caused us all a tremendous amount of concern. Would you come with me, please?”

“Lead the way.” He nodded in reply to the Marine's salute, followed her down the hall and up the carpeted stairs. Far overhead hung a chandelier of glittering crystal leaves. “This is some place.”

“It belonged to the grand vizier of the last Ottoman sultan,” she said, neither turning around nor taking any notice
of her surroundings. “The Ataturk regime gave it to us as a consulate soon after the capital was moved to Ankara.” She stopped before a great door whose frame was embellished with plaster carvings in an intricate Oriental design. She knocked, said to Jake, “In here, please.”

“Mr. Burnes, thank goodness you've arrived.” A gray-haired man ignored Jake's outstretched hand, grasped his upper arm, and guided him in. Jake twisted about to thank Mrs. Ecevit, but she was already closing the door. “I can't tell you what a crisis your delayed arrival has put us into.”

“So everybody's been telling me.”

“Take that seat, why don't you?” He directed Jake to the straight-backed chair placed front and center before his oversized desk. As an afterthought, he leaned across the desk and offered his hand. “Charles Fernwhistle, Consul General Knowles's Deputy Chief of Mission.”

The man's handshake brought to mind a wet mop left overnight in a refrigerator. Jake made no move to sit. “Consul General who?”

“Knowles. Ah. You were expecting Gramble, I see. No, unfortunately he was recalled.” Fernwhistle had the elongated neck of a crane, a bowtie, and a nervous manner. Each sentence was punctuated by a quick little tug of his tie, an adjustment of his glasses, a smoothing of his jacket. “A dispute with our Russian allies. Quite sudden.”

Jake felt his sense of isolation growing. He remained standing. “The Russians are dictating the choice of our consul general?”

“Our
allies
have every right to request such changes, especially in such times of delicate negotiations. I happened to have served with Consul General Knowles in Mexico during the war.”

“Mexico,” Jake echoed.

“He was not consul general then, of course. Actually he held my position. Gramble, on the other hand, was, well, a
military man, no real experience with this type of work. Still, it was quite a jolt to everyone when he was abruptly replaced.”

“Yeah, you look all broken up over it,” Jake remarked.

The nose tilted up one notch further. “Sit down, won't you.” When Jake had eased himself into the seat, Fernwhistle said, “While military experience no doubt has its merits, unfortunately delicate negotiations require someone with a little more, well . . .”

Ability to cringe
, Jake offered silently, and changed the subject with, “So I guess it's up to you to tell me what's going on.”

“There is unfortunately no time for that.” A glimmer of satisfaction surfaced in Fernwhistle's bland voice. “Perhaps if we had not seen these personnel changes foisted upon us, or if you had arrived on time, but as it is,” he spread his hands and concluded, “I certainly do not have the time, nor does anyone else.”

“You expect me to start handling my responsibilities without any briefing?”

“Quite an impossibility, I most certainly agree.” This time the air of satisfaction was unmistakable. Fernwhistle opened the first of two files on his desk and slid across a paper. “The first allotments of funds have already arrived, you see. We are all under tremendous pressure to release this money and begin the building process.”

Jake glanced at the sheet, did a double take. There was a dollar sign, followed by a nine, and then a string of zeros. The sum hit him with an electric shock. It was one thing to hear Harry Grisholm talk about overseeing expenditures, the task kept at arm's length by time and distance. It was another thing entirely to be confronted with the actual
amount
and the responsibility of disbursing it. He gave a dry-lipped whistle.