Fortune of Fear

by L. Ron Hubbard

Jeez, boss,” said the taxi driver, “you rob that bank?” He was pretty bug-eyed as he got his shoulder to it and boosted the bale of currency into the taxi.

  We started off. We passed the Buyuk Post Office, got tangled up in a byway and were wheezing up the hill toward the Great Bazaar. Every few yards, the taxi driver said, “Wow.”

  After about the thirty-fifth “Wow,” and an unusual number of pushcart thumps, with the assorted violence of fist-shaking by the owners which accompanies that, I noted we were heading south and were about to climb into the Street of Weavers. Aside from the fact that it is not wide enough for a taxi, if we were going to return to Afyon, we should be heading in exactly the opposite direction to get across the Bosporus and into Asian Turkey.

  “Hey!” I yelled above the scream of pedestrians. “You’re going the wrong way!”

  He stepped on the brakes and stopped. It was about time, too. The nose of the taxi was into a basket shop, the fat lady proprietor struggling amidst her falling wares.

  “Wow,” said the taxi driver. He just sat there. I swatted him on the top of the head. It attracted his attention. He turned around, reached over the back of the front seat and tried to heft the bale of money at my feet. “Wow,” he said. “Is this really yours, Officer Gris?”

  “It certainly is,” I said. “And I can get as much every week. Now get this taxi turned around and start home! I have things to do and we’ve 281 miles to go.”

  People were pounding on the windows. I handled that. I lowered one, stuck the barrels of the shotgun out, pointed them into the air and fired them.

  It didn’t have the desired effect. It attracted more crowd.

  But Apparatus training asserted itself. I reached into the bag, took out a fat fistful of worthless Turkish coins and flung them over their heads to a point some distance away.

  Magic. We immediately had enough space to turn around while people scrabbled for the kuruş.

  The taxi driver was up to it. We soon were speeding on our way.

  “The car!” he said. “It’s over in Beyoglu. Hold on, I’ll have you there in no time.”

  We roared past the Egyptian Bazaar, twisted our way into the mainstream of the approaches and were soon rattling across the Galata Bridge which separates the Golden Horn from the Bosporus.

  We progressed through a band of smoke-belching factories and, diving down some questionable alleyways, at length emerged into an area which might have once been an estate but which today was a gecekondu, a word which means “set down by night” and designates a squatter town of the meanest hovels.

  Wheels skidding in garbage and mud, the taxi approached what might have once been a stable but was now held together mainly by the sheet-iron shanties that were using it for a back wall.

  “You let me do all the talking,” said the taxi driver, Ahmed. “And throw your coat or something over that bale of money.” He got out and approached a door.

  I did as he asked. Looking at some of the people around here, I also reloaded the shotgun. Gods, but this was a slum!

  The taxi driver came back shortly. He beckoned me to get out. He locked up the cab thoroughly. He whispered, “Now, don’t let out any cries of delight or anything like that. This is a real find. The general owned this estate once. He was a very famous man. They have no idea at all of the value of the car, as it was bought when the lira was worth a hundred times what it is now. So don’t go shouting ‘huzzah.’ And don’t go throwing your cap in the air. And let me do the bargaining.”

  I agreed. By bending down and going through a tunnel of fallen stone, we came into a dim area.

  There was a loud bustle and squawk. Disturbed chickens were flying everywhere!

  My eyes became accustomed to the gloom. A huge bulk of something loomed. It was covered with a worn-out army tarpaulin. And the tarpaulin was covered totally with chicken dung.

  I heard a sort of evil cackle to my right. An ancient man was standing there. He had a nose like a beak. He had no teeth. That laugh was reminiscent of the Manco devil.

  A woman bustled in from a side door. She had two naked children clinging to her skirt. She was very fat and very dirty.

  “Where’s the car?” I whispered to Ahmed.

  “Right there,” he said. “Don’t try to lift the tarpaulin. I’ve been through all that. It’s all right.”

  I peeked anyway. I saw a tire so flat, the rim was through the rubber. I went a little further. I flinched. I was staring eye to eye with an eagle! It was bright red. Its wings were outstretched. It had horns! It was painted on the door.

  “The general was descended from the Gok Turks,” whispered the taxi driver. “One of his ancestors was the Turk hero, Kultegin. That eagle appears in his crown. Ain’t it great?”

  I dropped the tarpaulin and wiped some chicken dung off my fingers in straw. “Is there any car behind it?” I asked.

  “It’s a Daimler-Benz,” whispered Ahmed. “Don’t be misled. It’s been sitting there for more than a quarter of a century. It needs a little work.”

  The dirty woman spoke up. It was just as though she was picking up a conversation that had not been concluded. “And I won’t take a kuru less!”

  “I’d have to see the registration papers,” said Ahmed. “How do I know they’re valid?”

  She reached into her apron pocket. “They’re right here and I own it. You’re not going to swindle me out of anything! I was his cook and the court awarded it to me for unpaid wages. Here’s all the papers. And you can argue until you explode and I am not going to reduce it one piastre! I know you swindlers. This car has historical significance. He was shot right there in the back seat.”

  “I thought it was bulletproof,” I whispered.

  “He had the window down,” said Ahmed. Then to the woman he said, “Well, all right, hanim, if that’s the way it is, we’ll take it.”

  I tugged his sleeve urgently. “Wait, wait,” I whispered. “This thing won’t even run!”

  Ahmed brushed my hand off. “I told you not to appear excited,” he whispered. “You’ll drive the price up.”

  I moaned to myself. Here went the bulk of my week’s allowance for a piece of junk!

  Ahmed and the woman did a firm handshake. She said, “I’ll sign over the papers just the moment I see the money.”

  Ahmed turned to me. He said, “Here are the keys. I don’t want to be handling your money. Run out and get twenty thousand lira.”

  I was stunned. I almost laughed. And then I remembered in time his admonition. I raced out and undid the bale. I grabbed a double handful, locked the taxi and raced back in. I was hard put not to guffaw aloud. Twenty thousand lira is only two hundred US dollars!

  The ancient man was standing there cackling his evil laugh.

  Ahmed got the papers all signed and counted two hundred hundred-lira notes into her hand, told her someone would come for it.

  We drove away. “You had me worried there,” he said. “I was afraid you’d let the cat out of the bag that we were practically stealing it.”

  “Why so cheap?” I said. “It would be worth that for scrap.”

  “I think the general was on the wrong side,” said Ahmed. “He tried to stage a counter-coup and put a sultan back on the throne. But we’re in cars, not politics. I’ve got to get over to Yolcuzade Street and get to the garage that told me about it.”

  Soon, we were in a more civilized part of Beyoglu, the area of Istanbul on the north side of the Golden Horn. We pulled up in a ramshackle garage where lots of trucks stood about in various stages of disrepair.

  A tough-looking Turk came over and he and Ahmed walked away. Ahmed was showing him the registration papers. They had a low-voiced conversation and suddenly the tough Turk’s voice rose to a crescendo.

  “But,” he yelled, “I went over myself and inspected it! It needs new tires, new hoses, new gaskets, new exhaust pipes, new upholstery and a dead rabbit taken out of the transmission! I won’t do it for a kuru less than . . .”

  Ahmed
was shushing him. He led him much further away. Finally, Ahmed came over to the taxi. “I finally beat him down. He’ll put it all in running order, but he demands we pay him in advance. Give me five thousand of those hundred-lira notes.”

  “Five hundred thousand lira!” I gaped.

  “Well, yes. They don’t make parts for it anymore and any they need will have to be hand-machined. That’s only five thousand US dollars. We own it now. We can’t just let it sit there. The police would get after us.”

  I knew I was beaten.

  “Here,” he said, “I’ll help you count it out.”

  “No, no,” I said. “I’ll let nobody touch money now but me.” I began to pick up packets of hundred-lira notes. It made the bale less than half.

  He got a big basket and carted the money away.

  Oh, well, it was a one-time-only expense. And I could call upon the Afyon Branch at any time for more.

  I wondered what the car was really like under that coating of chicken dung.

  PART THIRTY-EIGHT

  Chapter 3

  Along routes taken by the victorious Alexander, in the paths of the Romans who had conquered the East, over the broad highways established by the Crusaders in their holy cause, I sped back to Afyon.

  The old Citroen taxi with Deplor of Planet Modon at the wheel might not have compared to the cloth-of-gold caparisoned horses who had carried the swaggering giants of history when they invaded Asia, but it made better time. It ignored the shouts and shaken fists which always, since time began, have protested the overrunning of Anatolia and laying it waste with lakes of blood. Traveling at ninety and a hundred miles an hour, the taxi’s way was not seriously disputed by other motorists, trucks, donkeys and camels. We were going too fast for them to note down the license plates and they were only riffraff anyway, far beneath a conqueror’s contempt.

  There were going to be some changes made.

  They started the moment the rugged and aggressive spire of Afyonkarahisar came into view. The wintry air of this 3,000-foot-high plateau was clear as crystal today and the 750-foot fortress stood out like a finger of a god about to goose the heavens. It was a clear command for me to do likewise.

  “Where can I find Musef and Torgut?” I yelled at the taxi driver. They were the two wrestlers Heller had messed up.

  Driving madly into the outskirts, he yelled back, “Ain’t seen ’em since they got out of the hospital. I don’t think anybody else has, either.”

  “You find them!” I commanded. “And right now!”

  A local cab ahead was discharging a passenger and a goat into a mud hut. Ahmed screeched our Citroen to a halt. He had a rapid interchange with the local hacker.

  Shortly we were diving down an alley. We emerged in a backstreet slum.

  Ahmed crossed a litter-strewn yard and knocked at a rickety door. After some time, it opened a tiny crack. The taxi driver came back to the cab. “They’re in there. They don’t want to see anybody.”

  I stuffed a handful of lira in my pocket and got out.

  “Lock the cab so nobody can get at this money and go kick the door in. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Reassured by the way I was gripping the shotgun, Ahmed did as he was told. He prudently stepped aside.

  I yelled into the room. “I’ve come to give you a job!”

  Rapid whisperings came out of the interior, for all the world like rats running around.

  Then somebody called, “We don’t believe you but come in, anyway.”

  I entered. The room was dark and dirty, more like a hole in the mud than living quarters.

  Musef and Torgut stood at the far side of the room. They were certainly shadows of their former selves. They must have lost a hundred pounds apiece and their yellow skin sagged on them, kind of grayish. They were dressed in rags, had probably sold their clothes. Here were two bully boys come on hard times. Just what I wanted.

  “How are you?” I said.

  Musef said to Torgut, “He asks us how we are. Is he blind, you think?”

  Torgut said, “Well, tell him. He’s holding the shotgun.”

  Musef said, “Since that cursed DEA man fouled us, nobody will hire us to beat people up anymore. The (bleepard) ruined our reputations.”

  Torgut said, “And all with his lousy tricks when we wasn’t looking.”

  They were talking about Heller. They still believed my story that he worked for the Drug Enforcement Administration. My heart warmed to them.

  “I have continuous employment for you,” I said. “I am going to hire you to make the staff jump at the villa. They’re sloppy and incompetent. They serve cold kahve and warm melons. They don’t bow and kiss my feet.”

  “You want us to kill ’em?” said Musef.

  “What I want you to do is to make very certain that every time I crook so much as my little finger, they jump like they were shot and go tearing around giving service and bow three times when they see me and kiss my feet when they leave.”

  “We can use lead pipes on them?” said Torgut.

  “Whips,” I said. “And fists when called for. You relieve each other and one is always on duty outside my door. You go armed at all times and if anybody tries to get in that I don’t want to see, you shoot him.”

  The way they hated Heller, he would sure never get in!

  “You feed us?” said Musef.

  “All you want to eat,” I said. After all, that was a base expense and not out of my pocket. “I will even pay you something from time to time.”

  “Allah be praised!” they both said in chorus.

  “One more thing,” I said. “If anything happens to me or my money, my friend, the most powerful banker in Turkey, has orders to spare no expense to run you down and have you shot.”

  “Allah forbid!” they both chorused.

  “So long as the villa staff pleases me and so long as both me and my money are safe,” I said, “you have a cushy job.” I threw the handful of lira down on the floor. “Get yourselves some clothes and report for work at my villa, forthwith.”

  Oh, did they dive for that lira! And once they had it, they stayed on their knees and bowed.

  I made a benign sign over their heads and left.

  Oh, but there were going to be some changes made!

  “Drive on, drive on!” I told the driver and we went rocketing through the town, down the road past the Afyonkarahisar spire, toward the mountains and to the villa.

  We pulled into the yard. The gatekeeper wasn’t even there. Ha, little did they know what was about to hit them. But my target was not staff.

  The BMW was present so I knew Utanc would be home. I pounded on her door. “It’s me!” I yelled. “I have news for you.” I knew that would make her open up.

  It did.

  The two little boys were sitting on the floor doing a coloring book. I said, “I have just had a conference with my banker. He advises me that if credit cards continue to be used, my financial picture will be ruined. So if you place just one more order on credit cards, even for a pack of cigarettes,” I gestured with the shotgun at the two little boys, “I will shoot them.”

  She stared at me. She saw the conquering resolution in my glare. She said, “You would, too, you (bleepard).”

  “You can bet I would,” I said. “If you want money you can come to me for it and you can come crawling on your knees. You understand that?”

  She slammed the door. But I knew she understood it. She’d come around and she’d be crawling on her knees for it, too.

  That was handled.

  I paid Ahmed two hundred hundred-lira notes for his day’s work. Twenty thousand lira was more money then he had seen in a month. He saluted with the two fistfuls of money, very surprised and pleased. But actually, he was the only friend I had on this planet who had been true-blue all along. I mustn’t stint where he was concerned, even if this bale was getting lighter.

  I had one more stop today. I put my money securely in a safe—I barely could get it in—and, pu
tting on my control star and picking up the final sack, I went down the tunnel.

  Gods, but were the Antimancos surprised to see me! When I walked into their crew quarters, they all jumped up.

  “When we got back,” said Stabb with frowning brow, shoving his pointed head at me, “we found the hangar crew had made that platform hollow and the Blixo crew put something in it! I knew it wasn’t the right weight.”

  “And what did they tell you they put in it?” I asked.

  “They didn’t know,” said Captain Stabb, “but you do.”

  “Compressed Scotch,” I said. “They filled it full of compressed Scotch. I was going to use it for bribes. But I have bad news.”

  “I bet you do,” said Stabb. “We been betting that you did the job and grabbed the loot for yourself.”

  “Actually,” I said, “the gold vaults are two miles deep in the earth, way beyond the range of the line-jumper. I almost got caught. I had to use a blastick and a police slash gun and I fired both barrels of my shotgun. You can see how dirty it is. But I fought my way clear and got back.”

  “Hey, that took a lot of cold nerve,” said an engineer.

  “It certainly did,” I said. “And before you falsely accuse me of welshing on my own gang, look at this. Once I found the gold vaults were beyond us, I grabbed what I could and ran.”

  I handed them the heavy sack of junk stones.

  They spilled some of it on the table and stared at it. And I will say this, it sure glittered in the glowlights.

  “Look at this!” said a pilot, holding up a big paste emerald.

  “Look at these!” said an engineer, pouring a handful of synthetic diamonds and flawed glass rubies from palm to palm.

  “They’re all yours,” I said, grandly. “Divide them up amongst you any way you wish. In appreciation of your loyal support and to compensate for no gold, you can keep every one.”

  With moist eyes, Captain Stabb said, “You’re a great man, Gris, even if you are an officer!”

  There was no higher tribute from these pirate scum.

  I went back to my room and grinned and grinned.

  “Gris,” I said to my image in the mirror as I undressed to take a well-earned sleep, “there is nothing that can stop you now. All problems are just buzzing flies and with cunning and money, you can swat them. Even Heller and Krak.”