Assignment- 13th Princess Page 10

They hid like animals and they killed like animals as they passed successfully from one partisan band to the next, working their way south through Yugoslavia and then east, across Greece to neutral Turkey. Even then, they had to be smuggled into the British Mandate that was Palestine.

  Ethan had been ten years old when their trek started. He was twelve, and the war was over, when they arrived in Tel Aviv.

  Later, he had fought with the Palmach commandos of the Jewish underground against the British. At fifteen, he had been a machine gunner in the war for independence —his father had died in that conflict.

  In the 1956 Sinai Campaign, Ethan had served as a combat intelligence specialist, and he went from that into the dark, unceasing danger of espionage and counterintelligence.

  Fear had been eradicated as nearly as humanly possible from the mentality of Major Ethan Rabinovitch—so it was not fear, either, that had troubled him as he lay in the dark cabin with the wind moaning outside.

  He was worried about Dara.

  He knew she was highly competent and fully qualified for her job. But the work of this young, fiery Sabra against Black September and its terrorist allies in Sweden and Paris had been nothing compared with this assignment behind Arab lines. For four years Ethan had brought her along in the business, carefully matching her tasks to her growing skills, and she had sought tougher and tougher missions each time.

  But now, he did not know. . . .

  Dara was almost like a daughter to the bulldoggish, bitter-eyed man.

  When he had heard the distant bark of guns, he’d told himself that it was foolish and irrational to suppose that she was out there in the dark streets. She would be somewhere safely in the orbit of the Cajun, in whom he had supreme confidence. The gunfire, he told himself, was just another flare-up of the street violence that had been turning this torn and smoking capital upside down for the last twenty-four hours.

  His thick, muscular legs swung off the bunk, still clad in the white sailor’s gown, and he hit the switch of his radio channel scanner.

  “Sir?” Chaim awakened to the scramble of static.

  “It’s nothing. I couldn’t sleep,” the major replied.

  A moment passed. Then the radio spoke in Arabic: “Resident reports subjects south of Huwaimil Souk, moving west."

  A crackling silence. Chaim sat up, hard rib-flesh rippling beneath his unbuttoned vest of gold cloth. He sounded concerned. “Do you think they are ours, sir?”

  Major Rabinovitch’s voice was gruff. “There’s no reason to.”

  “It’s just another disturbance.” Chaim yawned as the scanner hissed and sputtered. “Care for some coffee, sir?”

  The major waved him to silence as another Arabic voice spoke. But it was too late, and he missed the meaning of the transmission. He vented a growl of frustration.

  Another fragment. “. . . believed to be in the vicinity of Ghaziyah Boulevard. . .

  A wave of unease engulfed the major as he realized the chase had neared the old harbor, where the Nedji was moored. He sat on his bunk heavily, and his lips creased into a frown.

  “There haven’t been any more shots,” Chaim said. “It could be looters, anybody. I think I’ll put on the coffee.”

  ". . . said he saw them approach Ghaziyah Boulevard. Are the troops on station?” The voice had an English or American accent. Major Rabinovitch knew of Pat McNamara. The intelligence chief would not be involved in any ordinary chase.

  He told Chaim to forget the coffee. “Break out the binoculars,” he said, sounding tired and irritable. His tone might have been an attempt to cover the apprehension that touched his eyes.

  He took the binoculars and climbed out of the dark cabin. The sky was milky with stars, and the breeze soughed around the mast and long lateen yard. He needed no glasses to see the troops as they spread out along the thinly lighted boulevard. The thoroughfare was on an embankment some eight feet above the pier where the Nedji was moored, and the soldiers stood out like a row of stakes.

  Somehow the major knew that Dara was in the dark shadows beyond the boulevard. He pressed the glasses to his eye's, thumbed the focus knob, saw nothing in a scan of the black street entrances, where they opened onto the thoroughfare. He cursed the robe that bound up his legs as he crouched, yanked it loose and settled to his . knees on the poop. Again he peered through the masts and bowsprits between the Nedji and the pale luminesence of the avenue, the glasses trembling slightly in his hands.

  The scanner hissed a snatch of Arabic: ". . . a yellow-haired foreign woman with him. . ."

  The words came on a soft electronic breath that jolted the Israeli major with triphammer force. He had known the truth but had not wished to believe it. Now he had no choice. His face showed nothing. He kept his gaze on the boulevard and pursed his lips in thought.

  Not only were Dara and the Cajun out there—they were leading the enemy to his spy ship. He judged that only the most extreme necessity had pushed them to risk revealing everything. He had to weigh that against the possible loss of the Nedji with her secret gear and codes. He reached a decision instantly.

  Tactics now required the sacrifice of a pawn.

  Major Rabinovitch bent to the ebony hole that was the hatch opening. “Chaim?” he called softly.

  “Sir?”

  “Hand up the Uzi ”

  Starlight greased the flanged sights of the submachine gun as Chaim’s hand thrust the stubby weapon into the open.

  “I heard; the transmission, sir. I want to come with you.” Chaim’s voice managed to combine diffidence with the desert-thorn toughness that had seen him through a life of uncertainty and conflict.

  “Denied.” The major’s voice was flat, his eyes still on the boulevard. He did not think he had much time. “Cast off and hold her against the pier with the diesel,” he said. “Be ready to get under way immediately.”

  He heard the diesel crank up as he hopped to the heavy timbers of the pier and went with silent, hurried stride through the night toward the boulevard. The palace clock was an orange moon that hung over his left shoulder. It was ten after two. A rat scuttered along a mooring rope. Down under the water something twisted and showed a sickly flash of light.

  The soldiers were not watching the dark pier.

  Their eyes were aimed across the boulevard, toward the city, as he threw himself flat on the rough planks. He did not feel the splinters that seared the heels of his hands. Every sense was concentrated on the job that he must do when Dara and the Cajun broke cover toward him.

  In two leaping strides, Durell reached the middle of the open traffic lanes, his body thrown forward and eyes fastened on the lip of the embankment that led to the Nedji’s pier. Dara was somewhere behind, a rush of breath and a patter of heels. The nearest soldier was about seventy-five yards down the street to Durell’s left. The corner of Durell’s eye caught a startled motion down there, and a shout of alert punctured the night, and then the flat, spiteful stammering of automatic rifle fire. He yanked his head into his shoulders and strained for the shelter beyond the embankment, three quick bounds away.

  Bullets spanged against the pavement, shrilled through the sky, puffed, sparked, and hollowed the air in crazy ricochets.

  Durell tumbled over the verge, into the shadows, and the impact of the fall crushed the breath out of him. His gut hurt so much he could not move for a second. Through the pain he was aware of Dara rolling down the incline, maybe dead, maybe alive, her ripped dress flapping and twisting around her thighs.

  Durell scrambled up, kicking sand.

  With a quick sense of relief, he saw Dara’s hand reach up for a lift. He yanked her violently to her feet, ran to the pier and leaped onto its boards, headed for the Nedji. He outdistanced the slower woman, but he could not afford to wait or worry as the soldiers dashed in pursuit.

  The soldiers fired wildly, on the run.

  The slugs made wicked whishing sounds, like steel wires whipped against the wind.

  Major Rabinovitch saw Durell thu
mping toward him with Dara a few yards behind and held his fire. He had watched and waited cooly as they lunged across the boulevard and down the embankment. He had lain very still and quiet in the middle of the pier as they ran along the beach and mounted the pier, the soldiers scampering after them, up on the boulevard.

  The Uzi had a relatively short range. He knew he must not waste his chance.

  Oddly, he did not concern himself with Dara now, or even the success of the mission, which was more important than any of them. Something else kept going through his mind, the story of Masada, a great Jewish fortress whose thousand defenders, men, women, and children, outnumbered six-to-one by the battle-hardened Roman Tenth Legion, had killed themselves rather than submit to defeat at the end of a three-year seige in 73 a.d.

  Every graduate of Israel’s military academy, including Major Ethan Rabinovitch, had taken an oath: “Masada shall not fall again.”

  The soldiers were on the pier now, far back of Dara and the Cajun. The timbers shook under the commotion, as the major pulled the cocking handle of the Uzi to the rear and squeezed the grip safety.

  Then Durell’s big frame loomed above, almost ran over him, jerked back.

  Major Rabinovitch’s voice was gruff and urgent: “Keep going. Get to the boat!”

  Durell hesitated only a fraction and was gone.

  Dara came next, all out of breath. “Ethan!” she cried, amid the hum of bullets.

  “Keep moving!” the major bellowed with frantic insistence.

  Now he was alone again, as the soldiers came on in a solid mass down the sluice of the pier. He couldn’t miss if he tried, he thought grimly, and squeezed the trigger. Soldiers caught by surprise lurched, pitched, and tumbled, the ones bringing up the rear turning to run for the shore, followed by efficient, deadly bursts from the Uzi.

  But the armored car had snorted to the verge of the embankment, and its turret-mounted 7.62 mm. began ripping down the pier toward the Israeli major’s muzzle flashes.

  Durell had reached the Nedji when he glanced back and saw the car’s spotlight cast a ring of white brilliance around Rabinovitch. The major lurched up to a defiant bulldog stance, fired again, and screamed something.

  All Durell could make out was, “Masada.”

  Major Ethan Rabinovitch died then in a whirlwind of lead and flying splinters.

  Durell jumped aboard the Nedji as Dara ran out of the darkness, winded, mouth slack and trembling. She scrambled over the gunwale, and he shouted to Chaim: “Cast off!”

  “The major—” Chaim began.

  “The major didn’t make it,” Durell said. He pulled Dara’s shivering body down below the shelter of the gunwale as the sleek zarook slid away into the blowing night. “Don’t look back,” he said.

  She spoke in a low, tight voice. “We always look back, we Jews. It’s what keeps us going, but maybe you wouldn’t understand.” Her long hazel eyes held a shell of tears that did not fall.

  Durell knew the story of Masada, but all he said was: “Rabinovitch made his own choice.”

  Chaim came up. “We’re out of the harbor, Mr. Durell.”

  He surveyed the darkness that surrounded them. “I think we sneaked out without being seen. What course do you want to set?”

  “Fifty-five degrees will do. If we can catch Task Force Talon, it will pick us up—once in its vicinity, you can home in on its command frequency, it’s not under radio silence. If we miss it, we should raise the coast of Iran by noon. My people will take care of us there.”

  “And then?” Dara questioned.

  Durell’s eyes turned dark and thoughtful. “And then on to Istanbul to find the Thirteenth Princess. Dhubar’s oil is absolutely vital to the U.S. Without it, our economy disintegrates, and the Sixth Fleet is just so much junk.”

  “Have you considered that may be what she wants?”

  Durell stared at Dara for a moment. Then he said: “Want it or not, she’s going to clear us with Sheik Zeid— before he turns off the spigot.”

  Chapter 13

  “Something moved down there,” Dara told Durell. “Where?”

  “Second window from the left.”

  “Can you make it out?”

  She rested her elbows on the bank of the gully, steadied the binoculars and peered down past rooftops

  at Princess Nadine’s red-tiled yali. “It’s gone now. It was somebody.”

  “Keep watching.”

  “How’s your leg?” Dara asked from behind the glasses.

  “Adequate,” Durell said. He had managed to put out of his mind the wound he had suffered the night before in Dhubar, but her mention brought a dull ache to his awareness. He worked at forgetting it again, considering he had more immediate problems of survival—Dhubaran intelligence, Interpol, possibly Turkish Security.

  Until he came up with the Thirteenth Princess, and lots of explanations, he was little better off than a criminal on the run.

  And he needn’t expect due process of law, if caught— just a bullet in the head or the crashing impact of a speeding truck.

  He brushed grit from his palms and stood up, aware that the torn muscle of his left thigh had stiffened somewhat beneath the naval doctor’s neat stitching. The gully was in the shade now, but he could have wished it cooler. Its torrent-smoothed stones radiated heat gathered earlier from the sun, and the sky still was hot and yellow. Flies flitted about a summer-thin trickle of water that slid soundlessly over green slime. He swung his gaze from the blue glare of the Bosporus and scrutinized a narrow street above the stone culvert behind him. He decided he was reasonably well shielded from view and looked back down the steep hill, where the wealthy hid their villas among cypresses and poplars. Nearby was the Valley of Galleys, where Mehmet the Conquerer’s men had hauled their fighting ships from the Bosporus overland to the chain-blocked Golden Horn, outwitting the defenders of Constantinople in 1453. Dolmabahce Sarayi, the Victorian-oriental extravaganza that was the last palace of the Ottoman sultans, was down there by the water’s edge now. Further up the eighteen-mile waterway that connected the Black Sea with the Sea of Marmara was the great span of the Bosporus suspension bridge. Commuters’ cars, bound for Uskudar or Vanikoy on the Asian side, shared lanes with long-distance trackers from London and Teheran. In the opposite direction gleaming domes and graceful minarets brooded over old Istanbul.

  “How much longer must we do this?” Dara asked.

  Impatience showed through the heat flush on her freckled face.

  “An hour, two hours. As long as it takes. I’d like to be sure she’s alone before I go down.”

  “What if she owns both the Alfa and the Continental parked in her drive?”

  “Just be patient. Give me the glasses. Take a break.”

  “Wait.” The soft lines of Dara’s figure hardened attentively beneath her button-belted linen skirt. She wore an open-necked white blouse and a madras plaid jacket. “Someone’s coming out. It’s Prince Tahir.” She regarded Durell with calm expectancy.

  “Let me see.” Durell peered through the glasses as the prince bent his tall, thin body into the Alfa Romeo; then he straightened and handed the binoculars back to Dara. “You’ll tail him,” he said.

  Dara pushed at the windblown straws of her short hair. “Do you think he came here because of Princess Ayla?”

  “What else?”

  “I suppose he hoped to comfort Nadine.”

  “He doesn’t seem the type for comforting. Get the car turned around.”

  Dara made her way up the side of the gully, Durell admiring the heave of her compactly rounded hips, then disappeared beyond the stone culvert. He watched the yali. A Russian freighter with a winged star at the point of its bow churned sluggishly by. The Bosporus was busy with white-hulled ferries, pleasure craft, and brilliantly painted caiques. There was a dim murmur of diesels and plash of bow waves against the background street noises of Istanbul’s sprawling suburbs.

  The Alfa charged up the hill, disappeared from view, then whipp
ed over the culvert, and a clash of gears told Durell that Dara had cut in behind it with the rental Mercedes.

  Nadine’s yali was a wooden house in the old Ottoman style—oriental gingerbread, Moorish arches within arches, and delicate, flowerlike latticework between supports of a veranda that overhung the spangled water.

  The platinum-haired woman answered the doorbell herself—no servants were in evidence, and Durell guessed there hadn’t been time to employ any since her arrival from London.

  She took one look at him with her wide blue eyes and told him to get lost.

  “Just a moment.” Durell leaned against the heavy door. “I’m wanted for kidnaping, thanks to your daughter.”

  “Don’t tell me your troubles, after the mess you made of things.”

  She made a move to close the steel-studded door, but Durell shoved through, holding his temper. His voice was low and grinding. “Tell me where she is, Nadine.”

  “Get out of here.” The deep cleavage of her breasts heaved angrily around a diamond pendant—she wore an off-the-shoulder blouse of hot pink color and a long, pleated white skirt.

  Durell looked beyond her and saw the Bosporus through the glass wall of a sitting room. There was an enormous dome-shaped fireplace, red tulips in a blue-glazed Turkish pot, wall hangings of Bursa and Gordes carpets, and mirrors. Lots of mirrors. “Is Princess Ayla here? I can search the house.”

  “You must have scared her out of her wits.”

  “I’m the one who’s scared.” Durell held her shoulders. They felt small and crushable in his grip. He controlled himself.

  “You’ve never been scared a day in your life, Sam Durell. You don’t know what it means. I told you, buzz off.”

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “What?”

  “Is she here?”

  “No.” Nadine shrugged away from his grasp.

  “Where is she, then?”

  “I don’t know.” She saw the darkening look in his eyes and faltered. Then, defiantly, “All right, I’m not saying, like it or lump it.” A bit of Alabama had crept into her pronunciation.

  “Now we’re making progress,” Durell said.