The Hidden Target (24 page)

“All set?” Jim was asking. “Then let’s not keep the gypsies waiting.”

Suleyman seemed unnoticing of their departure, but his chat with the bellboy was over. Slowly, he moved around the lobby. Then, reassured, he headed for a public telephone.

***

Robert Renwick glanced at his watch: fifteen more minutes and he would have to leave. Claudel and Kahraman had now finished with the problem of Bursa and were discussing the green camper. Kahraman’s verdict was that it must cross the frontier by early tomorrow morning. Otherwise, their four o’clock appointment with Miss O’Connell would not be kept. “You are quite sure it will be kept?” he asked Renwick.

“I’m sure. If not tomorrow at four, then certainly as soon as they arrive.”

“Then what puzzles you, my friend?”

“That six-day stay south of Salonika.”

“Twice the length of any other major stopover,” Claudel agreed. “According to Gilman, that is.” Merriman & Co. had been making inquiries, with excellent results. The intermediate stops of the camper were unknown as yet, but Dijon, Basel, Innsbruck, Ljubljana had been verified: three nights in each place.

Kahraman said, “They perhaps had twice as much business in northern Greece.” He smiled benevolently.

“Vlakos won’t like that idea,” Claudel said. Nor had Vlakos liked the report of two agents sent up to the gulf to scout around its quieter beaches. After a careful search—difficult, because they couldn’t question too noticeably and arouse suspicion—they had found a neglected stretch of sand, with four young foreigners in a state of happy daze. Spaced out, obviously. But no camper. No Englishman who owned it. No American called Kiley. From the woman who ran the solitary café, there had been only a blank stare and a harsh curse for the four foreigners who had invaded her beach yesterday. As for the foreigners, they had lost all sense of time, could give no sensible reply, no verification or denial of the woman’s date, The agents had left to continue their search, returned two days later. The foreigners had gone. Transportation? Probably a bus, the café owner had said, and good riddance to them and their pills. “Drugs...” Claudel shook his head. “Surely they can’t be so stupid as to get into that scene?”

“At the border we will search the camper,” Kahraman said. “That might be a quick solution to all our problems.”

And the end of any lead to Theo’s plan, thought Renwick. “Kiley isn’t so stupid,” he told Claudel. “There will be no drugs carried across frontiers. If they are being used—” he corrected that—“if they are being administered, it will be well inside a country.”

“Administered?”

“To begin with. Once the habit is started, then there will be dependence.”

“And control,” Claudel said. “No rebellions, no defections. Kiley wants them to stay together. Why? Cover for his own trip?”

Kahraman nodded. “Excellent cover. All innocent young people, you tell me. None with any connections to terrorists or agitators or lawbreakers. A very excellent cover for—”

The telephone rang. Kahraman took the call. It was brief, his reply equally so. He looked grave as he faced the two men. “That was from my office. My nephew just ’phoned to leave a message for me. Very urgent. He is on his way there now to give us the details.” Kahraman was, in a surprisingly quick movement, already at the door, beginning to open it.

Renwick said, “I’ve got an appointment to keep.”

“She will not keep it, my friend.” The door closed quietly.

Renwick and Claudel stared at each other. “Five minutes?” Claudel suggested.

“Three.” That was long enough to wait. Even three were an agony.

Claudel said, “I’ll take the short route to Kahraman’s office.”

A back alley from this hotel, two courtyards, a covered passage. “We’ll go together, waste no more time,” Renwick said. It was dark now, and there wouldn’t be many lights strung along that short distance: little danger of being seen. He kept his eyes on his watch. “Okay,” he said quietly and fell silent again, his sense of failure increasing with each passing moment.

They left the radio playing, the two meagre lamps glowing feebly. Cautiously, they took the service stairs, reached the ill-lit hall that would lead to the alley. There, in its heavy shadows, their pace increased. “Identification?” Claudel asked worriedly as they came to the end of the covered passage. But Kahraman, sharp-minded as always, had guessed their route: the man stationed at the back door to his office was Claudel’s old friend Fahri. Claudel relaxed into a small laugh, sheathed the knife he had been carrying since he had stepped into the alley.

The rear of this three-storey building might seem decrepit, but its front put quite a new face on it. Its imposing entrance near a busy avenue had a number of firms identified at its doorway— all of them dealers in rugs, handwoven and expensive, Turkish, Persian, Afghan, Indian, Chinese. Kahraman’s name was among them, nestling unobtrusively in the middle of the list, his business inherited from his family when he had retired from the army. His private office was the one both Renwick and Claudel knew. The rest of his suite—four rooms strung along a winding corridor on the top floor—was a mystery. At least one of them must be devoted to import and export; the others, to Kahraman’s particular interests. They were extensive. It was impossible, thought Renwick, not to be impressed by Kahraman’s ingenuity and energy.

The office was medium in size, furnished with only the necessities: a desk, four chairs, two tray-topped coffee tables, but their Turkish workmanship was both intricate and perfect. The carpet was a treasure of Persian design. A prayer rug was spread near one bare white wall; a copy of the Koran lay on an elaborately carved stool. In contrast to this, the overhead lighting was a glaring monstrosity. But Kahraman would see every expression on any visitor’s face: no change in a smile, no drop of the eyes would be hidden by any silk-shaded lamps.

He was seated at the desk, impatient to begin. Suleyman, at one of the brass-topped tables, was pouring three small cups of coffee. With those safely delivered, he stood aside and waited while the coffee was sipped down to its half-way level. Then, at a wave of his uncle’s hand, he began his report. It was concise and clear, ending with the delivery of the note to Renwick.

“Well?” demanded Claudel as Renwick read the slip of paper.

Renwick, for politeness’ sake, passed the note to Kahraman as he quoted its contents to Claudel. “Jim is here. The camper crossed the frontier last night—waiting for us at an inn on the outskirts—leaving at dawn tomorrow for the early ferry. So tonight is impossible. Truly sorry. Always, Nina.”

Kahraman’s composure vanished. “Crossed the frontier last night?”

Some poor devil of a border guard will have to pay for that, thought Renwick. He said, “They’ve changed the colour of the camper.”

“That long stopover in Greece...” Claudel said. “But of course! What about the camper’s registration? They must have had a faked copy all prepared, giving the new colour.”

“New plates, too, probably. Shawfield’s name would be kept—because of his passport. His signature is possibly an illegible scrawl, anyway.”

Kahraman controlled his anger. “We will watch the ferries tomorrow morning. Impossible to find that inn on the outskirts—a hundred or more. And in which direction from the city? Our best chance is with the car ferries. We do not know the new colour of this camper, but we shall look for eight young people, two of them girls with fair hair. We will follow them into Asia and see if they indeed go to Bursa. I do not trust these men.” He shook his head sadly.

“I’d like to—” Claudel began, fell silent as he noted Kahraman’s small gesture: a hand raised delicately for one brief moment.

“You did well,” Kahraman said to his nephew. “The young lady was definite when she spoke about interpreters and guides? Not just one interpreter and guide?”

“Interpreters and guides. All the way to India. In Bombay there would be no need for them. That is what she said.”

“Thank you, Suleyman.” Kahraman smiled a dismissal. As the door closed behind the boy, Kahraman could not resist saying in his most offhand manner, “Fortunate that I had him posted in the Hilton lobby.”

“Most fortunate,” Claudel said. Thank God, Renwick was thinking as he nodded his agreement.

“And what would you like?” Kahraman asked Claudel. “To go on that car ferry tomorrow morning? Follow the camper to Bursa?”

“With Fahri, if that doesn’t inconvenience you.”

“Go with Fahri, certainly. But not to Bursa. I shall arrange surveillance of the camper. It would be best if you and Fahri were not visible immediately. Later...” Kahraman paused and considered for almost a minute. “We have so many frontiers. Greece and Bulgaria we no longer need consider. But Russia, Iran, Iraq, Syria—which border will the camper cross on its way to Afghanistan?” This was developing into a wide-scale operation. Kahraman’s eyes gleamed with pleasure at the difficulties facing him.

Renwick said, “In Amsterdam, Nina said that Kiley was avoiding communist countries. There’s no work for him there—no rebels to be encouraged and organised. Definitely not allowed.”

Claudel laughed. “He travelled through Yugoslavia. That shows his opinion of its politics.”

“Syria, Iraq, Iran.” Kahraman was thoughtful. “There’s unrest in Iran. Trouble will come in another month or two. But if Kiley makes haste, and if he has the right guide, he will pass through quite easily by following the main route east. Iran has a frontier with Afghanistan. Syria and Iraq do not. But we shall see, as we follow his direction from Turkey. And you,” he said to Claudel, “will be informed in time to cross whatever frontier the camper uses. You will need Turkish papers—was that what you would also like? And Fahri will, of course, be with you. He speaks several dialects, he knows Parsee. He has travelled much through these regions—all the way to India. Carpets and rugs. They take many months, sometimes a year, to make. Naturally, Fahri, as my firm’s representative, visits the makers of these rugs to place another order. Yes, I think it is a possible mission.”

“A car big enough to let us sleep in it?” Claudel asked. There were stretches of desert and wastelands with no inns.

Kahraman nodded. “Changes of cars may be necessary. It will be arranged.”

“Communications?” Renwick asked. I’m out of all this, he thought unhappily. My Turkish isn’t adequate, I don’t look like a Turk. And yet, and yet...

“Continual communication,” Kahraman assured him, but gave no details. “It is customary practice. We are not only interested in buying extraordinary rugs. We also must try to learn what our neighbours are doing. Their political changes can affect us, too.”

Renwick nodded. But his depression grew. “Will Pierre and Fahri be enough surveillance? Two cars, perhaps?”

“And you in the second one?” Claudel broke in. “No, Bob. Fahri and I can handle this assignment. Neither of us will be recognised by the O’Connell girl or her friend Westerman. What explanation could you give them if you met in some unlikely place? Your Nina might have enough sense to keep quiet about such a meeting. But Westerman? Too much risk, Bob. Better wait until Bombay. You can take over then.”

As usual, Claudel made good sense. Renwick’s lips tightened, but he said nothing.

Kahraman studied him. “No need for further discussion, my friend. You are needed in America. A message from Gilman, in London, came here just as I returned to this office. It is decoded.” He opened an embossed leather folder on his desk, drew out a sheet of paper. “For you,” he said, handing it to Renwick.

The message was brief. “Frank Cooper advises you see him in Washington soonest. Interesting developments need immediate study.” Renwick passed the sheet to Claudel.

“Developments?” Claudel speculated.

Renwick shrugged. “Could be anything.” It was certainly urgent. And important enough to be sent as a carefully coded message. He rose. “I’ll leave tomorrow. Early. Or,” he asked Kahraman, “is there a late flight tonight?”

“For Paris, perhaps, by way of Rome. I shall check and telephone you at your hotel. Next visit—” Kahraman rose from the nest of red silk cushions in his carved armchair—“we shall see each other more often.” There was an affectionate embrace and wishes for a safe and good journey.

Claudel was also on his feet, uncertain whether he should go or stay.

Kahraman decided for him. “We have much to discuss. Fahri will join us. Your strategy must be well planned.”

“Then it’s goodbye,” Claudel said to Renwick, walking with him to the door. “Until Bombay?”

“I wish you better luck than I had on this trip. Keep in touch if you can.”

“I’ll keep you briefed, when possible.”

“If you feel—sense—some crisis, some danger—”

“I’ll make contact with Nina, show her she has friends.”

“Get her out!” Renwick’s voice was sharp.

“Kidnap her?” Claudel was smiling. “Fahri is just the man for that.” Then he turned serious. “Stop worrying about those spaced-out kids on that beach. Kiley wouldn’t risk drugs with Nina. He wants to meet her father, doesn’t he?”

“Tell Nina I gave you this.” On impulse Renwick reached into his jacket for Merriman & Co.’s card. In pencil he wrote:
Courtyard of the Janissaries.

Claudel read the message, raised an eyebrow. “Adequate introduction?”

“If you need more, remind her how she pitied the tribute children.”

Claudel looked at his friend curiously, pocketed the card in silence. They shook hands in a tight grip. Then Renwick left, with a last salute and a word of warm thanks to Kahraman—an imposing figure standing erect beside his massive desk, not one crease in the silver-grey jacket, not one hair escaping from its brilliantine hold, not one furrow on that smooth benign face.

“Now,” said Kahraman, “I arrange for transport to Paris. Then to business, Pierre.” He seated himself on the red silk cushions, switched on intercommunications, began giving orders.

At Dulles Airport, Frank Cooper was in the car that met Renwick. Cooper, large frame and long legs occupying most of the rear seat, white hair almost hidden by his battered felt hat, well-tailored suit worn uncaringly, had the look of repressed excitement in his broad grin of welcome. At the wheel, Salvatore Marini also showed pleasure, with a smile of white teeth all the brighter by contrast with his olive complexion. His thick hair was still dark although he was almost of Cooper’s vintage— they had worked as a team in their OSS visits to occupied territory some thirty-five years ago: Cooper, the lieutenant in charge; Marini, his sergeant and radio expert.