Istanbul (19 page)

‘I need to find this man.’

‘How old is this Simonici?’

‘He’s twenty-four years old and he’s from Bucharest.’

‘How do you know he’s on board?’

‘He wrote to his sister before he left Constanza.’

‘His sister,’ he said and he studied Nick’s face, speculating. ‘Well. We’ll go and see if we can find him. You might find it interesting, while you’re here.’

Nick followed Garabetenko down three flights into the bowels of the ship. Once he slipped and put out a hand to steady himself, and a section of plating came away in his hand, eaten through with rust.

Down below the acrid stench of urine and sweat and human waste made it almost impossible to breathe. He shone his torch around the berths; men, women and children were stacked on wooden bunks to the ceiling, four or five on each bunk. The only sound was the quiet sobbing of children and the troubled sleep of the sick.

Human cattle.

‘Some of the children have fever,’ Garabatenko said. ‘We have thirty doctors on the boat and not a single aspirin.’

‘I can get you medicine.’

‘That would be appreciated. As you can see, there’s no space to sleep but at least they’re a little warmer down here. We can’t allow more than a hundred people up on deck at any one time or this bitch will capsize.’

‘I wish I could help you.’

‘Of course you do,
monsieur
. Of course you do.’ He put his hands on his hips and shouted. ‘Is there an Amos Simonici down here?’

No-one spoke.

Garabatenko squeezed through the press of people, clambering over battered suitcases and cheap boxes, shouting Amos’s name.

‘Who wants him?’ someone yelled from the darkness.

‘Are you Amos Simonici?’

‘It depends.’

‘Are you or not?’

‘Why do you want him?’

‘Show me your papers!’ When the man wouldn’t do it, Garabatenko gave up in disgust. He came back down the aisle between the bunks, shaking his head. ‘You see,
monsieur
?’

‘He has to be here.’

‘If I tell them you have a visa, everyone will say they are Amos Simonici. What does he look like anyway?’

Nick relayed what Daniela had told him: tall, dark curly hair, spoke English, twenty-four years old.

Garabatenko shook his head. ‘Are you sure he’s on board?’

‘No.’

‘Well, we’ll keep trying. Perhaps he’s on deck.’

They went back up the ladder, grateful to be back in the fresh air. He went to the windward rail and took deep lungfuls of air.

‘Six weeks we’ve been sitting here,’ Garabetenko said. ‘Why won’t anyone help us?’

‘Politics.’

‘Politics!’ He spat over the side.

‘I don’t make the rules.’

‘Does that help you sleep better?’

‘I don’t sleep anyway.’

‘Wait here. I’ll see if I can find this Amos Simonici for you. But I can’t promise anything.’

A short while later, he reappeared with a tall, gaunt young man in a shabby suit. It was encrusted with the filth after six weeks of sleeping on the deck of the
Struma.

‘Are you Amos Simonici?’ Nick said.

The young man looked terrified. He looked at Garabatenko, then at the police, then back to Nick. ‘Yes.’

‘You have a sister, Daniela?’

He nodded again.

‘She’s been worried about you.’ Nick moved closer. The young man stank. ‘We may be able to get you off.’

‘Get me off?’ He looked at Garabatenko, then back at Nick. He looked as if he was about to cry.

‘Are you all right?’

‘He’s very sick,’ Garabatenko said. ‘You can see that.’

The Turkish police sergeant was grumbling. They had been on the boat almost an hour and he wanted to leave.

Nick put a hand on Amos’s shoulder. ‘Have you heard from Simon?’

A shake of the head.

‘It will be all right,’ he said.

Amos said nothing.

The Turkish police sergeant demanded that they leave. ‘Everything’s going to be all right,’ Nick repeated, and he turned and followed the policeman down the ladder to the launch.

As their boat pulled away, several passengers stretched out their hands and called out to him in Romanian and German.

That night he tossed in his bed; what he told Garabatenko was true, he hardly slept anymore. That night when he closed his eyes he saw the faces of the human cattle in the stinking hold of the
Struma
,
and all the demons in hell were pointing at him in accusation. He shouted back that he was innocent, but no-one believed him.

CHAPTER 42 

He could not meet Daniela at his house unless Maier knew of the rendezvous in advance and believed there was some professional reason for her going there, so today they arranged to meet behind the Sülemaniye mosque. He waited for her down an alley, stamping his feet against the cold. A light snow spiralled from a pewter sky.

She appeared suddenly, her face hidden under a green scarf, her hands thrust deep into the pockets of her overcoat. She stood close, her breath freezing on the air.

She kissed him softly on the lips. ‘Nick, darling.’

‘I have news,’ he said.

‘You have found him?’

‘I went on the
Struma
last night.’

‘Oh my God. How does he look?’

‘Thin. He has been sick.’

‘You can get him off?’

‘I can get him an emergency visa for Palestine. We are still waiting for final word from the Turkish Government.’

‘Did he say anything to you?’

Nick shook his head. ‘He needs a doctor.’

She gripped his hand fiercely and kissed him again. ‘You have to know how much this means to me. I will repay you. You’ll see.’

‘You don’t have to do anything.’

‘Don’t ever hate me, Nick,’ she whispered and then she slipped away, an elusive shadow in a grey and frozen world.

What the hell did she mean by that?

Abrams had betrayed Saffet Diker to the Turks for this. Whatever happened, he knew he’d never sleep well again.

He just hoped they were doing the right thing.

CHAPTER 43

He was working late in his study. The jarring ring of the black telephone on his desk startled him. He looked at his wristwatch. Nine o’clock.

He picked up the telephone. ‘Davis.’

‘Nick. I have to see you.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Liman’s in Gate of the Thumb Street. Half an hour.’ And she hung up.

Nick left the taxi two blocks away on Istiklal and made his way towards the Gate of the Thumb. A biting wind funnelled down the boulevard, but even on such a cold night there were still strollers making their way between the bars and restaurants; German staff officers with Hungarian girlfriends; Turkish businessmen laughing and smoking; British diplomatic staff with their wives, several of whom he knew and acknowledged with a nod of the head. In the cafés men and women were chatting in Italian and French and Spanish and Romanian.

He stopped on the corner opposite Gate of the Thumb as an apple-green tram rattled past. Whoever had followed her was either careless or overconfident; he saw the glow of a cigarette in the doorway at the bottom of the street. It was easier to follow a target in summer; there were outdoor café tables at which to sit and read the newspaper and look inconspicuous.

Now he knew where the watcher was, he felt more assured. He crossed the street and made his way to Liman’s. He did not look over his shoulder, their watcher would still be there when he left.

She sat at the back of the restaurant, wearing a green silk scarf. There were just a handful of customers, most of them men. He asked the waiter to bring a bottle of
raki
and two glasses.

She was pale. He had never seen her this frightened, not since that day in Bucharest when they had run from the greenshirts.

‘What’s happened?’

There was a manila envelope lying on the tabletop. She pushed it towards him.

It was unsealed. He took out a thin sheaf of typed papers. ‘What is this?’

‘Read them.’

‘They’re originals. How did you get these? Out of his safe?’

‘I have to get them back before he gets home.’

‘Which is when?’

She tried to smile and it came off as a grimace. ‘He might be home already.’

‘What? Are you out of your mind?’

‘He’s just come back from Berlin. He was gone almost a month.’

He shuffled through the papers. ‘Jesus,’ he murmured.

‘There’s been phone calls, late at night. He has many secrets, Nick.’

‘You have to get these back into his safe right now.’ He put them back in the envelope and pushed them back across the table. ‘Why did you do this?’

‘You helped me find Amos. I wanted to repay you.’

‘A bottle of scotch might have covered it.’

She looked wounded. When she stood up to leave, he reached out and grabbed her arm.

‘Were you followed?’ he said.

She shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Let me ask the question another way. You were followed.’

‘How do you know?’

‘It’s my business to know.’

She slumped back into her seat. ‘Oh God.’

‘I’ll take care of it.’

‘How?’

He put some money on the table for the
raki
. The waiter stared at him reproachfully; he had hoped the well-dressed foreigner would have dinner as well and leave a big tip.

‘I’m going to leave now,’ he told her. ‘I want you to wait five minutes, then walk up the street and turn left.’

‘It’s dark that way, there are no street lamps.’

‘It’s all right, I’ll be watching you.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘There’s a restaurant called Rumeli at the end of the alley. You turn down the alley on the opposite side of the street, walk right to the end and go into the nearest doorway and wait there.’

She hesitated.

‘Just do as I say and everything will be okay.’

He got up and walked out. He went two blocks before doubling back, turning up a dark side street and making his way back to Gate of the Thumb. He stepped into a shadowed doorway and waited.

The wind shuffled snow along the street. He shivered even through the heavy woollen overcoat. Christ, it was cold. He heard the muted wail of Arabic music from an upstairs restaurant. The alley was deserted.

Why had Daniela put herself in this danger? Now someone had to die to save her.

He saw Daniela come out of the restaurant and hesitate. ‘Come on, just do as I told you,’ he murmured.

She started up the street towards him, reached the corner less than ten yards from where he stood but did not see him.

He held his breath.

Yes, there he was, walking quickly, hands in his pockets, a fedora pulled down over his ears, head down against the wind.

Daniela’s heels echoed on the cobblestones.

The man turned the corner and followed her. He was walking too fast, perhaps worried he would lose her in the dark. Nick waited until he was almost out of sight and then set off after him.

He did not hurry, kept to the shadows. A splash of yellow light fell on the cobblestones from the Rumeli. He saw Maier’s agent hesitate, probably asking himself why Daniela had chosen to walk alone so far from Istiklal. But he had no choice but to follow. He was following orders.

Nick walked faster.

He felt sick in the stomach. He hated this, but there was no choice.

Dark tenements crowded in either side. Daniela turned into a doorway and disappeared. Maier’s man hesitated. It wasn’t until he stopped that he ehard Nick behind him and started to turn.

He did not see the hand that crushed his windpipe. He went down clutching at his throat and died quickly. The Luger automatic he had drawn from his jacket clattered onto the icy cobblestones. He had not even had time to remove the safety.

Nick took a lighter from his pocket and shone it on the man’s face. He felt for a pulse to make sure he was dead.

Jesus. It was Haller.

He extinguished the light before Daniela could see who it was. He picked up the Luger and put it into his jacket pocket. Then he went to the gutter and vomited the
raki
and whatever remained of his supper.