The Hidden Target

by Helen Macinnes

  The light was strengthening. Nina turned away from the rail, looked at the deck behind her where Madge was still trying to sleep, head pillowed on her duffel bag, a windbreak formed by the loosely roped sacks and olive oil drums that had been dumped on board at Lesbos. Forward, at the ship’s prow, two goats were tethered. The rest of the passengers—three shabbily dressed men and two women swathed in black cotton, from head scarf down to shapeless trousers partly covered by equally shapeless tunics—were below in the cabins. Dirty grey blankets on thin straw mattresses hadn’t deterred them from a good night’s rest.

  At last, Madge gave up her pretence and rose stiffly, drawing her cardigan more closely around her shoulders. “You didn’t sleep much.”

  “Trying to think things out.”

  “Still mad at Jim?”

  “Just puzzled. That’s all.” Keep off the subject of Jim Kiley, Nina’s tone of voice said.

  Madge took the hint. “Where’s Istanbul?”

  “Somewhere towards the sun.”

  She doesn’t have to get cross with me, thought Madge. What on earth is worrying her about Jim? He’s a perfectly normal guy; in fact, I like him. I like him a lot. “So you are going on with the trip?” In Athens, Nina had talked of spending a week there, a week in the Aegean, and the hell with Jim Kiley.

  “Yes,” Nina said.

  “I’m glad.” Even if I’m feeling miserable now, I’m glad. She shivered, looked wanly over the rail at the strong current battling the small waves. The boat was steady enough. It was she who was definitely shaky.

  Nina said, “What about some hot coffee? That should warm us up.”

  “Coffee...” Madge shuddered at the word.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Just a little upset. That last meal in Lesbos...” Madge didn’t finish, shuddered again.

  “You shouldn’t have eaten that camel stew. Mr. Christopoulos did try to steer you away from it.” But Madge had been stubborn. Poor Madge, thought Nina, the world-wide traveller who wanted to be part of the local scene.

  At the mention of camel stew, Madge said, “Don’t!” And as one of the crew, the least prepossessing in that motley bunch, appeared with two mugs of coffee, she averted her head.

  Nina took the mug with no cracks apparent around its rim. “Wonderful,” she told the man. He didn’t understand her, but he caught her meaning. His sudden toothless smile changed hard brown eyes into a friendly beam. “For you,” Nina said, pointing to the torn undershirt exposing a hairy chest, waving the second mug away from Madge. He understood after some more pantomime gestures, and with nods and a spreading grin, he drank the coffee as he stalked off. “Just an upstanding citizen,” Nina said. “He’s got a wife and ten children back in Alexandria.”

  “And another ten in Tyre,” Madge said, almost coming to life.

  “You’ll be all right.” But Nina was worried. This could really complicate things. “You only need a decent bed and some sleep.”

  “Where will we stay?”

  Not so easy to choose now. “We’ll find something. We’ve done pretty well so far, haven’t we?” But this time I’d like a bathroom of our own. What wouldn’t I give to soak in a hot tub without the door handle being rattled every three minutes by some stranger in the corridor!

  “How long will we have in Istanbul—only a day and a half?”

  “Just about that.” Tomorrow was Tuesday, the fourth. “Perhaps the others will be delayed and give us an extra night.”

  “Will I see anything of Istanbul at all?” Madge asked, misery increasing.

  “You can have a look at it, anyway.” Nina pointed ahead. On a promontory that jutted out from Europe’s last stretch of land rose the domes and minarets of mosques and palaces, close-packed on a sloping hill. Walls encircled the Sultan’s old domain, a city within a city, to reach the water’s edge. There, a low white mist drifted upwards, thinned, disappeared, setting stone columns and rounded roofs afloat on a gossamer veil.

  ***

  They had passed the Golden Horn, crowded even at this hour with small craft, and entered the Bosporus. “Thank heaven we’re on the European side,” Nina said as they gathered their belongings and headed for a shaky gangway. Docking on the Asiatic shore of Istanbul might have been more than she could have handled. Madge was pale under that rosy tan they had both collected on Mykonos. And the sun was coming up, hot and strong, with all mist vanquished. “This shouldn’t take too long,” she reassured Madge as they crossed the quay towards a wooden shed. Not many passengers disembarked at this section of the Galata quays, just goats and black-swathed women with stocky husbands wearing old tweed caps.

  Nina hesitated at the wide doors of the shed. It was small, low-roofed, and bare: two long tables, two serious-faced men in uniform grey jackets, an opposite door firmly closed, a host of notices around its wooden walls. And nothing I can understand, thought Nina. She heard Madge gasp as she, too, stared at the notices. Nina held out her passport, waited for further directions. “Do you speak English?” she asked in her politest voice, adding a friendly smile to sweeten the atmosphere. Two pairs of dark eyes stared at her, then at Madge. Solemnly, the passports were studied. Solemnly, the expressionless eyes looked at the girls, looked back at the passports. Trouble? Nina wondered. Yet the officials must understand English, for they could decipher the passports. Or couldn’t they? They were talking together now, in a burst of vowels and consonants that left Nina more depressed. Culture shock, she was thinking. How do we, a couple of idiots who can’t understand a word, manage to cope with this place? Then one of the men, Nina’s passport still in his hand, moved to a telephone. Definitely trouble, Nina decided. She looked at Madge, resting her weight against a table, white-faced and mournful, and said nothing.

  There was a long wait, their small baggage examined briefly, most of the time spent watching their five fellow travellers being thoroughly questioned while innumerable parcels and baskets spilled out on the tables. Hotter by the minute, Nina thought, and wished that the opposite door could be opened for a through draught of air.

  It did open. From the street, a man entered briskly, well dressed in silver-grey, carefully groomed, dark-haired, darkeyed, dark moustache, middle-aged, authoritative. A sharp glance at the wilting girls, a brief look at their passports, a voluble exchange of words with the official who had telephoned. Then the stranger came forward, spoke in excellent English, his smile friendly. “Everything is solved now,” he reassured Nina. “Your friend is ill?”

  “Not really.” No communicable diseases being smuggled into Turkey. “Just the heat—and exhaustion, I think. She’ll be all right once we get to our hotel and she can rest for a few hours.”

  “What hotel?”

  “I thought we could get advice from a tourist bureau. Is there one near this dock?”

  “Not here. Do you speak any Turkish?”

  Nina shook her head. “Perhaps the tourist police could direct us—”

  The man brushed that aside. “You should have a guide and interpreter. Not expensive,” he added quickly. “How long do you stay here?”

  “Until tomorrow.”

  “One night? Then you should consider one of the large hotels where English is spoken. For one night, not too expensive.”

  He knows who we are, Nina was thinking. What is he? Someone high up in the tourist police? Or what? I bet, I bet this is Father’s doing: somehow he has arranged all this. “Not the Hilton,” she said firmly: that would be her father’s choice. She drew from her shoulder bag the small secondhand guide to Istanbul she had bought in Athens. Ten years out of date, but streets, stayed the same although hotels might change. She consulted the list she had marked. “I thought this hotel might be suitable.”

  The man shook his head, shrugged, signalled to the door, which he had left open. A much younger man entered. Turkish, Nina decided—these same dark brows and solemn eyes; but in dress and manner he could have passed for an American student. He stood still, smiling and pl
easant, while his long name was rattled off in a quick introduction. Nina could only catch part of it: Suleyman, she thought. “Most reliable,” the man in the silver-grey suit told her, and turned away for a brief word with the immigration official who saluted. Actually saluted, Nina thought in amazement. Then as quickly as he had appeared, he departed.

  Suleyman said, “It is all right now. You can leave. I shall bring a taxi. Wait there!” He pointed to the doorway to the street. A street of low buildings and a maze of traffic; movement and noise and complete chaos.

  Madge roused herself. “We’ll wait. Thank you.” And to Nina, as he hurried away, she said, “We need him.”

  I guess we do, thought Nina. They left the shed, the officials too busy shaking out every tightly rolled piece of clothing even to notice their departure.

  Suleyman was polite, efficient, and at three dollars a day— his frankly stated price—not expensive. He even directed the taxi, without comment, to the hotel Nina had selected. Built of wood, one bathroom to a floor, lethargic ceiling fans, no dining-room, no English spoken in spite of its advertisement: otherwise passible enough for a grade-B establishment, although the floors needed scrubbing and the lopsided curtains had a year’s dust ingrained in them. Nina, guide-book opened at “Accommodations,” had another hotel to suggest. Outlying district, Suleyman said, very nice but sixteen kilometres away. Ten miles? I give up, thought Nina. “What do you advise?”

  “A hotel near Taksim Square. It is the centre. Taxis, buses—”

  “What hotel?” And I know his answer.

  “Perhaps the Hilton?”

  “Too expensive.”

  “Not all rooms are so expensive. I can arrange something. I am guide and interpreter for many guests.”

  Madge said, “We’re wasting more money on this taxi ride than we’ll spend in one night at the Hilton.”

  Hardly, thought Nina. But she still had much of her allowance money intact, and she was too hot and damp and tired and bewildered to argue. “All right. We’ll try it. At least I can get my traveller’s cheques cashed there. Will the taxi driver take dollar bills?” She had hoped, naively it now appeared, that there would have been a money exchange at the pier.

  “I can change your dollars now.” Suleyman took a wad of large Turkish notes from an inner pocket. “Very good rates.”

  “I’m sure. Are you a student, Suleyman?”

  “Some of the time,” he said, with his bright smile.

  “And what are you going to be?” Surely not just a guide forever, Nina thought, as she watched him deftly counting out the right monies.

  “A poet,” he said.

  Completely bemused, Nina asked no more questions for the rest of the journey.

  ***

  Suleyman made his call from the Hilton lobby. His voice was cheerful. “All is settled. I directed them to the place you wished. This afternoon early, we sightsee. One only. The other is not well.”

  “Which one?”

  “The brown eyes.”

  “Serious? Does she need a doctor?”

  “No, no. A little rest, that is all.”

  Sightseeing, thought Renwick. It would have to be Topkapi; tomorrow, as on all Tuesdays, the palace would be closed. And if he knew Nina, the Sultans’ seraglio would be at the top of her visiting list. “There will be a lot of walking, many courtyards,” he suggested, to give Suleyman a clue to the place he had in mind for a meeting.

  Suleyman caught it. “In the third courtyard? Ladies like to see the—”

  Quickly, Renwick cut off the identifying word: “harem.” “The second is better. Near its entrance gate. About four o’clock?”

  “Later, perhaps.”

  If Nina began her sightseeing early (the seraglio opened at one), she’d be collapsing by five o’clock closing time. “Not much later,” Renwick said firmly, and hung up.

  He turned to Pierre Claudel, seated in the bedroom’s one lopsided armchair, which he had angled as much as possible under the ceiling’s fan. “You heard most of it. Topkapi Palace around four. The Divan courtyard.”

  “Who’s ill?”

  “Madge. Nothing serious. I hope.”

  “Then you won’t need me to take her off your hands?”

  “I’d like you to stick around, just see if Nina is all right.”

  “Trail after her and Suleyman? Deliver her safely to you?”

  “Might be an idea.” Claudel wouldn’t be noticeable: darkhaired, dark-eyed, dark-moustached, he could be taken easily for one of the young Turks who sat around the cafés talking politics and poetry. In addition, his Turkish was excellent, thanks to eighteen months in Ankara a few years ago. Renwick grinned. “I may need you as a guide and interpreter once Suleyman bows out.”

  “You’re doing not so badly by yourself.”

  “Don’t kid me, Pierre.” His previous visit to Turkey, when Greeks and Turks had been forgetting their NATO alliance in the heat of the battle over Cyprus, had lasted only five weeks: enough time to get him interested in the language, but to give him only a minimal grasp. It was this feeling of inadequacy, the struggle to understand and be understood (he managed better than he imagined) that had prompted him to steer Nina and Madge towards an English-speaking hotel. Not that Nina would thank him for it, if she knew. “How the hell do I persuade the girls to leave that goddamned camper?”

  Claudel’s bright eyes looked at him in astonishment. “I thought you had that worked out. Dangerous terrain ahead. And that’s the bloody truth. Haven’t they been listening to the radio? Nothing but revolts and armed attacks all the way down through Iran into Afghanistan. Or perhaps the Soviet advisers there will give Mr. Kiley and his party a safe-conduct guarantee.”

  Renwick said nothing. Once into India the camper would be safe. But after that? Bangladesh again in turmoil, Burma, Malaysia and brigands, Indo-china with all its vicious politics and millions of helpless victims. Surely Kiley must be planning to have the camper ferried from India to Hong Kong—the land route was now a death trap. “I wonder if anyone, except Kiley and Shawfield, has been paying much attention to the news.”

  “Then you might have to let Nina know, that—well, that Kiley is not exactly what he seems.”

  “And how do I do that without blowing the whistle for all to hear?” Including Theo. Particularly Theo. His new branch office of West-East Travel was now open and flourishing in Istanbul. “Kiley...” Renwick paused, shook his head. “If we only had the whole picture.”

  “We’ve got enough evidence on him.”

  “There’s still a gap. Two, in fact. No one actually witnessed him boarding the coastal freighter in Duisburg. The captain and crew swear they saw nothing. And we haven’t heard yet from the Rotterdam police about that blocking of the men’s-room doorway at Schiphol Airport. Three men came out, the cop noted. Later, he discovered the suspect must have been one of them. He must have made a report on what he could remember about them: rough details, certainly.”

  “Such as a green jacket? Yes, that would tie Kiley to Heathrow and Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport. One gap closed, at least. But Duisburg? We know all we’ll ever know about that: a man called Kurt Leitner, from Essen, definitely important in Section One of the People’s Revolutionary Force for Direct Action, travelled by truck to the Duisburg docks and vanished completely just before a coastal freighter, called the Maritza, sailed. What more do you need, Bob?”

  “Something that one of Theo’s clever lawyers won’t twist around in court. Give them three inches of a loophole and they’ll stretch it to twelve feet.”

  “So that’s why you aren’t asking the Turkish police to detain Kiley here, and have the Germans request his extradition to Essen. It’s tempting, I must say: it could end Theo’s plan before it achieved anything.”

  “It would end only Kiley’s part in his plan. Theo would lose one man, but he’d wait, do some reorganising, and try again from another angle. The ground is too well prepared; there’s been too big an effort, too much thought an
d money invested, for everything to be discarded along with Kiley. Whatever that plan is, it’s a shocker, Pierre.”

  Claudel nodded. “Then our best chance of uncovering it is to let Kiley go on his way, stirring up trouble wherever the camper stops—possibly organising or recruiting terrorists. And, of course, get Nina O’Connell safely out—without breaking our security. Will you manage it, Bob?”

  “I’ll make a damned good try. And we’ll find out Kiley’s stops, tip off the governments involved—if they’ll listen.”

  “But if Nina won’t listen?”

  “God knows,” Renwick said wearily. He looked at his watch. Ten past eleven. “Time to separate. I’ll see you in the distance around four o’clock. Okay?”

  “In the second courtyard, the place of the Divan. A good choice.” It was spacious, filled with numerous trees, pleasant cover on a hot afternoon. Cooler than this chair, thought Claudel as he rose and pulled his shirt free from his back.

  “It’s the closest to the seraglio’s entrance gate—making sure I don’t get lost,” Renwick said with a smile.

  “Meanwhile, I’ll take a little drive with my friend Fahri around the outskirts and visit another camping site, see if any advance reservations have been made. Do you know how many camping grounds Turkey has? Hundreds. Incredible.”

  “The old caravanserai spirit, perhaps.”

  Claudel cocked his head to one side. “Now why didn’t I think of that?”

  “You will, Pierre. You will.”

  With a laugh and a nod, Claudel closed the door behind him.

  Renwick sat on the edge of the bed, reached for the telephone. With some care, and the help of his little book Useful Phrases, he asked for Kahraman’s number. Extraordinary language, he thought as he waited for the call to go through. Where else would one two three be Bir Iki Üç?

  Kahraman came on the line, as crisp and confident as ever. His impeccable silver-grey suit wouldn’t dare sport a crush even in this weather. He rushed into conversation in his usual way, answered everything before it was asked. All had gone well at the quay this morning. Fortunate that he was there. Renwick’s delightful friends might have had just a little trouble. Because of the companions they had on their journey. Three men, two women. Smuggling. Definitely. Sticks of dynamite inside tightly rolled bits and pieces of clothing. Could not be too careful nowadays, could one? And what about lunch? And a long talk between old friends?