The Property of a Lady (67 page)

“Where to?”

“The boatyard at Istinye—or what’s left of it. There’s a Russian freighter. The
Leonid Brezhnev
. A big bastard. Anyway, that’s where she is. She never did reach the Kazahns so you can bet your ass that soon they will be looking for her too.”

“She is on board the vessel?”

The Turk nodded and said with a grin, “There are soldiers on the decks and guarding the gangways. It would take an armored attack to get her off that boat, Mr. Steel. My guess is the captain will wait for nightfall and slip away under cover of darkness. Head back to Russia—it’s an easy trip.” He glanced curiously at his employer. He was staring silently into space, his foot still swinging its nervous rhythm.

“Looks like they’ve got you beat,” the Turk offered, tossing back his third
raki
. But the German still stared silently ahead.

“I have found out something else that will interest you,”
he added, “something important. More important than the price you paid me.”

Arnhaldt’s eyes were murderous as they met the Turk’s, and the man felt a prickle of danger up his scalp. The German’s hand slid inside his jacket as if reaching for a gun, but it was a fistful of Deutschmarks he took out and thrust across the table.

“That should be enough for any man’s greed,” Arnhaldt said coldly. “But I warn you, it had better be worth it.”

Pocketing the money, the Turk leaned closer and whispered, “The Kazahn connection you mentioned. I looked into it. There is only one daughter, Ahmet Kazahn’s girl, Leyla. The other cousins are all older and married and live in Turkey. But there was another girl that old Tariq Kazahn always used to call his daughter—a young American girl who lived most of the year in Los Angeles and spent every summer with them. Her name was Anna Adair.”

The name meant nothing and Arnhaldt stared at him impatiently.

“I called a contact in L. A. and had him do some research. He called me back an hour ago. Anna Adair is the step-granddaughter of the old-time movie tycoon C. Z. Abrams. Her mother was the actress Ava Adair. She works as a television reporter in Washington, D. C. He faxed a photo of her—and one of Ava Adair.”

He put the faxes on the tablecloth and Arnhaldt stared at them.

“She changed her name,” the Turk said. “Now she’s called—”

“Genie Reese.”

“Got it in one, as the Americans say.” The Turk grinned. “What next, Mr. Steel?”

Arnhaldt’s mind clicked everything into place as smoothly as the bolts of a safe into their electronic locks. His only hope lay in the Kazahns. They were a proud, loyal family, and once they knew she had been abducted
and was in danger, they would act. “Keep watch on the freighter,” he told the Turk quickly, “and double the watch on the Kazahns. Contact me here
immediately
if there is any action. And I mean
immediately
—not an hour later.”

“Yes, sir!” He stood up. “You know it’ll cost you,” he said cockily.

Arnhaldt eyed him coldly. “And it will cost you—dearly—if you let me down.”

The Turk eyed him uneasily as he left. There was something unpredictable about the German, a brooding violence that he suspected could erupt at any moment.

Arnhaldt watched him go and then he went to his room and looked up the telephone number of Michael Kazahn. He wrote it down on a slip of paper, then walked fifty yards from the hotel to the café square in front of the Blue Mosque.

As usual it was crowded with touts selling carpets and leather jackets to the tourists and small dark-eyed urchins trying to make a quick profit selling postcards no one wanted. After ordering a glass of
cai
, Arnhaldt inspected the scene, searching the crowd until his glance fastened on a young boy, maybe eight years old, a string of postcards dangling from his hand and an anxious look on his face. Raising his hand, he called him over and bought the cards for the six hundred lire the boy asked, even though he knew he would have taken less.

“You like leather jacket?” the kid asked eagerly. “I know best place for buy.”

Arnhaldt shook his head. “You speak English?”

“Sure I spik. All Turkish boys spik Engleesh, French, Italian.” He grinned and added,
“Some
words I spik.”

His eyes widened as Arnhaldt placed a ten-thousand-lire note on the table. He backed off a step or two, afraid of what he wanted, but his eyes were still fastened on it.

“I need to make a telephone call,” Arnhaldt said slowly, “but I do not speak Turkish. I would like you to make the
call for me. To this number.” He showed the boy the paper. The child looked at it and nodded. “You ask for Mr. Michael Kazahn. All you say is ‘Anna is on the
Leonid Brezhnev
at Istinye.’ You repeat this message twice and then put down the telephone.” He looked anxiously at the boy. “You understand?”

“Sure.” His head nodded up and down like an overeager puppet, his eyes still on the big-lire note that was more than he could ever hope to make in six months, even if he worked at the carpet factory.

“Repeat it,” Arnhaldt commanded.

“I ask for Mr. Michael Kazahn. I tell him Anna is on the
Leonid Brezhnev
at Istinye.” His hand hovered over the note.

Arnhaldt’s fist closed over it first.
“After
the telephone call,” he said.

The first telephone booth was out of order, and the second. “I know a shop,” the kid said, heading back up the street and into a small grocery. A tiny goat nibbled at Arnhaldt’s heels as the boy ran in, handed over his token, and asked to use the phone. Arnhaldt kicked away the goat, watching as he dialed the number and asked for Michael Kazahn. There was a wait and then the boy said his message excitedly in Turkish, repeated it quickly, and slammed down the telephone. He emerged from the shop, holding out his hand, and Arnhaldt slid the note into his sticky palm.

“Thank you, thank you, sir. You very good,” the boy called after him as Arnhaldt strode quickly away.

All he could do for the moment was wait.

Refika Kazahn noticed that her husband’s hand trembled as he put down the phone. He walked to the window of their big modern hilltop villa and stared down at the Bosphorus, bustling with ferries and the day-to-day business of European and Russian shipping.

Refika watched him, a little frown of anxiety creasing
her brow. She knew Michael Kazahn’s every mood: Earlier he had been angry, excited, full of nervous energy, but now, after that telephone call, he looked a deeply troubled man. More than that—he looked like an
old
man. Age was something he never acknowledged, but it was a fact. They had grown old together, and their long marriage had been one of two strong individuals bonded by a deep love and respect for each other. In all those years she had never once referred to the fact that he had a crippled leg; he had always ignored his disability and therefore so had she. It had never mattered. Like his father, Michael was dynamic, larger than life, and his strange swinging walk only added to his vivid character. She watched him pityingly as he searched for his cane and then limped back across the room and sat down heavily beside her.

He said quietly, “The telephone call was from a boy. He said Anna is on the
Leonid Brezhnev
at Istinye. Obviously someone paid him to give me the message.”

Refika stared at him anxiously. “But
who?
And
why?”

“I wish I knew. They must have abducted her from the airport as she arrived.” He groaned. “Why didn’t she telephone and tell us she was coming? How the hell am I going to get her out of this one?”

“You cannot do it alone,” Refika said quickly. “You need help. Call the foreign minister. Call the police. Call the
Americans
. Get her off that boat, Michael, or for certain they will sail to Russia with her tonight.”

Michael stared at the portrait of his father and mother on the opposite wall. Tariq looked fierce and proud in his naval uniform and the diminutive Han-Su as fragile as a Chinese sparrow in her
cheongsam
.

“What would you have done, eh, Father?” he bellowed. Then he laughed. “You would have listened to your wife, Han-Su,” he answered, “just as you always did.” He smiled at Refika. “And I should always listen to mine.”

He telephoned Ahmet, told him quickly what had happened,
and asked him to come over right away. Then he made three other rapid calls. Within half an hour four men arrived for a meeting at the Villa Kazahn: the foreign minister, Malik Guisen; the chief of police, Mehmet Keliç; the American consul, Jim Herbert; and Ahmet Kazahn.

Refika sat quietly by the window overlooking the Bosphorus, listening to their conversation. Her face was calm but inside she was in a turmoil. Anna was like one of her own children, and if anything happened to her she would die too. If only the foolish girl had come to them they would willingly have given her the money for Missie and none of this would have happened. But Anna had always been a stubborn child, proud of her independence and the career she was carving out for herself. She glanced anxiously at Michael, noticing the change in him. He was no longer the broken old man of an hour ago. He was upright, charged with the old electric energy that had carried him through a lifetime of crises. If anyone could get Anna back, Michael could.

Guisen, the foreign minister, said worriedly, “It is true the Russian freighter is in Turkish waters and subject to Turkish maritime laws, but if we are to confront them and insist on a search as you wish, Michael, we must be very sure the girl is on board. If we are wrong this could cause a major international incident—one that Turkey does not need.”

“I have had the ship checked. There are armed guards at the top of both gangplanks and they are wearing Russian army uniforms.
Spetsnaz
uniforms.” Michael’s voice rang out with confidence. “I
am sure.”

The American consul, Jim Herbert, sighed. “The girl is an American citizen. Something must be done to find her. But as Guisen pointed out, none of us needs an international incident. If those are
Spetsnaz
troopers then they are obviously there to guard something—or someone—very important. Either way, I think Turkey has a right to
ask a few questions. I’ll speak to Washington and take instructions.”

Michael pointed to the telephone. “Call now, Mr. Herbert. There is no time to be lost.”

“Anna arrived on a British Airways flight from Heathrow,” Ahmet said. “She passed through immigration and spoke to one of the customs officers who knows her. He watched her leave but lost sight of her in a crowd of men. They seemed to be jostling her. He walked across to see what was going on but by the time he got to the doors, she had gone. He just assumed she had taken a taxi and left.” He added quietly, “There is no doubt the Russians abducted Anna from the airport. You all know the reasons why. The next logical thing for them to do would be to take her back to Russia. What easier way than by freighter? They travel up the Bosphorus to Russia every day of the week. No one thinks twice about it. It’s obvious they will wait for nightfall and then try to slip away unnoticed.”

They glared at Jim Herbert, who had returned from his phone call subdued. He looked grave as he told them of the events in Washington and that Cal Warrender of the State Department was already on his way there and should arrive late that night. He hesitated—he wasn’t about to disclose the presence of American CIA agents on Turkish soil—and said only, “Washington agrees that the girl must be on board the
Brezhnev
. They offer full support in any action Turkey wishes to take, though naturally they will respect your feelings in the matter.”

“It seems to me that if we are to stay away from an international incident, it would be better to let the police deal with this matter,” Chief Keliç said crisply.

Guisen nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe we could give the Russians an out by saying we think one of the sailors has smuggled a girl on board. If they return her, nothing more will be said about the matter.”

“And if they don’t?” Michael asked.

He shrugged. “Then we must insist on a search.” He sighed. “We will try the civilized approach first and pray we do not have to go further.”

Guisen was a tall man but, even so, Michael towered over him. “I am giving you warning,” he said tersely, “that if you fail I shall take matters into my own hands. Anna must be found
before it is too late.”

The four men stared at him in silence. They knew what he really meant was
“before she is killed.”

Guisen glanced inquiringly at the police chief. He nodded and said quietly, “You have my permission to do whatever is necessary.”

Michael and Refika watched as the men filed from the room and then they looked at each other. “Well?” he asked.

She nodded, “It is as you said. If their plan does not work you must take matters into your own hands.”

Genie opened her eyes. At least she thought she had opened them, but it was just as dark as when they were shut. She blinked but it made no difference. She twisted from side to side searching for light, but there was nothing. Pain rippled through her head and she groaned, struggling through the layers of fog swirling in her brain to understand why she could not put her hands up to touch it. But it was no good, her brain just didn’t seem to be working.

It was hot and airless and the darkness pressed against her eyeballs. Her spine crawled as she remembered all the old horror stories about nuns buried alive behind stone convent walls and of people suffering from a rare form of paralysis, unable to scream as they were placed in their coffins and the lids nailed down….

Her screams sounded small in the blackness, thin with terror, but no one came running to help her. There was no one to hear her. Sobbing with fear, she tried to sit up, but her hands were stuck behind her and her feet joined
at the ankles in a most peculiar way…. And then it dawned on her:
She was tied up
.

She lay back exhausted, searching for a breath of fresh air in the fetid darkness, but it was like breathing cotton. Tears pricked her eyes as she struggled to remember what had happened. At first all she could recall was getting off the British Airways flight from Heathrow; then, as her head began to clear a little, she slowly unscrambled the sequence of events.