Istanbul

Chapter 8 Turkish Delight

From certain suites in the Hotel Hilton in Istanbul it is possible to look south through the gardens to Taxim Square. The view is fine and clear, especially if the trees in the gardens are not yet in full leaf — and if one has a pair of powerful glasses.

Mr. Grover Stout of Indianapolis, Indiana, had such a pair of glasses. German made binoculars, the best and most powerful in the world. Mr. Stout sat on his sun balcony now and used them to sweep the vista to the south. Mr. Stout evinced no interest in the Taxim Gardens or the pretty shop-girls and secretaries who were strolling there on their lunch hour. Mr. Stout was watching the Divan Annex, a brand new apartment house which stood very close indeed to the Divan Hotel which had been a landmark in Istanbul for many years.

He was thinking, a little petulantly, that they might have built the damned Annex a little lower than the hotel itself, instead of a good ten feet higher! It was going to present problems. He had already ascertained that it was going to be next to impossible to get into the offices of the Defarge Exporting Co., Ltd., in the normal manner. Without being noticed too much, which he certainly did not want. He did not want to be noticed at all! But Defarge, Ltd., was security minded. A little too much so, perhaps. The firm employed the services of a private detective agency which furnished armed guards. Passes were required for all personnel. The excuse was that a great deal of money was kept on the premises at all times.

Perhaps, thought Mr. Stout now as he scanned the upper façade of the Divan Annex. And perhaps there were other reasons.

Mr. Stout noted, with an odd expression of pleasure on his round ruddy features, that the security guard had been doubled today at Defarge, Ltd. His powerful glasses looked right into the main corridor on the top floor and he could see that there were two uniformed guards on duty today. Normally, or so he had been informed, there was only one. Mr. Stout smiled placidly, very much in his role. Had the cat been after the goldfish, perhaps?

Mr. Stout smiled again, benignly, as befitted a man of his age, background and amplitude. He had news for Defarge, Ltd.! The water was going to get a lot muddier! Mr. Stout switched his gaze from the Annex to the Divan Hotel next door. The two buildings, old and new, were separated by a gap of only about fifteen feet. Not insurmountable, thought Mr. Stout with a sigh. He had, in his younger days, been known to leap almost that far. It would be a lead pipe cinch — downward going! But that bastard of an architect, whoever he was Allah curse him, had built the Annex half a floor higher! It was going to present problems.

Mr. Stout sighed again and lit a cigar, a round fat oily Corona that cost a dollar and a half at the stand in the lobby. He hated round fat cigars — but Mr. Grover Stout of Indianapolis smoked them. He lit up, made a face, and put the glasses to his slightly myopic eyes. A few drops now and then did that trick — and the heavy glasses he wore completed the illusion.

They were building something atop the old Divan Hotel. A penthouse, maybe? They wouldn't have much room for it. There was already a children's play ground and pool on the roof. Mr. Stout smoked and watched the busy scene — workmen hammering and sawing and carrying planks about, while anxious mothers and nannies kept the kids out of the way, continually chasing them back to the pool and the swings and the trampoline.

One kid got a resounding smack on the fanny from his nurse. Mr. Stout grinned. Kids like to live dangerously, he thought. But then who doesn't! At that moment there was something very un-Stoutesque about Mr. Stout! A casual observer might have remembered Byron's famous mot: In every fat man there is a lean man striving to get out!

Somewhere in the suite a door opened and closed. Mr. Stout listened to the spate of Turkish within, heard her giving directions for the disposal of packages. Then there was the business of handing out backsheesh. Mr. Stout waited patiently until he heard the other door close.

Then he called, "Mija, baby?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Bring your poor old fat Daddy a drink, uh? A scotch and water?"

"Coming right over, Daddykins. One moment."

Mr. Stout appeared to wince for a moment, then his pudgy features regained their placid look. It occurred to him that he was not the only person in Istanbul who possessed a pair of field glasses; he did not think they were being watched, not yet anyway, but Mr. Stout had not made a fortune in real estate by being careless.

The fact that Mr. Stout had never really made a fortune in real estate, and was not even really Mr. Stout, did not signify at the moment. When Nick Carter played a part he played it to the hilt. The trick was to live the part, to convince yourself that you were the character you were portraying. This technique had both its advantages and its disadvantages.

Some of the latter became apparent now as Mija Gialellis came onto the balcony with a tall tinkling glass in her hand. This was a new Mija, a tall and toothsome dish of Turkish delight wearing a pale green knit that loved every beautiful curve of the athletic body. High heels arched the line of her magnificent legs. A less than nothing bra supported the splendid bosom. The dark hair glistened in the sun like burnished obsidian, the soft red mouth was skillfully brushed to enhance its sensuality, the long oval brown eyes were smoky with tender invitation.

Mija handed him the drink and perched on the arm of the chair. She leaned to kiss his bald spot and said, "Ug… that wig does not taste fine, I think. How long we do this foolishness, Nick?" She kept her voice low; nearly a whisper.

"As long as necessary," he said. "And I told you — stay in character! Even now. Even when we're alone. Because we don't really know that we are alone."

"Yes. I am sorry. I forget. But you have look everywhere for the bugs and not find any, so I think…"

"Never mind what you think, Mija. Just do as you're told." Mr. Stout's voice was hard. "This isn't just a silly game, you know! Anytime you think it is just remember Mousy!"

A shadow crossed her lovely face. "Poor little Mousy. I am so sorry — he keep me away from them and save my life and now he…"

Mr. Stout patted her knee. "Forget Mousy. He's dead. I want to keep you alive. It's not going to be easy as it is — so don't make it any tougher."

N3 had already, to a certain extent and in a certain manner, forgotten Charles "Mousy" Morgan. When a soldier is killed by your side in battle you do not linger to mourn the corpse!

Mr. Stout allowed his lecherous nature to take over. He fingered the girl's shiny nylon leg above the knee. The flesh beneath the stocking was wonderfully soft-firm. Mija's skirt was very short, in the current mode, and Mr. Stout's hand had free play. Mija leaned against him, her firm breasts pressed against his cheek. Suddenly she shivered and clamped her knees together on his hand. "You are a nasty old man! You get me excite and then you can do nothings!"

Mr. Stout grinned. "I might surprise you, baby doll! For all you know I might have a harem back in Indianapolis."

Mija giggled. She disengaged herself from his hand and stood up, smoothing down her skirt. "You will not need a harem, old fat one! I am all the harem you will need — if ever we have a chance!"

She stretched, her arms over her head, pulling her taut young breasts hard against the thin stuff on her blouse. Mr. Stout, looking at the tender little buds her nipples made on the cloth, was inclined to agree with her. Patience was, at times, a virtue hard to come by.

He followed her back into the suite, drink in hand. Seen upright, with his wrinkled linen trousers over a fat behind, the garish sport shirt worn outside his pants, the black and white shoes with perforated toes, Mr. Grover Stout was something of an artistic creation. Close to perfection — this middle-aged hick from Indiana, this aging Pan who was having a last fling before returning to the wife and kiddies. Even the flat, nasal accent was right, along with the bumbling gaucheries. Mr. Stout was all check book and big stupid heart. Mr. Stout and his pretty little Turkish trollop who had checked into the Hilton shortly after ten that morning.

Nick Carter patted his rubber belly in contentment as he watched Mija's svelte little fanny sway into the living room where a pile of bundles and parcels lay in the middle of the floor. Stout and doxy, he thought, wouldn't play for long, wouldn't hold up forever — the enemy was too murderously keen for that — but for now it was working. Twenty-four hours was all he needed!

Now he watched from a sofa as the girl, on her knees among the parcels, tore them open with the undisguised glee of a child on Christmas morning. Frocks, suits, stockings by the dozen, dainty underwear of every shade, girdle and garter belts — even a fur piece.

He said, "I see you've been obeying orders. Buying out the shops in the lobby. You've been sufficiently loud and vulgar about it, I hope."

Mija nodded. "I have been, yes. I almost drive the sales people from their minds. I charge everything to you in a loud tone."

Mr. Stout nodded. "Good. That's what we want. A smoke screen. From the bottom of the cave to the top of the Hilton. They'll be looking somewhere in the middle."

His words to Hawk early that morning, over the scrambler phone in the Hole, had been: "I've got a plan, sir, but to put it into effect I've got to get out of this hole. I've been low — I'm going high. Fast. I'll need unlimited funds."

Hawk did not hesitate. The news of Mousy's death had not upset him — nothing short of an atomic blast on Pennsylvania Avenue could do that — but his voice was like broken glass as he said, "You've got it. You had it, anyway, you know. You heard what the man said — the entire resources of this country. What else do you want and what are you going to do with all this — if I may ask?"

"I really can't tell you, sir, because I don't exactly know myself. My plan is sketchy. I'm going to play it by ear, by guess and by God. I think boldness is the answer — boldness and speed. Things can't go any worse than they have been. I'm going to stop that! Now I want a switch over to Ankara, sir. I think I'd better talk to them myself."

Nick had talked to Ankara for half an hour. He explained in meticulous detail what he wanted and how he wanted it done. This done he was switched back to Hawk.

"I'm taking the girl and cutting out now, sir. Ankara is sending two men to take over here. Old Bici will hold things down until they get here."

"You think it's wise to take the girl?"

Nick grinned at the phone. He knew Hawk wasn't being moralistic this time — it was a legitimate doubt.

"Ordinarily no, sir, but this time yes. For one thing I want to keep her alive — and since Narcotics here is a shambles just now I'd have to hand her back to the Turkish police. They'd try, but they wouldn't have the interest I do. Besides I think she might be able to help me — she speaks most of the Anatolian dialects, I don't. And I need her for the cover I'm establishing. That most of all. Really, sir, I think I'd better keep her with me."

"Okay. You're running the show. You'll be listening to Singing Sam, of course?"

"Yes, sir. I'll tune into the barber. Goodbye, sir."

"Goodbye, son. Stay alive."

Mija was holding up a sheer pair of black panties. "You like, Daddykins?" She winked at him and made a face.

It was probably unnecessary — Nick had searched the suite thoroughly upon their arrival — but a role was a role, a cover had to be played all the way.

"Daddy likes," he smirked. "Daddy would love to see his baby doll in them. Go and put them on for Daddy." He gave her a lecherous smirk.

"Later," said baby doll. She held up a tiny scarlet Bikini. "This is how you say — cute? I think I will go try it in the pool, no?"

"Yes," said Mr. Stout. "A good idea. I'll come along and watch." He sure as hell couldn't join her, Nick thought. He'd look damned funny swimming in fanny pads and rubber belly, not to mention a bald wig that might or might not stay on in the water.

So he watched that afternoon as the girl swam and went off the high board. Soon everyone at the pool was watching. Not only was Mija a sleek skinned, phocine beauty in the brief scarlet, she was also a terrific diver. Before long there was a ripple of applause after each perfectly executed dive. This Mr. Stout did not like. As soon as he decently could, he got her out of there. Mija did not demur. She understood. Too much attention was not good. When they got back to the suite she was still flushed and happy with her little triumph.

From the bathroom she called to Mr. Stout, who was fixing himself a weak scotch and gazing out over the balcony to where the westing sun was laying a golden carpet on the Horn.

"You see I do not lie when I say I am good athlete," Mija said from the shower.

"Yes," agreed Mr. Stout. "You are. I was impressed."

It was true. She was good. But he had been impressed with something else, too. With so prosiac a thing as the diving board Mija had used! A diving board!

Mr. Stout took his drink to the little balcony. He watched the last rays of the sun strike sparks from the windows of the Divan Hotel and the Annex. For a moment the windows were golden, gleaming, fiery eyes. Mr. Stout regarded the two buildings with an air of abstraction, but behind the phony features a mind was racing like a computer. A diving board! A children's play area. A trampoline.

Mr. Stout smiled and sipped at his drink. It could be — it just could work!

"Daddykins?"

Mr. Stout winced and turned back into the suite. It would have sounded bad enough from an American chorus girl — from a Turkish girl it sounded just plain ridiculous. It was time, he thought, to knock it off for a awhile. Time for a breather. He would take it as read that this was, for the moment at least, a safe house. Time to relax for a couple of hours. He couldn't operate until well after dark in any case. He felt sanguine and sure of himself, but you never knew. Death could be out there in the twlight now, gathering itself for the assault.

There was a time for Death — and it would come when it would come! N3 knew that. Had always known it. Accepted it. Nothing to be done about it.

There was a time for Love — the bitter-sweet antidote to Death. A time for holding and grasping and sensing the depths of another human being. Of being not alone, not afraid. A time of brief forgetting, of taking with fervor what was freely given. Call it love, call it passion, call it sex and call it carnal — still it summoned and must be obeyed.

"Daddy! Come here to doll baby, please."

Nick stepped into the bedroom. He left Mr. Stout on the threshold and closed the door. "You can drop that stuff now," he told her. "Just keep your voice down and we can talk normally. I think this room is safe — I'd swear it. Anyway we'll take a chance."

Mija was sitting on the huge bed clad in nothing but black bra and panties. "Praise Allah," she giggled. "I feel like so much the fool. Now for a time we can be nature — normal? How you say it?"

Nick had to grin. "Don't knock the play-acting," he said. "Sometimes it means life or death — but I agree with you now, it's time for a break." He went close to the bed and leered down at her in his best fat man's manner. "A love break, eh, baby?"

He bent to kiss her. Mija pulled away, covering her mouth with her hand to choke back laughter. "No! I will not make love with a fat old man! Go and take it off, please."

Nick stood by the bed, arms akimbo, looking down at her with mock anger. "So you're a tease! A gold-digger! You don't care anything about me — all you want is my money."

Mija rolled over on her flat stomach and stuck out her tongue. Nick slapped her firm little behind, letting his hand linger for a moment on the soft warmth of flesh through nylon. Mija squealed softly and twisted over. One of her tawny melon breasts slipped completely from the black brassiere and dared Nick to kiss it.

He did and for a moment Mija permitted it and her hands came up to cradle his head. Then she squirmed away again. "No! Not until you are the real Nick. Please? Cabuk! Hurry — darling? That is right, no — darling?"

"That is right," said Nick. He smiled down at her, lingering a moment, feeling his sense being flogged to action by the sensual impact of her. She lay splayed on the bed, the black bra and panties mere filmy shadows across the gold-cream nakedness of her. Her hair was short black silk on the pillow, her face in the dusk an oval with a crimson flower for a mouth. Mija looked up at him, unsmiling now, her lashes hooding the great long brown eyes.

"Cabuk darling. Doha cabuk!"

When Nick came out of the bathroom more dusk had gathered in the room. He saw a filmy pile of black beside the bed. He approached and stood beside her. "Asleep?"

Mija looked at him a long time before she answered. Then, very softly, she said, "You are beautiful. So beautiful."

"Not many people call me that," Nick said. "They call me a great many things, but not that. From you I accept it as a compliment." He sank onto the bed beside her.

She stroked the great muscles with her fingertips. "You are a great monster, you know. Not at all like the other one — Mr. Stout? What is happen to him?"

Nick kissed her breasts. Both peaks were rigid. He slid his mouth across hers in a soft kiss. Her lips clung to his, moist, eager.

"Mr. Stout went home to Indiana," he told her. "He's a respectable married man with two kids. This is not for him."

Mija clung to him, pressing her breasts to his face. "You are a big fool when you wish to be. I… I am a fool also. A different kind of fool."

Nick kissed her ear. "What kind?"

He could barely hear her whisper. "The worst kind — I think perhaps I am fall in love with you."

Nick shook his head without taking his mouth from hers. "Don't! Never do that. Worst mistake a girl can make."

He could feel her trembling. Her flesh was hot against his and he could hear the pounding of her heart beneath the tender plum-smooth flesh of her left breast. Her fragrance, compounded of fragile perfume and the musk odor of an excited woman, enveloped him. This, he knew, was going to be good. By this time he well knew the connection between danger and sex, at least in himself. The blend made a raging stallion of him. Sex just before he put his life on the line was sex at its best.

They kissed for a long time. Their tongues were melding now. Mija arched her back, bowing her long spine into a curving bridge, trembling and shaking and gasping. She forgot her English and lapsed into soft Turkish. Her hands were avid for his muscular body. His big hands found out every secret of her soft one. Then at last they were one and the beautiful and terrible battle began. Together they savaged each other and the wide bed — on and on and on. As though this meeting of flesh in the night should never end.

Mija began to weep. "Daha cabuk," she sobbed. "Doha cabuk! Faster!"

Nick had forgotten everything in the universe but this red cave into which he. must plunge deeper and deeper. He struggled frantically on now in love-hate and tenderhurt with a terrible obsession to cleave and rend and utterly subdue her.

Mija squealed like a proud Arabian mare that had been conquered at last.

Half an hour later Nick awoke from a light slumber. Mija was lost in heavy dreams beside him. Nick took the Luger from beneath the pillow — she had not suspected its presence — and went into the bathroom. He glanced at his watch. Nearly time to listen to Singing Sam.

He took his electric razor from its case. Then an electric toothbrush which he despised and never used, but which made a splendid antenna. Old Poindexter, of Special Effects, said it added at least two thousand miles to the razor-radio's effective range. Nick smiled to himself. They would see now. He seldom used the razor gadget — but now it was the only contact he would have with Hawk for a time. And that would be one way. Nick could only listen, not reply.

He adjusted a tiny, nearly invisible knob on the razor, twiddling with it a moment. He hooked the electric toothbrush into the circuit — a tiny jack into a miniscule hole. A metallic buzzing came from the razor. Nick put it to his ear and listened. A miniature storm of static roared in his ear for a moment, then Hawk's voice came through clearly. Nick glanced at his watch again. Right on the nose!

Hawk's voice was small but perfectly clear, as though a doll was talking in a lucid, flowing, and very tiny voice.

Nick Carter sat on the toilet seat and listened. He was naked, stripped of all makeup, six feet of muscular bomb that could explode at any moment. As he listened to Hawk's voice crackle on and on his facial expression changed ever so slightly. The fine high brow creased and the lean face tightened over the good bone structure. Jaw muscles bunched beneath the flat, close to the head ears. For just a fleeting moment N3 looked like a death's head. Then he relaxed, sighed, and flicked off the razor-radio.

Nick was disturbed, deeply disturbed by what he had heard. Part of what Hawk had said might be helpful — another part had torn a large chunk out of his world.

N3 slid off the toilet seat to the floor and assumed the primary yoga position. He must think this out. He breathed deeply, pulling the flat muscle banded belly into arching concavity. Slowly he entered a state of semi-trance. His breathing slacked off to a mere whisper.

As he drifted inward, into the adyta of innermost being. Nick asked one question.

"Why, Mousy? Goddamnit — why?"