The Hidden Target

by Helen Macinnes

  “Seven minutes,” Jim told her when she came back into the room carrying her folded dress to pack into her duffel bag. He was at ease, tension and worry banished. “Changed your hair back to normal? I prefer it. But I liked that dress. You looked good in it. When will you wear it for me?”

  “Whenever we can get dressed up for dinner. Not much chance of that for a long time. I’ve been looking at a map, Jim. We’re really going to be travelling through some wild places. I think you should buy three black bed sheets. Then Marie-Louis, Madge, and I could wrap ourselves up like cocoons, and no one would give us a second look.”

  “You’ll be safe. All the way into India. I’ll buy you a sari there. How’s that?”

  “In New Delhi?” She had been trying to persuade him towards there for a major stop—after all, he knew she had spent two years in New Delhi with her parents. “I wonder how much I remember of it. I was four years old when I was sent home with Mother.”

  “You were too young to remember anything. It’s always a disappointment to go back.”

  “Then where do we make a major stop? Calcutta—oh, no!”

  “What about Bombay?”

  “And before that?”

  “Curious, aren’t you?”

  She concentrated on repacking the top items of her duffel bag, said, “We just like to know what we are going to see. Don’t we, Madge?”

  Madge nodded. “Something to look forward to. No more dead ends, Jim—like that awful café on that empty beach in Greece. Six days there? I ask you.”

  “We’ll stop at plenty of interesting towns and villages,” he assured them. “Even the wildest places will be safe.” He was amused. He began walking around the room, making sure nothing had been left.

  “What about languages, road signs?” Nina asked. After today’s experiences, her confidence was shaken. “Tony may be good at following maps, but what about food and shelter?”

  “We’ll manage,” Jim said. “We’ve got an interpreter for each country where language is a difficulty. We have one for Turkey right now. He met us at the frontier last night.”

  “But how?” She was knotting the duffel bag’s cord, securely but slowly, wondering now about her note to Bob: would Jim find an excuse to read it when she left it at the desk?

  “Advance booking. Simple. There’s a tourist agency that handles these things.”

  “Such efficiency!” Madge exclaimed. “But what extravagance.”

  “Not much. You pay a little and you get a lot.”

  “Oh, heavens!” Nina was horrified. “Three dollars a day. Madge, we forgot all about that!”

  Kiley stared at them in turn.

  “Suleyman’s fee,” Madge said.

  Nina moved to the writing table. “I’ll leave him a message cancelling tomorrow.”

  “There’s no paper left, just envelopes,” Madge said. “I used it to write my mother and Beth Jenson and Herb Galway and—”

  “Letters?” Kiley asked. “I’ll mail them downstairs while you check out. The time you waste, you two! Come on, come on.”

  Nina found an envelope. “I’ll put the money in this and leave it at the desk.”

  “Marked for Suleyman? Some hope that he’ll ever get it.”

  “At least I tried.” That would make a nice epitaph for her tombstone, she thought as she scrawled Suleyman’s name on the envelope. She took out her wallet and removed three dollars from her American-money section. Her note to Bob was among them. She had a brief pang of guilt as Jim, with Madge’s bag in his hand, came to pick up hers. “I’ll leave Suleyman’s envelope downstairs with our room key,” she said, and wondered at her calm voice. Not really a lie, she told herself: I didn’t tell the facts, but who asked me for them? A lie is the opposite of truth, and that’s a different matter. I wasn’t the one to say I was going by bus to Salonika and then took a car in quite another direction.

  Still troubled by that memory—but now she knew somehow that she’d never challenge Jim on that story—she followed him into the corridor.

  ***

  In the lobby, Madge said, “There’s Suleyman!” He was standing by one of the decorative plants, talking amiably with a bellboy. But his eyes were alert. He had seen the girls and the stranger. No astonishment showed on his face. He looked completely unconcerned, and totally innocent of the stranger’s sharp scrutiny.

  A seventeen- or eighteen-year-old kid, thought Kiley; nothing to worry about there. “I’ll get the right stamps for your letters,” he told Madge. “Shove them in my pocket. And you tell the desk you’re checking out. I’ll pay the bill when it’s ready.”

  Nina said, “I’ll do that, Jim. But first—Suleyman.”

  “Keep it short.”

  “I will,” she called back, already on her way. “Suleyman— your fee,” she told him, handing him the envelope. “With our thanks.”

  “You are leaving?”

  “Yes. And inside the envelope you will find a note. Please give it to my friend—the man who met us today at Topkapi. He will be here at half-past eight.”

  “I will give it to him.”

  “And tell him not to worry. We are having interpreters and guides all the way to India.”

  “To India?”

  “Yes.” She smiled. “They speak English there. We will have no need for an interpreter in Bombay.”

  “Bombay,” he repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “I will tell him all that,” Suleyman assured her solemnly.

  “Thank you, Suleyman.”

  He pocketed the envelope, bowing politely, thanking her with a flow of charming phrases. Suddenly, he was aware that the stranger now buying stamps at the porter’s desk had a keen eye directed at him. So, with another small bow, he quickly turned away to resume his conversation with the bellboy.

  Abrupt, thought Nina, as she joined Madge. But she was more puzzled by herself: why mention Bombay at all? The name had slipped out. Purposefully? Just a need for a little insurance—in case the letters she’d write in Bursa to her father and Aunt Eunice would go astray like the rest of her mail? Her suspicion distressed her, stabbed at her conscience. She glanced over at Jim, now posting Madge’s envelopes. At least he was standing in front of the letter box going through the right motions, although her view of them was partially blocked. Really, she asked herself, why shouldn’t our mail arrive home? You’re ridiculous, she told herself. Just because two postcards and a letter, sent on three different dates from three different places, never arrived. They could have been delayed by a coincidence of strikes or a slowdown in services; such things happened nowadays. She clung to that hope as she saw Jim coming to meet her. There was a warm smile on his lips, pleasure in his eyes, and admiration, too. He’d never hurt me, not Jim. And if he lied about Salonika? There could be an explanation for that. She hoped so.

  “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. Defin
itely 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.