The crack of rifles still continued from the pursuing boat but the moon had slipped beneath the far horizon and now, in the darkness, the Lazzes were firing wild.
The launch turned, was caught in the current, swung for a moment, and scraped the yacht’s gangway. Swithin had pulled Diana to her feet. Peter grabbed an iron stanchion.
“Now!” he cried. “Jump!”
Swithin and Diana landed together on the narrow platform at the foot of the yacht’s outboard ladder, staggered, and fell against the steep wooden stairs.
The racing tide sucked at the launch. It was torn from under Peter’s feet and drifted away into the darkness. He clung to the stanchion, his legs dangling in the water, heaved himself up, and wriggled to safety as Swithin grabbed his arm.
Diana was already stumbling up the ladder as Peter scrambled to his feet. Swithin pushed him towards the stairs. “After her!” he rasped, “and tell them to hide her in the bunkers.” Then he pulled the revolver from his pocket.
Ali’s boat swept up alongside. There was a dark huddle of men in the middle of it. One of them stretched out a hand and grabbed the gangway. Swithin kicked it off. He felt that if only he could kill the Prince, Sir Francis or Sir George might be able to overawe the leaderless soldiers who would remain. In the half-light he could not distinguish which of the men was Ali so he fired right into the middle of the group.
There was a screech of pain, but one of the men had grabbed his leg and another was scrambling on to the platform. He kicked himself free and bolted up the ladder after Peter.
As he reached the lighted quarter-deck sailors seemed to be running in all directions. The shrill blast of a boatswain’s whistle was calling ‘All hands on deck.’ The yacht’s Captain came hurrying forward.
“What the hell’s all this?” he thundered. Then he saw Diana.
Swithin grabbed his arm. “For God’s sake take her below,” he urged breathlessly. As he spoke there came the sound of the Lazzes’ feet pounding up the ladder. He turned and glimpsed Prince Ali at their head as they sprang on to the deck.
In the bright light Ali’s face looked ghastly. It was covered with blood. His fine nose was twisted and broken where Swithin had smashed it in, blood trickled trom his mouth and two of his front teeth were gone. His eyes were lit with the demoniacal glare of a maniac. He hurled himself on Swithin with the ferocity of a mad wolf. They crashed to the deck together.
The four Lazzes who had survived the fight, Servet, and another of the Eunuch’s men, rushed forward ready to kill, but they could not strike at Swithin in that tumbling heap without risk of harming their Prince.
Peter and the Captain were endeavouring to drag Diana away, but she fought and struggled with them, determined to remain with Swithin.
Suddenly the door of the after deck-house swung open and a little group of men came out. Among them she recognised her father. “Daddy,” she shrieked. “Help, Daddy! Help!”
Sir George was in the middle of the group standing beside the British Ambassador, some of the others were in uniform, but alone and a little in front stood a slim grey-faced man in immaculate evening dress.
The bulk of the figures that Swithin had thought to be sailors drew together. Somebody barked an order. They sprang to attention, and then, like a whisper of the wind a murmur ran round the deck.
“The Gazi!—The Gazi!—The Gazi!”
Swithin wrenched himself free of Ali, rolled over and lurched to his feet. For a second he stood there staring at that almost legendary figure. Mustapha Kemal Pasha. The man who lives buried in the depths of Asia Minor. The man who had defied the might of the Victorious Allies, and with inferior forces driven the legions of the British Empire from Gallipoli into the sea. The greatest General of his age and the man who has welded the shattered remnants of an empire into a new nation.
Ali had also staggered to his feet. He stared round out of half-blinded eyes and a sudden horror spread over his blood-smeared face. But he ran forward pointing a shaking finger at Swithin.
“This man,” he stammered, “is a secret agent—he has escaped from prison—he—he has shot two of my men!”
“So?” The Gazi’s voice came harsh and cold. His tired, lined, bitter face expressed no emotion, but his great pale magnetic eyes bored through the Prince.
“Sir! Excellency!” Swithin gasped, thrusting his hand into his pocket and drawing out the locket. “Judge—judge for yourself. Whatever I have done has been for your service.”
Kemal extended a long nervous hand and took the locket. Sir George, Sir Francis, Diana, Peter, the Prince, Swithin, the Gazi’s entourage and the soldiers of the bodyguard did not make a single movement while he examined the inscription on the Kaka wafer. A hush like that of death fell upon the crowded deck.
Then in a clear incisive voice he read out the signatures upon it: “Ali Mahomet Bayezid Orchan, Prince of the Ottoman Empire. Janik Lijje Azez, Prince of Kurdistan. Hassen ben Irrad, Emir of Kirkuk. Kazdim Hari Bekar, Chef de Police Secret. Waldo Nauenheimer, Direktor, Hartz Chemisch und Metallen Allgemein Gesellschaft.”
Swithin looked swiftly across the deck to where Diana, her hair all tumbled, her dress soiled and torn, stood now beside her father. She caught his glance, smiled, and then very rudely put her finger to her nose. Next moment he saw Arif and Jeanette standing side by side a few feet behind her and his heart leapt for joy to find that those two good friends of his were safe.
The Gazi was speaking again. “Captain Destime. Turkey owes you much. Owing to your earlier work, which your Ambassador has reported to me, and that of your associates, the armament depots of these traitors are already in the hands of my trusted officers. We were not altogether unprepared and I have long suspected the loyalty of Azez and ben Irrad. They are most carefully watched, and Nauenheimer was arrested by my orders this morning when about to leave the country. For this final proof against the ringleaders of the conspiracy which you have obtained I am grateful. I shall take an early opportunity of recognising your services in a fitting manner.”
He turned abruptly to one of his officers, and pointed at Prince Ali. “Arrest that man. Take him ashore and hang him. He has proved disloyal to Turkey.”
As four members of the bodyguard closed round Prince Ali, Kemal was shaking hands with the Ambassador and Sir George Duncannon. Swithin caught the Gazi’s last words to the latter.
“To-night we have done much to reach a happy understanding. My Minister of Finance will work out the details with your brother.” Then with a quick stride he walked over to the gangway.
Three launches had come alongside. The Gazi left by the first, Ali between his guards in the second, and some minutes later the Ambassador prepared to depart in the third. Peter was standing dazed and silent at the ship’s rail, staring down into the dark waters. As Sir Francis Cavendish was about to leave he took his arm, and said gently, “I don’t know what you’ve been up to young man, and in the circumstances I don’t intend to ask, but I think perhaps you had better come ashore with me.”
• • • • •
Half an hour later Swithin stood in the stern of the yacht. Diana leaned against his shoulder. Underneath their feet the screws churned the water and a trail of foam ran like a silver pathway from the ship’s wake until it was hidden by the darkness. The twinkling lights of Stamboul were dimming in the distance as the Golden Falcon cleaved her way through the waters of the Bosphorus and out into the Marmara—carrying them home.
“Do you think you will enjoy this voyage better than our last?” she asked with a wicked smile.
“You little devil,” he laid his cheek against hers very gently, “but why on earth didn’t you tell me about Waldo Nauenheimer?”
“I didn’t know enough—to be certain. Only that he was an armament man—and going on to Constantinople after we reached Athens. You were terribly jealous weren’t you—poor stupid. I was awfully sorry for you really—but you were so deep and intense that if I had displayed the least liking for you Waldo
might have suspected that I was not quite as shallow as I seemed whereas my apparent passion for that nice idiot Cæsar Penton convinced him that I was perfectly harmless.”
Swithin grunted. “I believe you liked the fellow really.”
“Of course I did,” she replied demurely—“otherwise I should have taken on Haddo Claydonffinch.”
“But think of all the hours we wasted sweet—and you didn’t succeed in getting anything out of Waldo anyway.”
“Really!” Diana exclaimed. “The conceit of you amateurs. What do you think I’ve been up to these last two months. You dear fool, it was I who secured the information which enabled Kemal to arrest Waldo this morning.”
“Darling!”
“What?”
“Kiss and forgive me sweet.”
As they drew apart for a moment someone turned on the radio in the deck-house. A clear harsh voice reverberated on the air.
“… and so to those who are members of the junior cells of the Kaka let the fate that has overtaken your leaders be a warning. I could trace you and hunt you down one by one if I would, but I prefer that you should come, of your own accord, to regard such attempts to wreck the sure foundation upon which I am building a new Turkey—with horror. For those …”
“It’s the Gazi,” said Swithin, “speaking to his people about the break up of the Kaka.”
“But they will all be in bed! It must be the middle of the night,” exclaimed Diana.
“No member of the Kaka will be asleep darling—you forget, their arms were to be distributed to-night.”
The voice of Mustapha Kemal Pasha came again strong and vibrant, “… those followers of the Prophet who wish to continue the practice of their ancient faith are free to do so, as also are the Christians and the Jews. But let them beware how they attempt to tamper with the machinery of State. Religion and nationality are things apart. Men, and women alike, your proudest thought should be that each one of you is a Turk. As a nation we are second to none in our six centuries of history. To-day we are healthier as a State than we have been for generations. Our ancient spirit grows to new manhood in a happier form. I am a Turk. I speak to all who have Turkish blood in their veins. Stand by me! Follow me! Obey my ordinances!—and for another six hundred years Turkey shall hold her place among the nations!”
A Note on the Author
DENNIS WHEATLEY Dennis Wheatley (1897–1977) was an English author whose prolific output of stylish thrillers and occult novels made him one of the world’s best-selling writers from the 1930s through the 1960s.
Wheatley was the eldest of three children, and his parents were the owners of Wheatley & Son of Mayfair, a wine business. He admitted to little aptitude for schooling, and was expelled from Dulwich College, London. In 1919 he assumed management of the family wine business but in 1931, after a decline in business due to the depression, he began writing.
His first book, The Forbidden Territory, became a bestseller overnight, and since then his books have sold over 50 million copies worldwide. During the 1960s, his publishers sold one million copies of Wheatley titles per year, and his Gregory Sallust series was one of the main inspirations for Ian Fleming’s James Bond stories.
During the Second World War, Wheatley was a member of the London Controlling Section, which secretly coordinated strategic military deception and cover plans. His literary talents gained him employment with planning staffs for the War Office. He wrote numerous papers for the War Office, including suggestions for dealing with a German invasion of Britain.
Dennis Wheatley died on 11th November 1977. During his life he wrote over 70 books and sold over 50 million copies.
Discover books by Dennis Wheatley published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/DennisWheatley
Duke de Richleau
The Forbidden Territory
The Devil Rides Out
The Golden Spaniard
Three Inquisitive People
Strange Conflict
Codeword Golden Fleece
The Second Seal
The Prisoner in the Mask
Vendetta in Spain
Dangerous Inheritance
Gateway to Hell
Gregory Sallust
Black August
Contraband
The Scarlet Impostor
Faked Passports
The Black Baroness
V for Vengeance
Come into My Parlour
The Island Where Time Stands Still
Traitors’ Gate
They Used Dark Forces
The White Witch of the South Seas
Julian Day
The Quest of Julian Day
The Sword of Fate
Bill for the Use of a Body
Roger Brook
The Launching of Roger Brook
The Shadow of Tyburn Tree
The Rising Storm
The Man Who Killed the King
The Dark Secret of Josephine
The Rape of Venice
The Sultan’s Daughter
The Wanton Princess
Evil in a Mask
The Ravishing of Lady Mary Ware
The Irish Witch
Desperate Measures
Molly Fountain
To the Devil a Daughter
The Satanist
Lost World
They Found Atlantis
Uncharted Seas
The Man Who Missed the War
Espionage
Mayhem in Greece
The Eunuch of Stamboul
The Fabulous Valley
The Strange Story of Linda Lee
Such Power is Dangerous
The Secret War
Science Fiction
Sixty Days to Live
Star of Ill-Omen
Black Magic
The Haunting of Toby Jugg
The KA of Gifford Hillary
Unholy Crusade
Short Stories
Mediterranean Nights
Gunmen, Gallants and Ghosts
This electronic edition published in 2014 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP
First published in 1935 by Hutchinson & Co. Ltd.
Copyright © 1935 Dennis Wheatley
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The moral right of the author is asserted.
eISBN: 9781448213887
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The Eunuch of Stamboul Page 35