Assignment- 13th Princess Read online

  “Wrong, buster. It’s a dead end for you. I didn’t tell Tahir anything, and I’m not telling you.”

  Durell saw that she was angry because she was genuinely frightened. It wasn’t an act. He did not know if she was afraid of him or Tahir or something else. He spoke more gently. “At least you admit you’ve seen her.”

  “What if I have?”

  “She may be in danger. I want to help.”

  “Not out of the goodness of your heart, you don’t. You’ve got your own reasons.”

  “It comes to the same thing.”

  “Tell it to Sheik Zeid. I’m going to let him handle everything this time. I shouldn’t have gone behind his back before.”

  “He’s in Istanbul?”

  “He will be this evening. I called him.”

  Alarm sharpened Durell’s tone. “You’ll get him killed, you little idiot.”

  “He can take care of himself—and his wife.”

  “Where will he be staying?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “You directed me to him.”

  Nadine studied his face with lifted gaze, as if suspecting him of some kind of trickery, but then she said: “The Buyuk Tarabya.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Just go ahead and go there if you want to see what color your guts are.”

  Durell let that slide off, wrote the number of his own hotel on a slip of paper, and handed it to her. “You’re going to need more help than you think before this is over,” he said. “You can reach me there.”

  Nadine opened the door. “You’ve done nothing but let me down,” she ranted. “First with Volkan, and now with Ayla.”

  Durell stepped out gingerly, favoring his weak leg, and turned to face her in the warm, deepening shade of the house. “Things haven’t gone exactly as any of us planned,” he said.

  “Go suck an egg.”

  The door slammed in his face.

  He walked to the Kabatas ferry landing, cursing the prickly heat and his leg and Nadine as he went. She was in a position to save him lots of trouble, if she ever came to her senses.

  No one seemed to have followed him from her yali, but he took a dolmus rather than a conventional taxi as an added precaution. Dolmus means “stuffed” in Turkish, and that exactly described the jam-packed car that stopped every block or so to pick up or let off passengers. It reeked of stale tobacco and sour milk, perhaps because the Turks loved yoghurt so, and he traded its crowded anonymity for a taxi at Tophane Fountain.

  The last rays of the sun burned in wispy clouds, and evening sat on Istanbul soft and warm, like a brilliant bird on a jeweled egg, as he crossed the Golden Horn below the domes of St. Sophia and the Sultan Ahmet Mosque, their minarets ringed with lights. Busy Galata Bridge seemed a world unto itself. Big white ferries were lined up two abreast at landings on the lower level, where there were ticket offices, kiosks selling lemonade and cheese-and-tomato rolls, and newsstands. He came off the bridge at Emino Square, passed men washing their feet in a fountain by the wall of the four-hundred-year-old New Mosque—which had a lighted sign strung between its minarets—and wound up the seven-hilled city through a jumble of wooden tenements and gloomy caravanserais. The streets were packed. Porters bent double under incredible loads shuffled between the trolley buses to mingle on the sidewalks with white-suited sherbet-water sellers, hand-holding soldiers, students with smoldering eyes, and countless tourists.

  Durell left the taxi at a side street, near Alemdar Caddesi where buses ran up to Sultan Ahmet Mosque, surveyed the traffic with a quick eye, pressed liras into the driver’s hand. He strolled past the grassy expanse of the Roman Hippodrome, with its obelisk from the temple of Kamak and Serpentine Column from the temple of Delphi.

  He hoped he would not have to lean on Nadine, but the stakes always were so enormous in his line of work that it would not be a first of its kind if he did.

  There were no limits. There was only one prohibition: “Thou shalt leave no tracks.”

  His hotel was not far from Sirkeci Station, eastern terminus of the Orient Express. It was named the Palace Oteli after nearby Topkapi Palace, which it resembled as a rat hole resembles Carlsbad Caverns. Shabby shops and cheap restaurants that smelled tantalizingly of roasting kebabs and grilling kofte stretched away on either side of the hotel’s portals, which were plastered with posters for movies, cabarets, and old elections. He had chosen the place with deliberate care to avoid as long as possible the agents of Pat McNamara. He knew they would be coming. It was only a matter of time.

  The front desk was in a wooden cage that showed dents and bald turnings where the varnish had worn away, the lobby narrow and dimly lighted. His room, reached by two flights of tired stairs that did his bad leg no favors, had the benefit of a window that looked onto a cool garden cinema. A spaghetti western was on the bill for tonight. Beyond was a glimpse of purple water, the dusky wrinkle of Asian hills.

  He draped the jacket of his new blue suit over a chair, drank two tumblers of tap water, and lay down for a rest.

  It did not last more than a few minutes.

  The phone rang, and it was Dara, and she said she was being followed.

  Chapter 14

  “Where are you?” Durell asked Dara.

  “In the lobby.”

  “You shouldn’t have come here. You should have ditched him first.”

  “Don’t you want a look at him? I couldn’t take him all by myself.”

  “Who wants him?”

  “I do, Sam. Badly. For debts owed—like Ethan.”

  Durell’s voice was harsh. “Then go collect. Meanwhile, I’ll have to move us out of this place. You’ve blown it.”

  “Sam—? Please?”

  He hesitated, sucked in a calming breath. “What does he look like?”

  “I couldn’t tell. He’s parked down the block in a blue Renault.”

  Durell said nothing for a moment. He shared her feelings but would have saved his luck for the big ones— you threw back the small fry because they could be deadly but, often as not, unrewarding.

  “The damage is done, Sam,” Dara said. “You might as well help me.”

  “Walk up to the Kapaligarsi, the Great Bazaar—you know where it is?”

  “I came by it.”

  “Not the Spice Bazaar, down by the Horn.”

  “I know.”

  “Remember my bum leg. Take it slow.”

  “Sam? Thanks.”

  “There’s always the chance it will be worthwhile,” he said, and hung up.

  When he got outside, he saw that she had passed the Renault and that a hulking figure was crawling out of it to follow her. Night had fallen now, and the poor lighting made him little more than a silhouette as he ambled casually behind her. Durell kept up with little effort, one eye on the springy shine of Dara’s yellow hair so as not to lose her in the distance, the other on the big man.

  He caught a hungry whiff of hot pastries and coffee as he passed a pastahane cafe.

  He refused the entreaties of a shoeshine boy.

  He followed, and nothing happened.

  Then Dara stopped, and he saw the pale shine of her face as she looked back. The big man stopped and looked in a shop window. Durell turned back to the shoeshine boy, raised a shoe to the footrest. When the others moved on, he tipped the bewildered youngster for a half-polished shoe and fell in behind.

  The Great Bazaar, despite its imposing name, loomed into view as an insignificant cluster of roofs and dingy streets. It was a Byzantine structure, once probably the royal carriage stables, and had no apparent entrance, since most of its arched doorways lay down back streets. Its enormous roof sheltered a maze of streets and alleys, and almost anything could be found in there for a price. Durell knew of a Kurdish chieftain who had consummated a major arms purchase there.

  Dara went inside on the Street of Gold, where the dusty air was hazed yellow by reflections of glittering display windows. The way was thronged with shoppers, hawkers, black mark
et operators, tourists, pimps, and purse snatchers. Bargaining was carried on with a loud “Yok! No!” and a violent shrug of the shoulders. Young men just back from the factories of Germany studied with earnest eyes golden discs they would buy for their betrothed ones. Music blared.

  Dara sat at a table in an open-fronted coffee shop. Durell joined her, looked left and right.

  “Over there,” she said.

  He followed her gaze.

  The huge man lounged before a display of golden baubles. The man’s thumb smoothed the enormous crescents of his mustache as he smiled, nodded—and came toward them.

  “Oh, hell,” Durell muttered. “It’s Volkan again.”

  “Ah, Durell Bey. And his lovely lady.”

  “Care to join us?” Durell said. He pushed out a chair.

  Volkan chortled, his bald head gleaming. “Tesekkiir ederim—thanks.” He rubbed Durell’s shoulder with the Turkish love for touching and sat down with a windy sigh. “This is good. Yes, it is good we can be civilized.”

  “Not too civilized.” Durell smiled grimly. “I have a .45 aimed at your gut under the table.”

  Volkan’s grin froze. Sweat popped from his head, reminding Durell of a squeezed sponge.

  “Why did you follow the lovely lady?” Durell asked.

  “To find you, of course. What would I want with her? Women are good only for the kitchen and the bed. Agreed?”

  Durell suppressed a grin. Dara shot him a stinging glance. Durell said: “It seems I found you first. It may cost you dearly.”

  “Put the gun away. Please.”

  “Just don’t think about it. Where did you pick up Dara’s tail?”

  “At the dock.”

  Dara said: “Prince Tahir boarded a big cabin cruiser. That was where I lost him.”

  “He went to his house in the Prince’s Islands, not far from here,” Volkan said.

  Durell spoke. “Princess Nadine called you a spy.”

  “Ah. Another woman, you understand. Too excitable for my taste.”

  “Was she right?”

  “Do you have Princess Ayla?” Volkan was evading the question.

  “Of course not.”

  A waiter brought them strong black coffee in small floral cups. Its fragrance was delicious. The vast hubbub in the Street of Gold made a sound like a waterfall.

  “This affair can be ended by the return of Princess Ayla,” Volkan said. He sipped with a noise of polite relish.

  “I think not,” Durell said. “It has to run its course, like a bad sickness, a lethal illness. Too much happened in Dhubar for it to stop so simply. Events have been set in motion for some purpose.”

  “Possibly. It is not our business. We don’t want Dhubar’s troubles brought here.”

  Durell stared at him for a moment. “Who is ‘we’?”

  The man’s big paw held out a leather identification case. “Turkish Security,” he said.

  “Don’t look so surprised,” Volkan said. “I was planted in Prince Tahir’s entourage long ago. It pays to keep track of royalty, especially when it has pretensions to the throne of your country.”

  The ID looked authentic to Durell. He shoved his Marine .45, requisitioned on a carrier the night before, back into his waistband, and exchanged glances with Dara, who carried his gun’s twin in her shoulder bag.

  A disappointed blush burned on her cheeks. “Let’s go, Sam.”

  “It isn’t that simple, is it, Volkan?” Durell said.

  “I have been instructed to work with you,” Volkan replied.

  “Meaning we have no choice?”

  “The alternative is arrest and deportation.”

  Dara stood up. “Let them try to catch us, Sam. I don’t trust this man.”

  Durell told her to sit down. “Let’s give him a chance.”

  “I will be a valuable ally.” Volkan smiled, and the tips of his mustache almost touched his nose.

  Durell turned to Dara. “Where did Prince Tahir go after leaving Nadine’s?”

  “Should we discuss business here?” Volkan said.

  “Why not? No one’s close enough to overhear. It can’t be bugged.”

  Dara said: “He went straight to the boat, except for a stop at No. 50 Black Stone Street near the Sultan Ahmet Mosque. It looked like a private residence, a walled villa—except for one thing.”

  “What was that?”

  Dara swung her eyes to Volkan, then back to Durell. “It had guards at the gate,” she said. “They looked like regular Turkish infantry.”

  “Who lives there?” Durell asked Volkan.

  The big Turk narrowed his eyes, pushed his chin with a forefinger. “That is the house of General Nezih Abdurrahman—a fine soldier. A patriot.”

  “Save the endorsements. What’s his command?”

  Volkan hesitated. His eyes showed reluctance. “Özür dilerim—I’m sorry—that may be classified.”

  “Then declassify it, if you are our ally.” Durell’s hand found the grip of his pistol.

  “Wait. Just a minute. You see, I am not at liberty—”

  Dara’s voice was a low threat as she told Durell: “Let’s take this hulk into the alley and dispose of him.”

  “Well, perhaps I can release the information.” Volkan swallowed, his thick throat quivering. “After all, what’s the harm, eh?” He shrugged. “He commands an armored division.”

  “A combat division.” Durell’s voice tightened. “Would it be stationed on Cyprus, by any chance?”

  “As a matter of fact, it is, although normally posted in Cappadocia, in central Turkey.”

  “Sam!” Dara’s voice lifted with excitement. “Didn’t McNamara tell you that the old emir’s assassin was traced as far as Cyprus?”

  Durell stared at her, then at Volkan. Their table was an island of momentary silence in the roar of the bazaar. Then Durell told the other two to wait while he made a phone call. As he left, he saw Dara’s hand slip into her purse, doubtlessly to rest on her gun. She still did not trust Volkan, and he thought that was just as well.

  Neither did he.

  He bought a token, dropped it into the slot of a public telephone, spoke a couple of minutes, and returned to the table. “General Abdurrahman’s division is scheduled for routine rotation back to the mainland in a day or two,” he told Dara.

  She saw the look on his face and said: “Is that bad?”

  “Only if the division commandeers its transports for a landing in Dhubar instead.” His blue eyes were dark and grave.

  “I’d give anything to know what Prince Tahir and the general talked about,” she said.

  Durell spoke thoughtfully. “When people are at the hub of history in the making, they sometimes keep records. Journals, correspondence. . ."

  “What are you thinking?” Volkan asked, his face wary.

  “Let’s break into your general’s study,” Durell said. “Maybe we’ll find out just what kind of patriot he is.”

  Chapter 15

  “We can take the guards,” Dara said. “What’s the problem, Sam?”

  “We don’t want trouble with the locals. If we fumble, the police will be on our backs.” The motor of the Mercedes purred in neutral. He had parked around the corner of a park that was across the street from General Abdurrahman’s house. A car passed, headed the other way, and he and Dara and Volkan sat stiffly, their faces turned, as its headlamps washed them briefly with light.

  “The police will be around asking us our business, if we sit here much longer,” Dara said.

  “We wouldn’t have a very good answer,” Volkan muttered.

  Durell thought a moment longer and said: “Dara. You get out with me.”

  “What about me?” Volkan asked.

  “You will pick us up. I don’t know how long this will take. Half an hour or so, not much more.” Durell stepped out quietly. The light airs felt good where his back had been smothered by the car seat. Dara smoothed her dress and stood beside him as he bent to the window. “Cruise the ne
ighborhood,” he told Volkan. “Don’t attract any attention.”

  “You’re making a mistake, not letting me come with you,” the big man growled unhappily.

  “We’ll do it this way.” Durell’s eyes scanned the intersection behind the car.

  “What good will the woman be?” Volkan demanded.

  “She may be better than you think.” Durell moved toward the corner, Dara at his side. The light breeze made a yellow spray of her short hair. The Mercedes started away with an angry rip of its tires, and Dara said: “Volkan could bring the authorities down on us. Have you thought of that?”

  Durell sounded calm. “I have,” he said.

  “I’d rather have him with us, where we can watch him.”

  “And he could alert the household?” Durell blew through his nose. “If I can get a look at the general’s papers, I’ll worry about getting away later.”

  Dara stopped in the shadows and raised her eyes to him. “You don’t trust him, either?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why bring him along?”

  “To see what he does. Look, his credentials are in order. If General Abdurrahman is willing to betray his government to help Prince Tahir, there’s no telling how deep the conspiracy may go.”

  “You mean Turkish Security . . . ?”

  “Possibly.” Durell’s gaze darkened. “I have a feeling Volkan is trying to be clever. He will overplay his hand, if he’s against us.”

  “But—what if he double-crosses us here—tonight?”

  Durell smiled faintly. “Then we run like squirrels.”

  They had rounded the corner of the bushy park and walked past the two sentries, who were across the street and paid them scant attention. Below them the Golden Horn shrank to the north, where it became the Lycus River among hills that heaved away into Thrace. Lights sparkled distantly out there, embers in the ashes of night. The general’s house was on spacious, well-shrubbed grounds far up the south side of the Horn, beyond the walls of Theodosius and the new beltway that connected London Highway with the Bosporus Bridge. The banks of the fabled waterway had dazzled the viewer with palaces, pleasure kiosks, and imperial gardens a century before, but now the Horn was lined with shipyards and factories for the most part. Abdurrahman lived in one of the few sedately aristocratic neighborhoods that remained. There was a plastered stone wall around his grounds, and it probably had electronic surveillance devices on it, Durell decided. Upper lights of the house glowered out of a nest of gnarled old pine trees that bent slightly in the cool breeze.