Istanbul

Chapter 10 The Wolf in the Fold

Nick Carter and Mija Gialellis left from Yesilkoy Airport in the small hours of the morning. He had roused her from the soft bed at the Hilton — a bed still redolent of passion — and hustled her unmercifully. Mija did not complain — she was too sleepy. Now, in slacks and a bush jacket, wearing a tawny little trenchcoat and a dark red beret ornamented with the silver pin Nick had given her, she slept with her head on N3's shoulder as the AXE plane droned through the night.

There was not much time. They must be dropped with the dawn and find cover before the sun came up. If it came up. The forecasts, including Turkish, U.S., and AXE's own were uniformly bad. Nick sat quietly smoking and pondered what lay ahead of him.

Southeast by east from Istanbul, roughly 600 miles, lies some of the roughest and most treacherous country in the world. In this irregular triangle formed by the sourcing Tigris and Euphrates rivers the earth was badly plowed by the Gods and then forgotten. It is a lonely desolation of towering mountains and unscalable cliffs and narrow gorges that twist and intertwine like giant intestines.

This wild and forbidding country, long forsaken by Allah, is cherished only by its kindred souls, the Kurdish tribesmen. They are as wild as the mountains — and much more deadly.

Nick and Mija were dropped just before dawn. There was a chancy moonlight and very little wind, which allowed Nick to slip the chute enough to get them down without breaking any legs or hanging up on a cliff. Mija had not jumped before, and since Nick did not want to lose her now, after having kept her alive so long, he took her down with him in the black chute. They landed with a jarring thump on a smallish plateau that somewhat resembled a moonscape. The AXE plane made another pass and dropped a jeep, also by black chute, and loaded with supplies. Then the AXE plane waggled its wings at them for luck and droned away to the north.

N3 was, as usual, very much on his own. True that the response from the Ankara depot to his demands had been prompt and nearly awesome. He had gotten everything he wanted, with a few extras thrown in. Nevertheless here he was again, in the midst of the savage Kurdish Taurus, in a country the Devil wouldn't claim. Looking for a certain Basque named Carlos Gonzalez. Object — to kill!

By the time a watery sun, obscured frequently by rain and sleet, peered over the towering peaks to the north and east Nick and the girl were snug in a cave on a ledge overlooking a gorge that led into the Edessa Pass. The jeep was concealed in another cave nearby.

"This is mountain goat country," Nick had cracked as they made a turn in creeper gear with the off front wheel hanging over a chasm that fell away for a thousand feet. "I don't think we'll be using the jeep much."

But the Basque, he remembered, was reputed to get around in this country without too much difficulty. Maybe he knew a few tricks, remembered from his youth in northern Spain.

Mija was too terrified to speak. She rode with her eyes closed most of the time, reaching to touch Nick every now and then for comfort. He sensed that it was not only the dizzy trail that frightened her — it was the entire setup, everything. The brooding weather, the high stab of gloomy peaks on which the snow never melted, the terrible depressing sense of isolation. Nick felt it himself. It would pass, he knew, as soon as he got into action.

After they found the cave and settled in, as snug as possible in the circumstances, Mija still wanted comforting. Outside the rain was sloshing down in a gray curtain of discouragement. It was impossible to build a fire in the cave, even had they had dry fuel — the smoke would drive them out. And Nick dared not risk a fire on the ledge.

Partly to comfort her, and because the urge was moving him again, he crept into her sleeping bag. It was tight quarters — Mija had to wriggle out of her clothes somewhat like a snake shedding its skin — but the result was happy for them both. Mija sighed and moaned and finally cried — and enjoyed herself immensely. When it was over she went promptly off to sleep.

N3 wriggled out of the sleeping bag and went to where the rifle was standing near the cave entrance. He very seldom had use for a rifle on these jobs, and did not think he would need it now, but it had seemed wise to bring it. Wolves ranged these mountains and gorges — wolves and packs of huge Anatolian sheep dogs gone wild.

Nick took up the rifle, a Savage 99 using high velocity ball, with a Weatherby scope, and bent low to pass out on the ledge. He turned up the collar of his heavy sheepskin coat against the pelting rain and made his way along the ledge to the cave where the jeep was hidden. Once there he took stock. He sat in the jeep, fiddling idly with the short-wave set, and let plans and events spin through his agile mind like an unreeling tape.

By orders, and also by his own desire, he would preserve radio silence except in the event of a top level emergency. Ankara would feed him information at specified intervals.

In the time since he had leaped from the Annex roof to the trampoline much had transpired. It had been a time of frenetic rush-rush, with things going well — a nice switch — and everyone cooperating beautifully. The Turkish and Syrian police and military were working well together, which was practically unheard of. So were Interpol and the CIA and what was left of U.S. Narcotics in Asia — all working together. Nick sat now in the clammy, dark cave and stroked the sleek barrel of the Savage and knew that he was the apex, the sharp driving point, of all this effort. He must kill the Basque, of course, but he had another job. To raise so much hell, to sow so much devastation, that it would be months, perhaps even years, before the Syndicate — and now it would seem the Chinese Reds, who were muscling in on a good thing — before they could get operations back to normal. That it was only a stopgap, Nick understood. The opium trade would go on. Somehow the poppies from the small Turkish farms would find their way over the border to the clandestine processing factories; they would be transformed into heroin which would be pumped into the shrieking veins of addicts all over the world. Men and women — and a lot of kids, teenagers — would die from that heroin! Die of infections from filthy, unsterilized needles. Die of over-doses. Die of police bullets while committing crimes to get money for dope! And those who did not actually die a physical death would still be dead! Hopeless. Nick thought of Mija and the white needle marks on her lovely arms and his mouth quirked in something that was nearly tenderness. It wasn't really — it was admiration. That kid had come back a long way. But she was one in a million. One of the lucky ones. He caressed the long shining barrel of the Savage and wondered about the Basque. The Basque had been reported in Urfa — fat Defarge had not lied on his death bed — and it was believed that a caravan was being organized. Turkish secret police knew that much — what they did not know was how to stop it.

If the Basque came to the Edessa Pass, two miles away down the gorge from where N3 now sat, if he came there to rendezvous with his fierce Kurds, why not creep to within range and shoot the bastard in cold blood?

The short wave set on the dashboard of the jeep began to buzz. Nick glanced at his watch. Time had slipped away. Ankara was coming in. The broadcast would be short and to the point, he knew. They were reckoning on the Basque having a DF set among his "oil prospecting" equipment.

The voice rasped into the little cave, loud and clear, scale five.

"Turkey to Pilgrim— Turkey to Pilgrim— the Arabs have folded their tents. The bird is on the wing. Fat man's truth to tell. Dark of moon is danger. Believed two pints vermilion saffron accompany shipment. End of transmission."

Nick lit a cigarette and straightened the message around in his mind. Arabs had folded their tents— the thing was getting under way. The TSP thought a smuggling train was being organized. The bird is on the wing. The Basque had left Urfa. Fat man's truth to tell. Defarge had not been lying. Dark of moon is danger. That meant they would go the next night, when there would be no moon. Believed two pints vermilion saffron— Nick smiled a cold little smile. No doubt now that the Red Chinese were getting into the act. Hawk and the CIA were right. Two Chinese gentlemen would be with the caravan. Inspecting their new property, no doubt. What had Defarge said — ten million Turkish pounds! The Syndicate really should have known better! They had a million — it was all they would ever get. Sooner or later the Chinese would pay them off — in treachery!

The octopus that lived in Peking had long tentacles. And the Red octopus, Nick admitted as he stubbed out his cigarette, was getting quite a bargain this time. It was to the Reds advantage to promote the use of dope wherever they could. It weakened morale, sucked away the will to resist, save the West another huge problem. So the Reds took over a highly organized dope smuggling apparatus. Such an apparatus could be used for other things than smuggling — espionage! Thirdly — and possibly the most important to the Reds — were the fierce Kurds. They were always rebelling against Iran and Turkey, always agitating for self government, for a Kurdish Republic. The Chinese would promise them that — would help with money and guns to see that the Kurds kept on rebelling until they got — a Red Kurdish Republic!

Gathering an arm-load of supplies from the jeep. Nick went back to the other cave where Mija still slept. Wheels within wheels — stroke and counter-stroke — twist upon complicated twist in the grim international game the great Powers were playing. His job was childishly simply in comparison — all he had to do was kill a man!

He and Mija spent that day and night in the cave, except for one brief scouting expedition by Nick. The gorge below was still empty. He saw a pack of wild dogs in the distance, across the gorge, and put the field glasses on them in curiosity. They were great hairy brutes, larger than the Irish wolf hound. Nick watched a dozen or so quarreling viciously over the remains of a goat they had pulled down.

When he got back to the cave he said to the girl: "You know that I'm going to have to leave you here alone for a time?"

She was busy preparing a meal over a small gasoline stove. A hissing Coleman lantern cast a fitful white light through the little cavern. Mija was pale, with little blue shadows beneath her eyes. Nick sensed that she was afraid — afraid of everything but himself. Perhaps he had been wrong to bring her — but it had seemed the one sure way to keep her alive.

Mija said: "I understand, Nick darling. You have made it very straight, the instructions. When the caravan goes you will go with it — I follow in six hours. I remain behind in the jeep until I see your flare — the AXE flare. Or until you join me. If — if you do not come back I go to Urfa and turn myself to the TSP — the Turkish Secret Police."

Very matter of factly Mija served up two tin plates loaded with canned hash. "The TSP will send me back to Istanbul, yes? And sooner or later they, the dope people, will kill me! No?"

Nick patted her shoulder. "No. It won't come to that. Not if my plans go well. They're going to be so damned busy trying to put Humpty Dumpty together again that they won't have any time for you."

Mija frowned. She patted the red beret into place and sat down on a rock beside him. "Humpty Dumpty? I do not get him — it?"

Nick rested his hand on the firm soft flesh of her knee. He could feel the warmth of her through the heavy twill. "Never mind. It will be all right. I'll turn the jeep and head it back down the ledge. All you'll have to do is go back the way we came and pick up the caravan's trail. Just be sure to stay six hours behind us. Now let's eat and go to work. I'll need your help — and your opinion. I've never impersonated a Kurd before."

"Would it not be better," the girl said, "to wait until the real Kurds arrive? Then you will be able to see how they look."

N3 nodded. "You are right, of course. Out of the mouths of babes."

The Kurds came into the gorge the next morning just after sunrise. It was a clear, fine day with great gusts of wind scouring the cliffs. Nick lay in a crevice where two great boulders formed a natural port-hole, and studied the Kurds through his powerful glasses.

There were a lot of them. At a rough estimate over a hundred. Their small black tents dotted the gorge floor like mushrooms. They had horses and camels and a large herd of goats. The goats were to be driven ahead of the caravan to detect mine fields along the Syrian border. If the goats were blown sky high the caravan would simply double back and try at another place.

He heard Mija crawling up behind him. She kissed his cheek and settled down beside him. "Let me have the glasses, please? I have never seen a wild Kurd."

He handed her the binoculars. "Be my guest, honey. Try not to go into shock. They are just as fierce as they look!"

Mija looked. He felt her shiver. "Ugg… I have heard much of these people, now I see that I have heard the truth. They are — how you say? Primitive?"

"You can," said N3, "say that again! Truly the forgotten of Allah! The old Sultans used them as Cossacks, you know. Killing, to a Kurd, is all in the day's work."

Somewhat like an agent for AXE, he thought sardonically. An agent with the rank of KILLMASTER. Was there any real difference?"

The day wore on. Nick remained to study the Kurdish camp. Mija went back to the cave to rest.

When the wind was right — it kept backing around — Nick could hear the bleating of the goats and the hoarse complaining cries of the camels. The Kurds themselves lazed about, drinking something that he guessed was fermented goats milk and playing as, their mterminable card game that was much like poker. He watched them kill a goat and eat the meat nearly raw, searing it for a moment or two over the fire.

The Basque, Nick conceded, picked his shock troops well. The Kurds, though fanatic Moslems, were natural enemies of Syrians and the Turk. Better smugglers could not be found. They would fight to the death and, if they were taken alive, would never talk. Mousy had vouched for that, back in the Hole. Nick pushed that thought away hastily — he did not want to think about Mousy!

After another hour of careful study Nick crawled back to the cave and began to make up for the job ahead. From the big rhino hide suitcase he took the garments furnished at a moment's notice by Ankara. He decided against a turban, donned a combined shawl and hood instead. It would be cold tonight and the shawl would help mask his face.

N3 was a long-head as were most Kurds, and with his face stained a dark walnut he should get by. He spoke no Kurdish — an oversight which he thought he might point out to the AXE planners, if he ever got back — and so he would have to be a mute. He practiced now by making horrible sounds in his throat and pointing to his mouth, until Mija told him to shut up. He was getting on her nerves.

Nick put on the felt boots and the long padded jacket, which was sufficiently dirty and smelled badly enough to be the real thing. Mija sniffed and made a face. "Uhhhh… you are of a terrible odor. I am almost glad you are going."

"Goats," said Nick. "Goats and camels and bloody meat and a little dung thrown in. They all wipe their hands on their jackets, like so…" and he illustrated. "It's no wonder they come to smell after a time. And these clothes are the real McCoy, Ankara told me. They came off a dead Kurd."

Mija began to look ill. "Please, Nick! I am not of the strong stomach. Let us get on with it. I will put on the beard now, yes?"

"Might as well," he said resignedly. "It'll itch like hell, but no help for it. Get the spirit gum — and hand me that dagger."

He thrust the long curved dagger into his sash. Around his wrists he wound several yards of dirty white cloth — a Kurd carries his own bandages into battle. When Mija had carefully pinched and patted the short black beard into place she got a mirror from the pile of supplies and let him have a look at himself.

"Christ!" said N3. "1 ought to pass. I look horrible enough!"

The Basque arrived just before sunset. Nick, watching with the glasses from the boulder screen, understood now how the man got around so well in rough country. Half tracks! Two half tracks and a Land Rover truck! They came out of the west and stopped at the mouth of the gorge where it entered the Edessa Pass.

The leader of the Kurds, a tall fierce hairy man, left the little encampment of black tents and went toward a small, dun colored trailer attached to the Land Rover. The door of the trailer opened and the Basque came out. A bright ray of the setting sun fell full on the man's face. N3's jaw muscles tightened as he studied the man through the glasses. The next man I kill!

The Basque had the look of a dissolute bulldog. He was squat and powerful, with the wide sloping shoulders of a boxer and a concave face and a flattened nose. He was wearing high lace boots, riding breeches, and a leather windbreaker. He was carrying a heavy automatic in a holster slung from a web belt. So powerful were the binoculars that Nick could see the butt of the pistol clearly — Colt .45, 1911 model. A gun that had been invented to stop amoks in the Philippines. Nick patted the Luger nestling in his belt beneath the padded jacket. Wilhelmina was a match for any .45!

He watched as the Basque handed a small packet to the leader of the Kurds. Money, no doubt. Then the Basque was giving swift orders and the Kurds were going to work, converging on the half tracks and the Land Rover. The Kurds formed a line and each man was laden with a sizable burden, a square bale wrapped in burlap and wire strapped. Good organization, admitted the spying N3. The Syndicate operated like any efficient business — even to killing. And this appeared to be a massive shipment! More and more of the bales were hauled out of the half tracks and the Land Rover and carried by the sweating Kurds to the camels groaning and moaning in resentment as they were loaded.

The sun was only a red cloud over the western mountains now. It would be dark soon. The Syrian border lay some ten miles to the south.

So far there had been no sign of the two Chinese who were supposed to be with the Basque. Nick frowned. Maybe the TSP, even the AXE men in Ankara, were wrong. Or there had been a last minute change of plans. No matter. The big job, his job, was at hand.

Nick squirmed back to the cave and said goodbye to Mija. There was not much time for talk, nor need for it. She knew what to do. He kissed her and she clung to him for a moment, even though he was bearded and stank like a cesspool. Nick patted her shoulder and turned away, not wanting to see the tears in her eyes.

"You'll be all right," he said. "I'm leaving you the rifle, just in case. You know how to use it?"

Mija nodded. "I know. I have fired rifles."

"Good. Remember — when you see the AXE flare come for me. If you don't see it wait for me. If you hear gunfire take cover and wait. I'll find you. Okay?"

"Okay… darling. C… come back to me soon."

"Never miss." said N3. The bravado was to reassure her. He felt fine. Confident. Even the short time in the cave had made him restless. It was time to raise a little hell.

He went down the ledge as stealthily as a mountain cat. He used the thickening shadows to work his way among the towering rocks and boulders until he was within a hundred yards of the Kurds' camp. The Asiatic dusk was falling rapidly now, coming down over the mountains like a great black cloak. Nick waited patiently. When the trek began there would be out-riders. The gorge narrowed just before it debouched into the Edessa Pass — that would be his chance.

The last embers of sunset were turning ash gray when the caravan started down the gorge. Nick followed, a hundred yards on the left flank, dodging from rock to massive rock, slipping and sliding on the shale, but managing to keep up.

His chance came sooner than he had expected. An outrider came to within a few yards of Nick and dismounted. His purpose was evident — he fumbled with his heavy clothes and began to relieve himself against the very rock where Nick was hidden. His mount smelled the stranger and shied away, pawing and squealing in alarm.

The Kurd implored Allah to rid him of such a skittish mount. "Quiet, oh son of Shaitan," he commanded. "Quiet — or I will feed you to the jackals."

The horse stopped rearing but kept pricking its ears and curveting nervously. The Kurd swore again as he adjusted his baggy pants. "You are a son of a diseased camel," he told the horse. "Shaitan himself would not have you. By Allah's beard I swear that I… I… Uhhhhhhhhhh."

The stiletto slid into his heart from the rear. The man slumped. Nick let him fall and leaped to grab at the reins before the horse could bolt. He gentled the beast with coaxing words. Still holding the reins he dragged the Kurd behind the rocks with one hand.

"Allah take you," said N3 as he gazed for a moment at the dead man's face. He felt no compassion, no hate. The man had been in a dirty business. The man had been unlucky. Nick saw, in a freakish glint of light, that the man had an odd red mark on his forehead. A caste mark? Nick felt a moment of instinctive apprehension which he could not explain. So the Kurds used caste marks! So? He examined the red mark again — it was in the shape of a tiny crescent. Nick shrugged and mounted the horse. Probably had a religious meaning of some sort. He rode out of the shadows to join the caravan.

For an hour all went well. Nick kept his horse off the flank of the caravan, well away from the goats and eternally complaining camels. There was no moon, but the stars were brilliant. No one came near him. By now the horse had grown accustomed to him and obeyed commands readily. Nick figured they had made about five miles toward the border. He began to formulate a plan for getting at the Basque. That done he would destroy the opium and, Allah willing, as many of the Kurds as he could. When it got too hot he would run for it. He would send up the AXE flare and Mija would pick him up in the jeep.

N3 grinned to himself without joy. All this he must do — Inshallah!

Suddenly he noticed that half a dozen tribesmen had wheeled out of line and were heading back the way they had come. A worm of uneasiness began to gnaw at him. Why? What was back there to interest them? Mija was back there, sure, but she would be safe in the cave. Five hours yet before she was to come on.

He had let his mount drift closer to the caravan. Now he looked up to see three Kurds riding toward him. Nick stiffened, then forced himself to relax. It must come sometime, this confrontation. Now was as good a time as any. He readied himself to play the part of a mute. Hoping fervently that he had no cousins or brothers in the caravan — no one who would recognize the horse and know the rider was a phony!

The riders halted a dozen yards away. One of them beckoned to Nick and spoke. "Buraya geliniz!" Come here! In Turkish!

It was an old trick and N3 did not fall for it. Very few Kurds spoke Turkish.

He stared at the riders dumbly and shook his head. He pointed to his mouth and made grunting sounds. At the same time the electric shock of warning was racing along his nerves. Why would they speak to him in Turkish!

The riders converged on Nick, hemming him in. They did not appear to be alarmed or unfriendly. One of them handed him a flat pancake loaf of bread, saying something in Kurdish.

Another of the riders had the bridle of Nick's mount in his strong dirty ringers and was pulling the horse and rider toward the caravan. Still they did not seem hostile. Nick saw that the caravan had halted. Kurds were grouping into little knots, gradually being arranged into a circle. He noticed another circle of Kurds farther out in the shadows, these all mounted and forming a — guard ring?

By now Nick was definitely uneasy. He told himself not to get jumpy, not to do anything precipitate. If he started blasting away now he would ruin everything. He would never get close enough to the Basque to kill him — he would be lucky to get out of it alive. And the caravan, with the king-size cargo of opium, would simply disperse to form again another time. No — nothing was to be gained by panic. It might be some sort of a ceremony. Or an inspection. Perhaps new orders would be issued. Nothing to do but play it through.

The dismounted Kurds were being formed into a definite circle now. One of the riders with Nick blared an order at him and gestured toward the circle. He was to join it. Nick got off his horse and walked to join the waiting men. No one paid any particular attention to him. He found a place in the circle of men and waited. What in hell was going on?

He saw the Basque coming around the circle. He was inspecting each man with a small flashlight. He would reach up to yank at the man's turban or head shawl, flash the light briefly, then move on to the next man.

Nick saw it then! Understood the clever and beautiful simple little trap into which he had fallen!

That goddamned red crescent mark on the dead Kurd's head!

He didn't have any!