The Star of Istanbul (35 page)

58

Funny how this kind of thing sometimes works. We didn't kill our captive Huns, and as a direct result—while Arshak was off getting the ropes and I stared at the field-gray colonel blending into the ­shadows—my plan refined itself. I had Ströder remove his uniform, and after Arshak—who had learned some things in his working time at the London Docks—did some fancy knots on our two boys, I turned myself into a German army colonel.

The uniform fit pretty well. The hat was a bit small, but it squeezed on okay. The Luger in its holster and a magazine pouch were strapped to my waist. And just as the Mercedes headlights died, I carefully stripped off the gauze bandage from my left cheek.

“You're pretty frightening in that costume,” Arshak said as I approached him.

I turned my face so he could see the scar in the starlight.

“Mother of God,” he said. “Is that makeup?”

“No.”

“Where'd you get it?”

“Long story,” I said. “Let's go.”

“The battery went dead.”

“We'll catch a taxi,” I said.

And I quickly explained where we had to go, what we had to do. To his credit, the ham took direction pretty well and we were off in the Unic.

We parked around the corner from the hotel, beside the iron fence along the public gardens. Arshak and I gave a wordless nod to each other and I got out and walked back down the street and approached the hotel. I ran an iron rod up my back and played my role, returning the salute of a major emerging from the front hotel doors, and I passed into the lobby and kept my eyes forward, looking at no one, walking briskly.

I approached the elevator, which had just arrived at the ground floor. The wooden and glass doors of the car opened and a man in a suit took the couple of steps to the outer cast-iron gate and pushed it open. I drew near.

It was the colonel from down the hall, the guy in uniform and
Pickelhaube
that Lucine and I followed into the hotel upon our arrival.

He took another step and still I wasn't registering on him and now we were about to pass and he focused on my face and then on my epaulet pips and then on my scar and then on my face—all in very rapid succession. And he stopped. The officers I'd encountered so far were of lesser rank. This guy was my equal and it was his business to know other full colonels in town. Maybe he thought he knew them all.

I brazened on by him with a little nod—he was in mufti, after all, and if he didn't know me, I didn't know him. I took another step beyond him and was about to pass through the art nouveau proscenium that led to the elevator carriage.

And the colonel said, “Colonel?”

I stopped and I turned and I said to the colonel, “Colonel.”

I figured he had a strong hunch I wasn't a colonel.

I could see in his eyes that indeed he did think he knew all the colonels.

Maybe he was even in the process of placing my face as the man who'd followed him into the hotel thirty-six hours ago. He'd seemed to look past or through me in my couple of encounters with him, but he might simply have been cagily observant.

I kept my eyes on him but turned my face slightly to the right, thoughtfully, as if I were trying to figure out where I knew him from. In the process, I reminded him of the
Schmiss
he'd noticed a few moments ago.

This drew him away from the broader face recognition he'd been attempting. It was a big thing to a man like him, this university fencing scar. It was a nobleman's badge of courage.

His eyes were still on it.

He had no such scar.

I smiled and chuckled patronizingly. “Heidelberg,” I said.

He clicked his heels.

After all, even if he recognized me, what had he seen me do yesterday? I'd simply checked into the hotel dressed as he was now. And with a beautiful woman.

“I am sorry to be out of uniform,” he said. “They've asked us to look like civilians when we are off duty. I am Colonel Conrad Lüdike.”

I clicked my heels and flipped him a courtesy salute. He was flattered, giving an ardently crisp salute in return.

Then we shook hands with Germanic fervor.

“You are new to Constantinople,” he said.

“I am. Let's soon have a drink together, Colonel,” I said. “And we can speak of it.”

“Yes,” he said. “By all means.”

And he continued the handshake.

“And now if you'll excuse me,” I said, gently extracting my hand.

“Of course,” he said, bowing at the waist.

“Perhaps tomorrow,” I said.

“Of course.”

And I turned my back on him and stepped through the iron door and across the carpet and into the elevator carriage, and I stopped in the center of the floor.

I turned.

Colonel Lüdike was already passing into the Kubbeli salon, and I let out a breath I hadn't even realized I'd been holding. “
Der fünfte Fußboden,
” I said to the operator.

And I was on the fifth floor.

I walked briskly, stifling the urge to run.

I passed Lucine's room.

I arrived at my door. I went in.

I would not be back, I realized. I'd be either dead or on the USS
Scorpion
before this night was through.

Too bad. I'd lose my third Corona Portable Number 3 in barely more than year.

I pulled my valise out of the wardrobe and set it on the bed.

I extracted the false bottom.

I pulled out the sawed-off and reshaped Winchester. I screwed the silencer into the muzzle. I laid the weapon on the bed and I put all the .22 Long heavies from the box into the two lower side pockets of my tunic.

I removed the remaining documents and stuffed them into the inner tunic pockets. No tracks left behind.

All that remained at the bottom of the valise were a few sets of whiskers and a bottle of spirit gum.

The German officer persona would help me in making progress through the villa. But it was possible
Der Wolf
was waiting with Enver Pasha. I figured I might find myself, in my improvisation, needing a little delay time before I was recognized. He'd seen my face. The revealed scar was not enough.

I removed a Kaiser Wilhelm uptwitched mustache—a good one, densely tied onto sheer lace in two parts—and the screw-stoppered bottle of spirit gum, and I stepped into the bathroom.

I turned the electrical switch and stood before the mirror.

I took one bracing glance into my own eyes, shaded beneath the brim of the peaked cap. I removed the cap and laid it aside. I gave myself one last look. My eyes again. And then the scar: that too was mine. It was
me
. Let anyone else interpret it as they would. I'd earned it.

I got to work. I brushed on spirit gum and applied the two parts of the mustache, leaving the central hollow of the lip appropriately naked. Done. I dropped the bottle into the basin.

I pressed my officer's cap onto my head.

I strode to the bed. I picked up my Winchester 1902, which had been mutilated and hushed into a deadly frame of mind. A one-handed weapon, all right, but not a small thing. I had to pass across the salon and lobby of this hotel.

I still had the leather portfolio Metcalf had given me in London. I retrieved it from the Gladstone in the wardrobe, and I stuck the Winchester inside, on the diagonal. I put the portfolio under my arm and went out of the room and down the staircase—hotfooting the steps—and through the salon, reining myself in now, making myself slow down. I should not draw attention, though the brain in my head and the heart in my chest were pounding at me to rush, to run, but I walked, briskly purposeful but controlled, across the lobby and out the door and to the left and to the corner and to the right and across the street and I was walking faster now and the Unic was ahead and I wrenched the passenger door open and slid in next to Arshak.

He reared back at my mustache. “Mother of God,” he said.

“She's far away tonight,” I said.

And we drove off.

59

We made the best time we could down the Grand Rue, quiet for now, Arshak concentrating on rushing without killing the oblivious pedestrians, me catching my breath.

The streets loosened up after Taksim.

And Arshak said, “So what's the plan?”

I said, “I only caught a glimpse of the place. Two guards at the front entrance. I don't know what's inside. But whatever it is, I need to get as far as I can without letting anyone know I'm coming. As soon as the audible shooting starts, Lucine's in immediate danger.”

“As opposed to inaudible shooting?”

“Exactly. I've got a silencer.”

I pulled out the Winchester now and dropped the portfolio beneath my feet.

Arshak whistled between his teeth.

“The problem,” I said, “is that it's a single-shot.”

“I want to go in with you,” he said.

“The uniform is the best trick we have to make this silent. You're a walking red flag.”

“What can I do?”

“Stay at the front gate after I get in. Take care of anyone arriving from outside. And when you hear a shot, come find me.”

“All right.”

“Not till then,” I said.

“I understand,” Arshak said. “Lucine first.”

“Yes.”

“If Lucine can't do what she came to do . . .” Arshak said, breaking off briefly. “I hope you won't let my daughter die in vain.”

I knew what he meant. He wanted me to kill Enver Pasha.

“I intend to save her,” I said. Indeed, that was the only intention I had at the moment. Whatever else might happen remained to be seen.

He did not reply. I wondered if he'd heard my own reply as a simple
no.
Wondered too, if it came to be a mutually exclusive proposition, whether he would prefer to lose his daughter if it meant killing Enver Pasha.

But that was all we said as we ran through Ortakiöi—I was getting to know this route quite well—and we headed up the shore.

And then, at last, the road took that curve to the right and moved closer to the water and then straightened.

Arshak and I glanced at each other. We both recognized the approach to Enver Pasha's villa.

And now we saw a bright flare of electric light up ahead.

“Drive past into the dark,” I said.

We kept up our speed and approached the villa.

I watched carefully as we neared.

The villa's second story and peaked roof were visible in the spill of electricity, and I focused on the entrance to the grounds. Two Germans were standing with rifles slung over their shoulders, one on each side of an open iron double-wide gate. They were confident. They were still expecting Ströder.

We flashed by and they hardly glanced our way.

And now we were in the dark.

Arshak slowed immediately.

“This is good,” I said, and we pulled off onto the side of the road in front of a stand of cypress.

Arshak shut down the engine and extinguished the lights.

We got out of the Unic and came around to the rear and stood shoulder to shoulder looking back at the villa, maybe seventy yards away.

I said, very low, “Hang back in the dark till I finish with the guards at the gate.”

I took one big breath of air and puffed it out.

I crossed the road to the tree line and approached the villa low and quick. Just before the penumbra of streetlight I drew back into the trees and eased up and took a good look.

Thirty yards away two armed men flanked the entrance. In order to silently take them both out I had a single-shot Winchester with a minimum of seven or eight seconds between rounds. And the guy on the left was only partially visible from my present angle. I could go deeper into the woods and come forward from tree to tree till I had a hidden, straight shot at both of them. Play the sniper. While the second Hun figured out why his comrade just fell down, I might be able to reload and take him out before he knew how to react. But maybe not. Maybe he'd throw off some generalized field-of-fire shots right away. Or he could duck out of sight.

I thought of a better way; better for Lucine.

I had an open, direct look at the guard on the right. I retreated into the dark and then out to the verge of the road. I collected the three largest manageably throwable stones I could find, ranging in size from chicken egg to baseball. I crept back to my previous just-out-of-the-light position, which was about even with the near end of the villa wall, and I waited for the two men to have their faces turned away from my direction. Then I stood up straight and squared around to the wall and I threw the middle-sized stone over and into the grounds, hoping to hit something that would make a sound.

I watched the two men.

They lifted their heads, but it wasn't clear they'd heard anything.

I threw the egg-sized stone into the same general area. And then, immediately, the largest one.

This time I had their attention.

They looked back into the villa grounds.

They exchanged a quick word and the man on my left disappeared.

I pulled the hammer back on my Winchester and held my shooting arm straight down and I strode forward into the light, keeping the weapon out of sight.

I took two quick, long steps and a third before the remaining guard turned his face to me.

I was a German officer heading his way out of the night. The guard's rifle was coming off his shoulder, but slow. I was fast now, striding. The guard was crazy confused, trying to figure me out. Should he salute or should he raise his rifle and stop me?

Another stride.

This would be an easy shot now.

I drew my hand from behind me and lifted the Winchester and the guard's eyes went wide and he was rushing the rifle off his shoulder and I had the Winchester on him and I squeezed off a round and there was almost no kick at all and there was no recognizable sound, just a faint hiss and rush, and the center of the guard's chest bloomed and sprayed and he flew back and his rifle clattered into the gate and already I was dodging to the left out of immediate sight—the other guard must have heard, was surely turning now and would soon be looking for me—and I grabbed the lug and slid the bolt and popped the cartridge case and I stuck a fresh round into the breech and I could hear the other guard running, he was almost at the gate, and I took two steps into the street so I could have an angle on him, as I closed the bolt and pulled back the hammer, doing this with my back to the entrance, the Winchester hidden from view, relying on my uniform and my back to delay the guard, and I heard the Hun scuffle into the open behind me and I lifted my left arm and pointed to the woods.

“It came from over there, Sergeant,” I said, looking at him over my shoulder, and he was hesitating, he was turning his face the way I was pointing and I kept my eyes on him and I was already swinging my right arm across my body and under my left arm and I squeezed off a round that caught him in the left side of the chest, maybe straight into the heart because he went down heavy, like he was gone instantly.

I squared around to the entrance. But I didn't move. The two guards were very still. The two guards were dead. I breathed deep and I let it out. I reloaded the Winchester as if there was no one lying on the ground before me. As if I had nowhere to go. If I'd reloaded in seven seconds a few moments ago, this was a leisurely fifteen. And I wondered if other eyes had been watching the entrance, from inside the house.

Apparently not, as I waited there in the road. No sound whatsoever came from behind the wall.

I had to expect more resistance inside the villa, but I figured I could at least get to the front door without drawing fire.

I pulled my Winchester's hammer and cocked it. I liked this tough guy who nonetheless knew how to keep his mouth shut when he chewed.

And Arshak appeared beside me.

He must have followed me to the edge of the light.

He didn't say a word.

I didn't say a word.

He nodded.

I moved off quick, crossing to the entrance and stepping between the dead guards and through the open gate. The villa was done in a toned-down Italian style with no Renaissance frills. The basics but tasteful: two stories elevated on a terrace with a low-pitched, wide-eaved tile roof, a central court, and an arcaded, ground-floor loggia. The place was all white stucco tainted yellow in the electric light like dog piss in snow.

I went up the steps and across the courtyard, moving quietly and with my Winchester held low. I passed into the shadow of the loggia and approached the front door, which showed light within, and now it was time—since I'd not caught anyone's attention—for me to act a little suspicious.

I crouched and spanked past the first set of windows to the left of the door. I pressed back against the wall and then gave just enough of my face to the glass to see inside.

I was looking down a wide, central grand hall that stretched from the front door to a far set of veranda doors. The hall was lit by dim-burning electric faux-torches on sconces, and outside, at the far end, I could dimly see the columns and arches of a corresponding Bosporus-side loggia.

I looked to the right, closer to the door, and I flinched back.

But they did not see me and I needed to watch them: two more German guards, one tapping a cigarette halfway out of a pack and letting the other take it. The second soldier said something and headed for his post at the rear of the villa.

The first German began to turn in my direction and I pulled back. I waited a few moments. I peeked again. He was sitting on a stool, just inside the front door. I glanced the length of the hall. The second guard was outside, closing the veranda doors behind him.

I kept low and crept away from the window and moved a couple of paces out of the loggia. Then I turned and approached the house again, doing nothing to muffle my steps.

I was a German officer. And as far as these house guards knew, I'd been admitted by the entrance guards.

I stood before the door, and I lifted my left hand and knocked very lightly.

I heard a stirring inside.

Perhaps they knew to expect someone.

The door began to open and I backed two steps away and raised my right arm.

I told myself that if there were any way to reliably knock this man out and keep him out till I rescued Lucine, I would do that.

The door opened and the guard's face was shrouded in shadow and I was glad for that and he had not unshouldered his weapon—they were indeed expecting visitors and they were not expecting trouble—and I squeezed the Winchester's trigger and he flew back and landed hard on the floor, his body thumping and his rifle clattering.

I stepped out of the sight line of the door and reloaded the Winchester and cocked the hammer.

I did not put my body in front of the door but leaned and looked inside.

The guard was silent, though his feet were moving ever so slightly, as if he were having a dream about running. Perhaps he was. He would soon arrive.

The far veranda doors were shut.

No one was in the hall.

I moved forward, sidestepping the body, and I walked quickly along, vaguely aware of oil paintings and divans along the walls, but I kept my eyes forward and my Winchester behind my thigh.

I arrived at the veranda doors and opened one and stepped out, staying in the spill of electric light so I could clearly be seen and identified as an officer. As far as this last guard knew, I'd been certified by three of his comrades.

He was emerging now from the shadows to my left. He stopped and straightened and he clicked his heels and saluted.

I brought my right hand up and across my body and shot him in the center of his chest, and as he was going down I turned and strode back through the veranda doors and toward the front of the villa. I stopped in the middle of the grand hall.

To my right was an archway into the north end of the house, to my left an archway to the south end of the house. Either would do. I strongly suspected anyone else in the place was upstairs.

I lifted the Winchester. I looked at it for a moment. It seemed quite odd to my eye all of a sudden. Too long for a pistol, with the sawed-off rifle barrel and then the silencer. Quite long. But I did what I needed to do with it to prepare for whoever was next: bolt, breech, casing, shell, bolt, hammer. It was ready to fire.

And I found myself panting.

This also struck me as odd.

It wasn't fear. It wasn't about what I intended to do next.

Maybe not so odd: it was about what I'd been doing for the past few minutes.

It was about the knack.

It had been some months since I'd killed a man.

No, it hadn't.

I'd killed in London as well.

Before
that
it had been some months.

And before that not at all.

And now I could do it four times in rapid succession with very little thought and no remorse.

Unless this was remorse, what I was doing now.

But these were soldiers I'd killed. And I'd seen worse. I saw it in Nicaragua and I saw it in Macedonia and Greece. Sanctioned by nations and cheered by the victors' countrymen.

And I saw worse still: down a well in an empty village a few miles north of where I now stood.

Was I not killing for them, the slaughtered innocents? And for my own country? For Lucine? For her, of course. For Selene Bourgani. For that face ten feet high in a darkened auditorium. I was killing for the future of American cinema. For this odd and mostly remorseless thrill. What bullshit. Well, some of it wasn't bullshit. Some of it was true. Maybe all of it was true.

It made no difference. This was my role.

So I chose the archway on the north and stepped through it, and in the darkness to my right was a staircase that ascended to a landing and then—out of my sight—turned toward the front of the house and continued up to the second floor.

I moved to the stairs. I began to climb.