The Silver Bears

by Paul E. Erdman

  “I hope not. But you can never be sure.”

  “Doc, let me ask you something.”

  “Sure, shoot.”

  “Does all this make sense?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, this whole thing. Risking our necks. Or at least our freedom. And reputations.”

  “Well, you don’t make money sitting at home and knitting.”

  “Yes, but there are more accepted ways.”

  “You’re looking at it all wrong. What we’re doing might be illegal for Iranians in Iran. But we’re not Iranians. And in just a few minutes we will no longer even be over Iran, I hope. Prince, you and I are just plain businessmen. And from all I heard today, we are well on our way to becoming big businessmen. Look. This thing was your idea, not mine.”

  “I know. It’s just that all of a sudden, now that we’re up here alone, I got to thinking. You know how it is.”

  “I know, John. But forget it. I got over such stuff when I was about sixteen years old. Either you look out for yourself, or you get hurt. We’re just taking care of what’s nearest and dearest to both of us—our own interests. Who are we hurting? Nobody. And we’re helping your cousins in Iran.”

  The door leading from the small, though luxurious, cabin to the flight deck opened, and one of the crew ambled back to them.

  “Comfortable?”

  “Yes. Where are we?”

  “Almost at the Iranian-Turkish border. We came straight north from Abadan. It’s our usual flight pattern. We have strict orders to keep out of Iraqi air space. They don’t like Iran, and the guys that fly their MIGs are trigger-happy as hell. They can’t hit anything. But why take chances? So we always follow this route to Europe, weather allowing.”

  “Any problems with the weather?” asked the prince, now concerned.

  “No. None really. Some thunderheads are building up just ahead of us on top of the mountains. But we’re at 35,000 feet and should clear them all right. After that Istanbul, Athens, Rome—they’re all clear. We’ll refuel at Rome and get a new weather reading there. So relax. You fellows want some coffee?”

  “Please,” replied both passengers simultaneously.

  After some time two cups of coffee arrived.

  “It’s not very good, or even very hot. But it’s coffee,” commented the copilot.

  “You English?” asked Doc.

  “No, Australian.”

  “What are you doing in Iran?”

  “I fly for money. There are lots of us Aussies in Europe doing the same thing. Usually with the scheduled airlines. I spent a couple of years with KLM. Then got an offer from these oil guys. They pay more and work shorter hours.”

  The plane lurched slightly, and then appeared to veer. The Australian cocked his head quizzically. Then another lurch.

  “Excuse me.”

  Doc glanced at the prince who now sat with his coffee cup clenched in both hands.

  “John, I can see we are of one mind.”

  Ever so slightly the plane tilted forward. Slowly the turbulence began. Again the door up front opened. This time the copilot just stuck his head out.

  “Hey, you guys. Buckle up. And get rid of that coffee. We’re about to run into some real shit.”

  “What’s wrong?” shouted Doc.

  “Starboard engine’s losing power. So we’re taking her down. Ankara’s socked in. So it’s Istanbul—after we get through these fucking thunderheads. Just take it easy. Everything’s under control. It’ll just be a little bumpy for a while.”

  He grinned widely, and disappeared, this time leaving the door open.

  The storm outside soon took on awesome dimensions. The murky blackness was increasingly interrupted by flashes of lightning. The rush of air against the fuselage seemed to come in gusts, from both front and sides. For a split second the cabin lights went out, then flickered back to full power.

  Then they entered what appeared to be a vacuum in the sky. The aircraft plunged. And plunged.

  “Uhh,” grunted the prince as they hit bottom, and rebounded off an invisible layer of air, skidding sideways in the process. “Madonna, abbia grazia!”

  The cabin’s interior again flared, reflecting lightning which must have glanced off the near wingtip.

  “Maybe Shireen’s old man had something,” muttered Doc, when the entire plane appeared to groan, as it twisted and screwed its way through the hostile and conflicting streams of air.

  Then, abruptly, calm. Total peace. Except for the reassuring steady hum of the engines—or was it now engine? Once more, a series of minor shudders. But not worrisome. For the plane regained its selfconfidence, having again proven the superiority of modern technology over the primitive brutality of nature.

  “I think we’ve made it,” said Doc, softly.

  Gianfranco Annunzio di Siracusa refrained from comment.

  Doc spoke again, “John you’ve got the window. See anything out there?”

  “Many lights.”

  “Then we must be approaching Istanbul.”

  “Thank God!”

  “Yes and no.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Annunzio. “Are you not thankful for our deliverance?”

  “Of course,” replied Doc, “but I’m not sure to whom we’re being delivered.”

  The prince just shook his head in dismay.

  “John,” continued Doc, “don’t you remember what this little trip is all about? We’ve got $5 million in hot money with us.”

  “But you said our only problem was in Iran. We’re out of Iran. So we surely have nothing to worry about.”

  “Maybe.”

  The landing itself was a nonevent. The plane was not even brought to a full stop on the main runway, but veered onto another concrete strip and proceeded directly to a hangar well away from the main terminal building. The engine noise subsided with a lazy whine, the lights flickered again, and the copilot reappeared, struggling into his jacket.

  “Sorry about that,” was his comment. “I’m afraid that this will be the end of the line for a while.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Doc.

  “We’ve been talking to these people on the way in. No spare engines here, and nobody capable of repairing the one we’ve got. So we’re grounded until they fly in a new one from Abadan.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Three, four days.”

  “And then?”

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “What Abadan tells us. Maybe we go on to London. Maybe we’ll have to go back. Probably back. My guess is that the people we were supposed to pick up in England will find another way to get down. Then we just wash out the whole thing.”

  “What about us?”

  “Well, my best advice to you would be to buy yourself an airplane ticket.”

  “Right,” said Doc, without hesitation. “But first, both of us will want to shake off this little trip. Where would you suggest we stay in Istanbul tonight?”

  “Hilton. That’s where we always go. Why don’t you just stick around. We’ll take you into town and fix everything up.”

  “Fine. What about our suitcases?”

  “We’ll also take care of them. I’ll put crew tags on them. Then, maybe, we won’t have to screw around with customs all night. They’ve gone wacky here lately. Think everybody’s got a ton or two of hashish on them.”

  “And going out?”

  “Same thing. Only then they’re looking for bombs too. Believe me, the best policy in Turkey is to steer clear of border officials. They’re nothing but trouble. Hell, they once delayed us for six hours because they found a few thousand dollars on me. And I’m crew! They claimed I was smuggling out currency. Dumb bastards. All I was doing was taking money to London to put in the bank. From Iran, not Turkey. But that was too easy an explanation for these knuckleheads.” He glanced at his watch. “Look, it’s getting late. There’s a little office in the hangar. Come on in with me. We’ll take care
of the rest.”

  The Australian led them across the tarmac and into the huge building. The office was dirty and bleak. As soon as they were alone, the prince spoke: “Doc, what are we going to do? Did you hear what he said?”

  “I don’t know. I need a drink, and then some time to think. Anyway, let’s not talk about it here.”

  Within a short time, the copilot returned, accompanied by the pilot—another Australian. They had somehow rounded up a car, a brown Chevrolet.

  “Our luggage?” asked Doc, as he and the prince climbed into the back.

  “In the trunk.”

  They sped away from the hangar, through some open gates, and onto a divided expressway. Despite what the copilot had said, nobody challenged them. The pilot, at the wheel, was apparently also in a hurry to get a drink. In less than half an hour they wheeled into a large park, ringed with palm trees, flooded with an eery green light from the lamps below. A little bit of Las Vegas in Turkey. Doc perked up.

  “Say,” he commented, “this looks all right.”

  From the inside, the Hilton in Istanbul was not immediately recognizable as such. The entrance, the lobby, the restaurants—all were well appointed, spacious, and even reflected some truly original design. The sunken lounge, the elaborate terraces overlooking the Bosphorus, indicated that somewhere along the line the cost accountants had slipped, or been cleverly misled by a mad architect who felt that hotels did not necessarily have to be totally devoid of aesthetics. Even the prince cast an admiring eye at the marble floors and pillars as Doc, in charge as usual, arranged for their check-in. The two-bedroom suite on the eleventh floor was also surprisingly large, and not very expensive—thirty-seven dollars a night. The two men did not bother to change, but returned immediately to the elevators after having, between them, found an appropriate number of foreign coins for the bellhop. They left the suitcases with the four hundred million rials sitting in the middle of the living room rug.

  Back downstairs they had the choice of the night club or the American bar. Neither was in the mood for belly dancers, Hilton style, so the bar it was. Not surprisingly, the Australian pilots were in charge. Somehow they had already rounded up two Pan Am stewardesses.

  “Come on, join us,” said their ex-copilot. “We owe you a drink after giving you a ride like that.”

  This was followed by introductions all around. He was Jack, his mate was Frank, the two virgins of the airways went under the names of Billy-Jean and Sue. Scotch with water was the in drink. Dimple. Because, as Billy-Jean pointed out, the bottle was so cute. Billy-Jean also found the prince cute. Frank, who appeared already to have established preemptive rights where she was concerned, didn’t seem to mind the new turn of events. The novelty of being able to drink uninterrupted well into the night, unimpeded by Australian laws, obviously took constant priority over women. Doc’s expression indicated that he considered the whole business a pain. Three rounds later, Jack had a firm hold on Sue’s left tit, while Billy-Jean was fondling the prince’s ass. She was a big girl, and had managed to wedge Gianfranco firmly between herself and the bar; this way she could do her little thing with a modicum of privacy. Doc and Frank just drank, more or less in silence. Then Doc’s face brightened.

  “Frank, where did you get that car?”

  “One of the guys out at the airport.”

  “Think your friend would like to sell it?”

  “What would you do with a car in Turkey?”

  “I don’t know. But it just occurred to me. As long as we’re here, we might as well see some of the country.”

  “So why don’t you rent a car?”

  “I figure if I could get something like that Chevy—cheap—and resell it, I’d make out about the same. And probably the rental agencies only have those little European cars. I prefer something I’m used to.”

  “Maybe you’re right. But I doubt it.”

  “That would be my funeral. O.K.?”

  “Sure. How much would you be willing to pay?”

  “A thousand.”

  “A thousand what?”

  “Dollars. Cash.”

  “Hey, that’s crazy. I can get it for five hundred. They like cash dollars here.”

  “O.K., get it. Keep the other five hundred for yourself. Just make sure all the papers are in order. We might want to cross a border or two.”

  “Buddy, you’ve got a deal. Where’s the money?”

  “Here.” Doc pulled out his wallet, and quickly extracted the necessary bills.

  “By when do you need it?”

  “Noon tomorrow.”

  “My friend, you’ve just bought yourself a 1961 Chevrolet. Congratulations! Another drinkie to celebrate?”

  At 2:30 the party broke up. Billy-Jean was so sloshed they barely got her to the elevator. Sue and Jack promised to put her to bed. The prince did not look in the least put out. Frank announced he was staying for just one more. Doc said he’d had enough. The prince concurred. As they entered their suite on the eleventh floor, both men’s attention went immediately to the center of the room. Both suitcases were still there, and apparently untouched. Doc checked to be sure. They mumbled their goodnights, and that was the end of what had turned out to be a rather complicated day.

  It was already 10:30 in the morning before the maid’s persistent opening and closing of doors finally roused Doc. He immediately went into the living room to check. Yes, both suitcases were still there. There was a small terrace off the living room. Outside it was slightly chilly, but the bright sun and blue sky held promise of a warm spring day. Doc appeared satisfied. Back inside, he made three phone calls with the assistance of an extremely helpful hotel operator. The fourth call was to room service. Only after breakfast had arrived did he wake the prince. Five minutes later, freshly shaven and garbed in a dark red robe, Gianfranco sat down to coffee.

  “Say, John,” remarked Doc, “You look your old optimistic self.”

  Annunzio actually grinned. “Everything looks brighter by the light of a new day. Old Sicilian saying.”

  “I think they had something there.”

  The toast was just right, but the butter had a rancid taste. Maybe they used goat’s milk. The coffee came in the form of tiny packages of Nescafe and a large pot of hot water.

  “Well, Doc,” said the prince, “what now?”

  “We leave at just after noon.”

  “But you heard what those Australians said about the customs people at the airport last night. I’m not going to . . .”

  “We’re not going to any airport. We’re leaving by car. I bought us one last night.”

  The prince actually sputtered in his coffee cup, and then broke into a series of violent coughs.

  “Take it easy, old man,” suggested Doc.

  “I cannot,” replied the prince, after he had settled down. “Do you realize what’s on the other side of the Turkish border? A choice of Bulgaria or Greece. Communists or dictators. Do you think they are going to just shrug their shoulders when they spot our four hundred million rials? Doc, you must have had too much to drink!”

  “We’re not going to Greece or Bulgaria. We’re headed south.”

  “South? I’m not even sure what’s down there. Syria, I think. Whether there’s a road all the way is another thing. Still, that’s at least a better idea. Provided we can make some sort of arrangement at the border. Which I somehow doubt, considering that I know neither Turkish nor Arabic, and I strongly suspect that you don’t either.

  “John, could you stop talking for just a minute? I would like to explain.”

  “All right,” he said grudgingly.

  “Good. We are leaving by ship. We and our car.”

  “By ship?”

  “Yes. I’m convinced it’s by far the safest way. There’s always enormous confusion at ports. And the people who take cruise ships are perhaps the least suspect of all types of international travelers. In addition, the cars and the passengers are loaded separately and at different times. Nobody really
cares about the cars. They’re more of a nuisance than anything else. I noticed that on a trip around the Caribbean a few years ago. Then there’s another thing. They hardly need to check for bombs or weapons like they do at airports. Nobody’s ever tried to hijack a cruise ship. Well, once I think. Some Portuguese revolutionaries, if I recall correctly. But that was years ago.” He paused. “Now do you understand?”

  “Doc,” exclaimed the prince, “You are a genius. You’ve got it!” He got up from the breakfast table, and insisted on shaking Doc’s hand.

  “Now,” continued the prince, starting to pace around the room, “what ship?”

  “Well, that’s still not completely clear. The hotel operator put me onto three shipping lines here in Istanbul. None of them has any cruise ships calling here for at least ten days. It’s still too early in the season. But they all said we should be able to get one in Izmir. That’s down the coast of the Mediterranean, about a day’s drive they claim. Apparently about the only cruises running right now are those from Europe to Egypt. They usually call at Izmir on the way back. Because of Ephesus. Archaeology. Ephesus is just the other side of Izmir, it seems. So that’s where we catch our boat.”

  Within the hour their luggage was already outside the main entrance of the hotel, with the prince standing loyal, though nervous, watch. Inside, Doc, having taken care of the bill and bought a fistful of Turkish lire, was working on the hall porter. A small bribe, in dollars, produced the desired result: a reasonably up-to-date road map, upon which the man behind the counter had drawn a thick red line indicating the Istanbul-Izmir route. At noon on the dot, the Chevy arrived. Somebody had even washed it. The Australian obviously thought that all this was great fun, and wanted to offer a farewell round of drinks. But Doc put a quick stop to that.

  “Frank,” he said, “some other time. Just point the way to Izmir.”

  “It’s easy. Take a right outside the hotel grounds. Then take another right at the first main intersection, and down the hill. That’ll take you to the Bosphorus. You can’t miss it, as you Yanks say. Right there at the bottom of the hill is where the car ferry lands. It runs every half hour. The trip across takes about fifteen minutes. So you can figure that you’ll be back in Asia before one o’clock.”