“Speaking of amateurs,” Pierre murmured from the other side of the backseat, “my hat goes off to you, madame. I would be most grateful for the chance to take driving lessons from you someday.”
Corporal Bailey swung around to nod agreement in Pierre’s direction. “I gotta agree with you, Major. Up to this point, I would have said you were the cat’s meow. But this dame, I mean, Mrs. Hollamby here, she’s in a class of her own.”
“Nonsense,” the old lady demurred, as a faint flush of pleasure crept up her neck. “I have simply adapted to the world in which I live.”
The two Marines sat up front with Phyllis; Pierre and Jake manned the two backseat windows with their wives in between. Jasmyn had hardly breathed, much less spoken, since the journey began. The one advantage to their cramped backseat was that it kept Jake from bouncing about. Every inch of his frame seemed to be bruised and complaining.
From his corner position, Jake watched Sergeant Adams grimace and shut his eyes as they came within a hairsbreadth of plunging over yet another cliffside curve. It gave him a sliver of comfort to know the leatherneck found this journey as nerve-grinding as he did. “I still want to know—”
“You are quite right, Colonel,” Phyllis calmly acknowledged. “It is both a relief and a pleasure to know that we have allies of such caliber. You see, my husband was more than simply the head of a British company’s local subsidiary.”
“A spy,” Jake said, the pieces falling into place. “He worked for the British Secret Service.”
A flicker of approval passed through the rearview mirror. “Just so. He was a remarkable man, my husband, and it was a pleasure to work alongside him. As his health deteriorated, he increasingly came to rely on me. His decline began at the onset of war, you see, and he felt it would be an absolute crime to let our side down. Then, within a ten-month period, I suffered the double loss of both my husband and my son. Despite all my prayers, the resulting void threatened to consume me. Thankfully, by then Whitehall knew of my own efforts and began to treat me as an agent in my own right. The pressure of supplying them with information helped enormously to see me through that critical period.” Another glance in the mirror, this one directed toward Sally. “It was a true godsend, the fact of being not only needed, but actually important in such a crucial period.”
Sally asked, “And the Circle of Friends?”
“All true,” Phyllis replied. “And all amateurs. Which is one reason they have continued to remain such a valuable asset.”
“And you are their conduit.”
“Quite so, Colonel.” Phyllis entered and departed from a village so fast that all they saw of it was dust and blur and a few scattered feathers. “And their filter. I fear the dear ladies in their unbridled enthusiasm pass on a great deal of chaff with the grain.”
“I would be honored if you would call me Jake.”
“Why, how very gallant. It would be an honor.”
Pierre cleared his throat. “I still fail to see the need for concern over what the Russians will be able to pass back to Istanbul.”
“As to the exact range of their radios,” Phyllis said, “I am not certain. But I do know they would have been able to pass on the information through a more powerful channel.”
“Of course,” Sally cried. “The ships!”
Jake winced at the sudden pain of trying to swivel and look down at Sally. “What ships?”
* * *
“This way, hurry!” Despite the need for her cane, Phyllis set a pace down the boarding ramp that had them all trotting to keep up. The next departure was a passenger ferry, so she had blithely swung into a space far too small for her enormous vehicle, and led off on foot. She had timed their rush for the boat perfectly, for as the last of them scampered on board the ropes were cast, the whistle blown, then the ferry shuddered and started off. Jake leaned heavily against a metal pillar and searched the docks, but could see no sign of pursuit.
“Maybe she gave them the slip,” Bailey offered hopefully.
“More likely,” Pierre replied, moving up alongside, “they have decided to concentrate their forces closer to the lair.”
“I fear the major is correct,” Phyllis said.
Sally slipped her arm around Jake and asked yet again, “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“How could he be? He has survived an attack from the Russians that clearly has rattled his bones.” Phyllis pointed her cane toward a set of empty deck chairs. “Really, Colonel, I must insist that you sit down. Your day is far from finished.”
Jake sighed his way over and down, as tired and battered as he had felt in his entire life. The group moved with him, settling into nearby benches, pulling over available chairs. “I do not see,” Pierre said, “how you can be so sure this Kumdare site is truly intended as an observation post.”
“Harry told me the same thing on the phone,” Jake said. “Or tried to.”
“It is the perfect location,” Phyllis replied. For all her years, the day appeared to have left no mark on her at all. If anything, she seemed to have taken nourishment from the excitement. Her voice remained fresh, her eyes sparkling and alive. “This stretch of water is like the narrow neck of a bottle. Any ship wishing to enter the Mediterranean Sea from either the Caspian or the Black Sea has to pass through the Bosphorus.”
“And those two seas,” Pierre murmured, “are the locations of the Soviet Union’s only warm-water ports. The only ones not shrouded in ice for several months a year.”
“Precisely,” Phyllis said approvingly. “Russia has sought to conquer Istanbul for centuries, back even when it still was known as Constantinople. Czar Ivan the Great went so far as to call it the key to world dominion. Capturing it would open the vast wealth of all southern Europe and northern Africa to direct attack. Britain has gone to war with Russia over this narrow passage no fewer than four times. After the last battle, a pact was finally signed that permitted Russian vessels free passage through the strait, but only so long as they carried neither weapons nor munitions.”
Jake struggled to cast aside the rising wave of fatigue and demanded, “Then why all this subterfuge about a cultural center? Why not simply open up a watch station and be done with it?”
“Two reasons. First, because Turkey stands at the edge of a political precipice. And second, because too many of our politicians stubbornly insist on seeing Russia as our gallant ally. They have too much invested in this friendship to accept that Stalin and his minions are as power mad as the worst of the old czars. What they fail to accept is that the Soviets are seeking to gain through subversion and deception what they could not obtain through force of arms.”
“They are trying to install a Communist government here,” Sally offered.
“Not only Communist,” Phyllis said, casting her an approving glance. “They want a puppet regime under Moscow’s direct control. Even as we speak, we are witnessing the same tragedy happening throughout all of Eastern Europe. That is why this station is so vital to all our interests.”
Despite his best efforts, Jake found it impossible to keep his eyes open any longer. The lids fell as though louvered down, the voices mingled with the rumbling motor and the wind and the cry of gulls, and he was gone.
Chapter Fourteen
“Jake?” Sally’s gentle hand rocked his shoulder once more. “We’re there.”
He groaned his way to wakefulness, feeling he had been asleep for less than five minutes, then groaned a second time when his muscles complained stiffly. He let Pierre and Samuel Bailey help him to his feet because he had to. Phyllis watched sympathetically as he tried to unleash his complaining limbs with a few simple stretches. “If it is any consolation, Colonel, the fact that the Russians went to all this trouble is a clear indication that they consider you a grave threat to their plans.”
“I guess I should be grateful,” Jake said, wincing as the boat jammed the dock and knocked them about.
“Be glad you are alive,” Pierre said, offering Jake h
is arm. “When that truck appeared from nowhere, I thought we were both leaving this earth for good.”
“Don’t talk like that,” Jasmyn said sharply. “Not ever.”
“Come,” Phyllis said, starting for the lowered docking platform. “Those waiting taxis will soon be taken.”
By the time they made it to the rank of antiquated vehicles, Jake’s legs and his mind were moving a bit more comfortably. He said to the two Marines, “I want you to take a second cab.”
“Good, a plan,” Pierre said, his mobile features rising in a vast smile. “I find great relief in the news, my friend, that your head is working once more.”
Jake ignored him. “They’ll probably be watching the consulate entrances.”
“Most certainly,” Phyllis interjected.
“We’ll take one taxi and work up a diversion. See if we can get them to follow us. Then you two scramble over the side wall and make like greased lightning for the consul general’s office.”
“You can count on us, sir,” Bailey said.
“An excellent plan,” Phyllis said. “I remain most impressed with you, Colonel.”
“If for any reason Knowles isn’t available, head for Barry Edders. Tell him we have concrete proof that the Russians are sabotaging the construction of our observation post in Kumdare. Inform him also of the reason behind it, this sighting of Soviet warships making way for the Bosphorous, and through that into the Mediterranean, in direct breech of international treaty.”
“Consider it done,” Sergeant Adams assured him.
Jake turned to Phyllis. “I can’t thank you enough for everything, ma’am.”
The old lady raised herself to full height. “And just what do you intend to do,” she demanded imperiously, “once you have managed to draw attention your way?”
“Run,” Jake said, turning back to the Marines. “Everything depends on you getting through.”
“Like the corporal says,” Adams replied, his chin as aggressive as a battleship’s prow. “We won’t let you down.”
Jake nodded, turned to Sally. “I want you to go with Phyllis.”
“There is absolutely no way I am letting you go off on your own, the state you’re in,” she said, her eyes flashing fire. “So you can just put it out of your tiny little mind.”
“And you, don’t even start,” Jasmyn warned Pierre before he could even get out the first word.
“Quite right,” Phyllis said crisply. “I shall not be brushed off so lightly either, young man.”
Jake looked from one stubborn woman to the other. “Listen—”
“You’re wasting valuable time, Jake,” Sally snapped.
“Indeed so,” Phyllis added primly. “And just where on earth did you intend to run?”
* * *
“Heads up, everybody,” Jake said, as their taxi rounded the final corner and the consulate gates came into view. “Here we go.”
Their vehicle had the single grace of being large; the ancient Packard had no doubt once been a proud touring car, but time and neglect and countless miles of bad roads had reduced it to a creaking, amiable wreck. The driver was as friendly and elderly as the car and as tiny as it was huge. He was almost lost behind the massive steering wheel. A change of gears meant lunging to one side and ducking his head beneath the dash, momentarily losing sight of their direction, so he drove almost entirely in second. Jake felt his hackles rise at the thought of trying to lose a pursuit in this rocking bucket of bolts.
The simple fact of being the only person who could communicate with the driver had granted Phyllis pride of place. She sat erect in the middle of the front seat, with Jasmyn beside her. Sally sat in the backseat between Jake and Pierre.
When the consulate came into view, Jake tensed at the sight of three cars and a dozen stern-faced men blocking their entry. A pair of Marine guards were arguing and gesticulating for the men to move their vehicles. They refused to budge.
Sally abruptly leaned across Jake and shouted through the open window, “Oh no, it’s them! Quick, quick, let’s get out of here!”
The angry arguing cut off as though a switch had been hit, and the men watched open-mouthed as the car ambled good-naturedly past their station. “Hurry, hurry, they’ll see us!” Sally added for good measure. Then she leaned back and accepted the men’s astonished gazes with a satisfied smile. “I think that probably lit a fire under them, don’t you?”
Phyllis directed the driver down a narrow side street. He cackled delightedly and did as he was told. Jake shot a glance through the back window and caught sight of a Keystone Cops maneuver, a dozen men colliding with one another in a mad scramble for their cars. When an ancient building blocked them from view, he turned back and asked, “Any chance of going a little faster?”
“This appears to be the best he can manage,” Phyllis said, pointing him down another lane more narrow than the last. “Besides, our best hope rests not in speed, but in subterfuge.”
The old city’s lanes were a maze of contradicting directions. Jake soon lost all track of where he was or where they were headed. Phyllis, however, did not waver for an instant. The driver followed her directions with affable chatter, clearly enjoying himself immensely.
They entered a small square and stopped before a cavernous opening. “This is it,” Phyllis said. “Everyone out.”
The driver clutched his pay in one hand and waved them away with a final cackle and a grin of dark-stained teeth. Jake eased the ache in his back and legs, asked, “Where are we?”
“The Grand Bazaar,” Phyllis said, stumping ahead at a rapid pace. “And now I really must ask that we make haste.”
Cool shade swiftly replaced the sun’s blazing heat as they walked down the gently sloping avenue and entered the bazaar. Within the winding lanes, walking vendors sold sticky sweets from great wooden trays, while others advertised water and tea with creaking cries, dispensing their wares from huge copper urns carried on their shoulders. Shop displays spilled out into the lanes, colorful pageants of carpets or spices or bronze tables or gold jewelry, stacked far above Jake’s height. Old men sat outside shops now run by a younger generation, playing backgammon on boards so battered the triangular patterns were mere shadows on the wood. Their fingers picked and tossed the dice and slapped the pieces with such rapidity that from a distance the games sounded like a continual drumroll. Occasionally a youngster would come and whisper in an elder’s ear; replies and advice were granted without a moment’s pause in the game.
“Under the Christian emperors, traders from Amalfi, Genova, Pisa, and Venice were all granted commercial rights on the boundary between Europe and Asia.” Despite her rapid pace, Phyllis still found both breath and interest to tell them of their surroundings. “The Grand Bazaar is the largest commercial site of its kind in the world and was established and built for these traders, largely in the form you find it today. Just as then, its sixty streets are divided up among various crafts. There are more than four thousand shops, backed by small factories and countless warehouses. Come.”
She led them into a tiny store selling bright multicolored cloth for drapery and upholstery. She stopped and shook hands with the stallholder, turning to introduce her gathering. The slender merchant bowed his welcome and made a gesture for them to be seated. Politely Phyllis spoke a few words, and instantly his demeanor changed. He gave a second bow, this one of hurried respect, then walked to the back of his little shop. He glanced to ensure that the front entrance remained empty, then swept back one broad Venetian cloth to reveal a small door. Jake ducked his head and followed the others through.
Behind was a narrow series of chambers, one after the other, each occupied by a hand-operated loom. The men worked in undershirts—not against the heat, for the rooms were almost chilly in the enclosed gloom, but rather against the closeness of the air. As Phyllis led the others unerringly down the constricted passage, the workers observed their progress without pausing in their work.
Phyllis stopped within an end ch
amber that obviously served as storeroom, empty and dark save for the light from the previous chamber. She pointed at a ring set within the floor. “I must ask the major to kindly assist me.”
“Most certainly, madame,” Pierre said, and bent to the task. The thick-planked door creaked and groaned and reluctantly opened. Jake peered through, saw only blackness.
Phyllis lifted a battered lantern from its nail and carefully lit it. “There is a compass in the base. Be careful that you do not spill fuel when you take it out, for this is your only light.”
Sally peered into the gloom and asked, “What is it?”
“The reservoir. Take care. The steps have not been used in years.”
Even Pierre showed doubt over the sheer blackness beneath them. Phyllis gestured impatiently. “You must hurry. A boat waits at the base of the stairs. And be most careful.” She jammed the lantern into Jake’s hand. “Go directly north. About a kilometer away there will be a series of slits making a circular pattern of illumination. It is an ancient water tower. There are stairs leading up to a street-level door. I will be waiting for you there with a car.”
Jake fingered under the lantern, undid rusty catches, pulled out an ancient compass in a cracked leather case. “You’re sending us down into the sewers?”
“Listen to what I am saying,” she said impatiently. “This was the city’s water supply, built by the Romans. It is vast. A hundred years ago, two British explorers set out by boat to find the other side. They were never heard from again.” She gestured toward the black hole. “Remember, go directly north. Do not stray at all from the course.”
Jake watched Pierre gingerly feel his way down, bent over, and handed his friend the lantern. In the ruddy glow he glimpsed a small concrete station with dark waters lapping on all sides. He helped Sally and Jasmyn down, then looked at Phyllis. “What about you?”
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