The Light of Day (16 page)

Miss Lipp soon got the idea, though. I found that she knew something about Turkish history; for instance, who the Janissaries had been. For someone who, only an hour or so earlier, had been asking if the Seraglio was the old palace, that was a little surprising. At the time, I suppose, I was too busy trying to answer her other questions to pay much attention. I had shown her the guide-book plan and she was going through all the buildings marked on it.

‘The White Eunuchs' quarters along here, are they open?'

'Only these rooms near the Gate of Felicity in the middle.'

‘The Baths of
Selim
the Second—can we see them?'

‘That is part of the museum now. There is a collection of glass and silverware there, I think.'

'What about the Hall of the Pantry?'

'I think that building has the administration offices in it now.'

Some of the
questions I couldn't answer at all, even vaguely, but she still kept on. Finally, she broke off, swallowed her second
raki
at a gulp and looked across at me.

'Are you hungry, Arthur?'

'Hungry? No, Miss Lipp, not particularly.'

‘Why don't we go to the palace right now, then?’

‘Certainly, if you wish.'

‘Okay. You take care of the check here. Well settle later.'

I saw the eyes of one or two men sitting in the
café
follow her as she went back to the car, and I noticed them glancing at me as I paid for the drinks. Obviously they were wondering what the relationship was—father, uncle or what? It was oddly embarrassing. The trouble was, of course, that I didn't know what to make of Miss Lipp and couldn't decide what sort of attitude to adopt towards her. To add to the confusion, a remark Harper had made at the Club in Athens, about Nicki's legs being too short, kept coming into my mind. Miss Lipp's legs were particularly long, and, for some reason, that was irritating as well as exciting; exciting because I couldn't help wondering what difference long legs would make in bed; irritating because I knew damn well that I wasn't going to be given the chance to find out.

I drove her to the Seraglio and parked in what used to be the Courtyard of the Janissaries, just outside the Ortakapi Gate by the Executioner's block. As it was so early, there were only two or three other cars besides the Lincoln. I was glad of that, because I was able to get off my piece about the gate without being overheard by official guides with other parties. The last thing I wanted at that moment was to have my guide's licence asked for and challenged.

The Ortakapi Gate is a good introduction to the 'feel' of the Seraglio. 'It was here at this gate that the Sultans used to stand to watch the weekly executions. The Sultan stood just there. You see the block where the beheading was done. Now, see that little fountain built in the wall there? That was for the Executioner to wash the blood off himself when he had finished. He was also the Chief Gardener. By the way, this was known as the Gate of Salvation. Rather ironic, don't you think? Of course, only high palace dignitaries who had offended the Sultan were beheaded here. When princes of the royal house were executed—for instance, when a new Sultan had all his younger brothers killed off to prevent arguments about the succession—their blood could not be shed, so they were strangled with a silk cord. Women who had offended were treated in a different way. They were tied up in weighted sacks and dropped into the Bosphorus. Shall we go inside now?'

Until Miss Lipp, I had never known it to fail.

She gave me a blank stare. 'Is any of that true, Arthur?'

'Every word of it.' It
is
true, too.

‘How do you know?'

‘Those are historic facts, Miss
Lipp.'
I had another go. 'In fact, one of the Sultans got bored with his whole harem and had them all dumped
iato
the Bosphorus.
There was
a shipwreck off Seraglio Point soon after, and a diver was sent down. What he saw there almost scared him to death. There were all those weighted sacks standing in a row on the bottom and swaying to and fro with the current.’

'Which Sultan?'

Naturally, I thought it was safe to guess. 'It was
Murad
the Second.'

'It was Sultan Ibrahim,' she said. 'No offence, Arthur, but I think we'd better hire a guide.'

'Whatever you say, Miss Lipp.’

I tried to look as if I thought it a good idea, but I was really quite angry. If she had asked me right out whether I was an historical expert on the Seraglio, I would have told her, quite frankly, that I was not. It was the underhand way in which she had set out to trap me that I didn't like.

We went through the gate, and I paid for our admissions and selected an English-speaking guide. He was solemn and pedantic, of course, and told her all the things I had already explained all over again; but she did not seem to mind. From the way she bombarded him with questions you would have thought she was going to write a book about the place. Of course, that flattered him. He had a grin like an ape.

Personally, I find the Seraglio rather depressing. In Greece, the old buildings, even when they are in ruins and nothing much has been done in the way of restoration, always seem to have a clean, washed look about them. The Seraglio is stained, greasy and dilapidated. Even the trees and shrubs in the main courtyards are neglected, and the so-called Tulip Garden is nothing but a scrubby, patch of dirt.

As far as Miss Lipp was concerned, though, the place might have been Versailles. She went everywhere, through the kitchens, through the museum rooms, the exhibition of saddles, this kiosk, that pavilion, laughing at the guide's standard jokes and scuffing her shoes on the broken paving stones. If I had known what was going on in her mind, of course, I would have felt differently, but as it was, I became bored. After a bit, I gave up following them everywhere and just took the short cuts.

I was looking forward to a sit-down by the Gate of the Fountain while they 'did' the textiles exhibition, when she called me over.

'Arthur, how long will it take us to get to the airport from here?'

I was so surprised that I must have looked at her a bit blankly.

‘The airport?'

She put on a slight heaven-give-me-patience look. 'Yes, Arthur, the airport. Where the planes arrive. How long from here?'

The guide, who hadn't been asked said: 'Forty minutes,
madame.'

'Better allow forty-five, Miss Lipp,' I said, ignoring him.

She looked at her watch. The plane gets in at four,' she said. 'I tell you what, Arthur. You-go get yourself a sandwich or something. I’lll meet you where you parked the car in an hour. Right?'

'As you wish, Miss Lipp. Are we meeting someone at the airport?'

'If that's all right with you.' Her tone was curt

'I only meant that if I knew the line and flight number I could check if the plane is going to be on time.'

'So you could, Arthur. I didn't think of that. It's Air France from Geneva.'

I was in the sunshine of her smile again, the bitch.

There was a restaurant of sorts near the Blue Mosque, and when I had ordered some food I telephoned
Tufan.

He listened to my report without comment until I had finished. 'Very well,' he said then, 'I will see that the passports of the Geneva passengers are particularly noted. Is that all?'

'No.' I started to tell him my theory about the drug operation and its necessary link with a raw opium supplier, but almost at once he began interrupting.

'Have you new facts to support this?'

'It fits the information we have.'

'Any imbecile could think of ways of interpreting the information we have. It is the information we do not have that I am interested in. Your business is to get it, and that
is
all you should be thinking about.’

‘Nevertheless. . ..’

‘You are wasting time. Report by telephone, or as otherwise arranged, and remember your listening times. Now, if that is all, I have arrangements to make.'

The military mind at work! Whether he was right or wrong (and, as it happens, he was both right
and
wrong) made no difference. It was the arrogance of the man I couldn't stand.

I ate a disgusting meal of lukewarm mutton stew and went back to the car. I was angry with myself, too.

I have to admit it; what had really exasperated me was not so much Tufan's anxiety-bred offensiveness as my own realization that the train of thought which had seemed so logical and reasonable the previous night was not looking as logical and reasonable in the morning. My conception of the 'student' Miss Lipp as a laboratory technician was troublesome enough; but speaking again with
Tufan
had reminded me that the villa, which I had so blithely endowed with a clandestine heroin-manufacturing plant, also housed an elderly married couple and a cook. So that, in addition to the time factor improbability, I now had to accept another : either the plant was to be so small that the servants would not notice it, or Harper counted on buying their discretion.

Then, in sheer desperation, I did something rather silly. I felt that I had to know if the grenades and pistols were still
in
the car. If they had been taken out, at least one bit of my theory was still just tenable. I could assume that they had been delivered or were in process of delivery to the persons who wanted them.

I had about twenty minutes to spare before Miss Lipp came out of the Seraglio; but in case she was early I drove the car to the other end of the courtyard under some trees opposite the church of St Irene. Then I got the Phillips 'screwdriver out of my bag and went to work on the door by the driver's seat

I wasn't worried about anyone seeing me. After all, I was only carrying out Tufan's orders. The men in the Opel wouldn't interfere; and, if some cab-driver became inquisitive, I could always pretend that I was having trouble with a door lock. All that mattered was the time, because I had to do it carefully to avoid making marks.

I loosened all the screws carefully first, and then began to remove them. It seemed to take an age. And then a horrible thing happened. Just as I was taking out the last screw but one, I happened to glance up and saw Miss Lipp with the guide walking across the courtyard from the alleyway leading to the Archaeological Museum.

I knew at once that she had seen the car because she was walking straight towards it. She was about two hundred yards away, and on the opposite side of the car to the door I had been working on, but I knew that I couldn't get even one of the screws back in time. Besides, I was not in the place she had told me to be. There was only one thing I could do: stuff the screws and screwdriver into my pocket, start the car, drive around the courtyard to meet her and hope to God the two loose screws would hold the panel in place when I opened the door to get out.

I had one piece of luck. The guide practically fell over-himself opening her door for her, so I didn't have to open the one on my side. I was able to get my apology in at the same time.

'
I'm
sorry, Miss Lipp. I thought you might be visiting the Saint Irene Church and I wanted to save you the walk back.'

That got by all right because she couldn't thank the guide and answer me at the same time. The guide was an unexpected help, too, as he immediately asked her if she would like to see the church, 'pure Byzantine, built in the reign of Justinian, and of great historical interest.'

'I’ll leave that for another time,' she said.

'But you will be here tomorrow,
madame,
when the Treasury Museum is on view?'

‘Well, maybe.'

'Otherwise, it must be Thursday,
madame.
That part and the pictures are on view only two days in the week, when all the other rooms are closed.' He was obviously panting for her to come again. I wondered how much she had tipped him.

'I’ll try and make it tomorrow. Thank you again.' She gave him the smile. To me, she said: "Let's go,'

I drove off. As soon as we got on to the cobbles the panel started to vibrate. I immediately pressed my knees against it and the vibration stopped; but I was really scared now. I didn't think that she would notice that the screws were out; but Fischer or Harper certainly would, and there was this unknown we were going to meet. I knew that I had somehow to replace the screws while the car was at the airport.

'Is the plane on time?' she asked.

A donkey cart came rattling out of a side street at that moment, and I made a big thing of braking and swerving out of its way. I didn't have to pretend that the cart had shaken me up. I was shaken up all right. My call to
Tufan
and the argument with him had made forget completely about calling the airline. I did the best I could.

‘They didn't know of any delay,' I said; ‘but the plane was making an intermediate stop. ‘Would you like me to check again?'

'No, it's not worth it now.’

'Did you enjoy the Seraglio, Miss Lipp?' I thought if I kept talking it might quieten my stomach down a bit.