The Hidden Target Read online

  “A short lunch, I’m afraid,” said Renwick. “Only two and a half hours.” But time enough to get Kahraman’s help to communicate with London. Claudel’s remark about “recruiting terrorists for training” had sparked another train of thought about Dr. Ilsa Schlott.

  “No time for a little drive?” Kahraman was audibly disappointed.

  “Some place central,” Renwick insisted, remembering Kahraman’s favourite haunt up the Bosporus for four hours of good food and good talk. “I remember an excellent meal we enjoyed on my last visit. At the Grand Bazaar?” It was a small place near the pepper market, and easy to reach.

  Kahraman was delighted he had remembered it, and pleased enough to forgive his American friend for being the first to suggest it. “At the same time as on your last visit?”

  “Perfect,” said Renwick. Twelve-thirty would be just right.

  He prepared to leave, now thinking about Ilsa Schlott and his message to Merriman’s. Gilman must contact Diehl in Berlin, immediately. Some hard probing might uncover Schlott’s connection there—if she had had one—with the People’s Revolutionary Force for Direct Action, founded by Erik and Marco. Then any story she was concocting would fall to pieces.

  What would it be? She had been meeting James Kiley at Heathrow simply because he was someone she had known, and liked, on a visit last year to Chicago? Or in New York? Or wherever? Theo would make the fabrication seem plausible. But a direct connection with Erik and Marco—well, that was something to baffle even Theo’s ingenuity. Let his well-paid lawyers wrestle with that evidence.

  Still not enough to pin down Erik or Marco. Schlott wouldn’t identify them; she’d go to jail with a smirk of triumph on her face. There could be another way, though. Get Diehl to explore that item recorded by a Dutch undercover agent about the man who had arrived on a coastal freighter from Duisburg: extraordinary expertise in Spanish. Which of them—Marco or Erik—had any Spanish-language background? And then we would know which of these men was the one that left the safe house in Rotterdam as James Kiley. That’s vital if he comes to trial. How would it sound to a jury if we could only testify, “He may be Erik, he may be Marco?”

  He dropped all thought of terrorists as he reached the street and concentrated on finding a taxi. A walk would have been enjoyable, down the broad avenue, over the bridge at the Golden Horn, into the old town, but he hadn’t the time. The taxi would allow him half an hour of wandering inside the Grand Bazaar before he met Kahraman.

  He chose one small area of the walled and covered market, 4000 little shops jam-packed along narrow, twisting, bewildering streets. Noise and confusion everywhere, the usual bedlam of bargaining; Turks and foreigners as crowded together and as varied as the objects on display. Easy to lose anyone who might be interested in his movements; too easy to get himself lost as well. So he limited his choice of routes and paid attention to the direction he followed rather than let his mind be sidetracked by antiques, clothes, carpets, amethysts, lamps, furniture, gold bracelets, slippers, everything and anything imaginable. He came safely out of the gate near the pepper-market area just as Kahraman entered the restaurant ahead of him.

  Renwick loitered among the crowd, made reasonably sure that Kahraman hadn’t been tailed, either, and then followed him inside. The room hadn’t changed: blue-and-yellow patterned tiles over the walls, overhead fans, a display of cold dishes, the smell of well-seasoned food; and alcoves. Discreet and comfortable alcoves.

  “A good morning?” Kahraman inquired politely.

  “A very good morning,” Renwick said as they bowed and shook hands. He could only hope that the afternoon would be as successful.

  13

  They were almost on time, a mere ten minutes late, which was probably a record in punctuality for Suleyman. Renwick, who had been exploring the seraglio’s second courtyard, always keeping a watchful eye on the area around its giant gate, suddenly saw the two figures coming his way through the plane trees. Suleyman he recognised immediately. The girl needed a second look. Today, Nina had abandoned blue jeans for a wide-skirted dress. Fair hair was swept up from her neck, pinned high on her head, a few tendrils escaping. Dark glasses and earrings added to the change. She was tired, tripping once on the cobblestones in spite of her sandals’ low heels. Suleyman, as enthusiastic as ever, was doing all the talking. He was so engrossed that he had never noticed the quiet, compact man, dark-moustached, who had followed them at a comfortable distance. Claudel looked the part of the tourist, a guide-book opened in his hand, stopping to consult its map whenever he needed to slow down, merging with other visitors when that was prudent. He noticed Renwick before the engrossed Suleyman did, began closing his map. Renwick judged the right distance between Nina and himself, went forward to meet her with a wave of his hand to attract her attention.

  She stopped abruptly. Disbelief spread over her face.

  “Hello, Nina,” he said, taking both her hands. “I thought it was you—couldn’t be sure at first. Is this a permanent change?” he stood back to look at her, smiling wholeheartedly, not even trying to conceal his pleasure.

  “It’s cooler.” She laughed delightedly as she recovered from her surprise. “But, Bob—what on earth are you doing here?”

  “The same as you. Dipping into a spot of history.”

  “If you are just arriving, you won’t have time to see everything. I didn’t. And I’ve been here for three hours. Oh, this is Suleyman.” She turned to the boy, who had backed off a little and was now waiting for a signal from Renwick.

  “Perhaps Suleyman could scout around for a taxi?” Renwick suggested. “Where will we find you?”

  “By the Bab-i-Hümayan Gate. At the esplanade. You know where to go? Shall I show you?” Suleyman asked hopefully.

  “We won’t get lost.” Once they left here, there was only a stretch of the first courtyard’s almost empty space to cover before they reached the entrance gate at the street.

  Suleyman left regretfully. It had been a splendid afternoon, and now it was over. Judging by the way the American had caught her hands, held them, looked at her, there would be no evening ahead for Suleyman, either.

  “But I need him to get me back to the hotel,” Nina said. “He’s my guide.”

  “I’ll get you back. Perhaps not as efficiently as Suleyman, but we’ll manage. I know a café where the seats are comfortable.”

  “That’s tempting. But I don’t want to drag you away from here.”

  “I’ve seen enough for one day. I believe in taking museums in small slices. Remember?” He was thinking back to Geneva, six years ago.

  She remembered. She looked quickly away, but barely noticed the trail of tourists now passing by. Claudel, walking leisurely, didn’t even exchange a glance with Renwick. “Today,” Nina was saying as she and Renwick began following the slow exodus, “I hadn’t the time for small slices. I only had one afternoon. Poor Madge couldn’t even have that. She’s in bed. She ate some camel stew.”

  “Adventuresome. And where are your other friends? Or did they also eat some camel stew?”

  And that led, naturally, into explanations—vague about the reason for her sudden rebellion at the Thermaic Gulf, more expansive about her travels through Greece—which lasted well into the wasteland of the first courtyard. In its centre, she halted, looked around. “Whatever happened here?”

  “A lot of churches were razed when the Sultans started building their seraglio. Then the Janissaries were stationed in this courtyard, outside the main palaces, of course—a fierce bunch of fighting men. Originally, for a couple of hundred years, they were tribute children. Fair-haired boys from Greece in great demand.”

  “Tribute children?”

  “Recruited by force. Taught to be savages. They terrorised Europe, including their homeland.”

  “Didn’t they remember anything about Greece?” Nina asked in horror. “How old were they when they were taken as tribute?”

  “Practically kindergarten age. By the time they were fo
urteen and trained to fight, the whole world outside these walls had become their enemy.” Renwick turned bitter. “Complete and thorough indoctrination.”

  “Was it really possible?” Nina’s voice faltered.

  “It was.” And still is. How else could today’s hard-core terrorists be willing killers of their own people?

  “It’s so empty, so peaceful now. No sign of any buildings.”

  “Blown to pieces by the Sultan’s artillery when the Janissaries became too much of a threat to their masters. Those who survived the bombardment were executed.” A hundred thousand dead. A quick end to a brutalised force, to 400 years of complete terror. “Come on, Nina. Suleyman will think we’ve really lost our way.” He took her arm, urged her towards the street gateway ahead of them. He hoped she wouldn’t notice the large nails on either side where decapitated heads had once been hung as a reminder of the Sultan’s displeasure.

  But she was more interested in him. “What are you doing in Istanbul, Bob?”

  So he talked, briefly, about Merriman & Co. His explanation, much to his relief, seemed to be acceptable.

  “Of course,” she said thoughtfully, “you did get an engineering degree at MIT. And then the army. Artillery, wasn’t it? Then you went into NATO and attended disarmament conferences. And now you are a consultant. Very impressive, Bob.”

  “You remember a lot.” He was both surprised and pleased. “But I’m not a consultant—just one of the firm’s representatives abroad. There’s a lot of building being planned around the world.”

  “Exciting. How long will you be here?”

  “Well, I arrived three days ago. Another four days might be necessary.”

  “And then?”

  “Wherever a client needs some practical advice.”

  “Well, I hope your travel expenses let you stay in the best hotels. You know, Madge and I landed in the Hilton. All Father’s arrangement, I am sure,” she said ruefully, and then laughed. “But I did have the most wonderful bath. We’re really pampered, aren’t we? Americans always have a longing for good plumbing. Tony calls me a complete bourgeoise, but he wouldn’t have thought so if he had seen us arriving this morning. The dock was kept for grade-C traffic, I think. We got out fairly easily—thanks to Father again. That disguised colonel or general didn’t arrive by accident. Father probably ’phoned someone in Ankara to watch out for his helpless little daughter at the Galata quays.”

  “How would he know?” Nina was quick, thought Renwick: what had prompted her idea that Kahraman, in his silver-grey suit, was a man of authority? He could only hope that she had been as quick to notice strange details in her journey across Europe.

  “Because I called him from Greece, told him we’d be here around the beginning of September. Actually, the Hilton couldn’t be more suitable. That’s where we’re meeting Jim tomorrow. At four o’clock. Unless, of course, he’s so mad at me he won’t turn up.”

  “He will.”

  Something amused her. “Now Tony will just have to find a space for his camper near Istanbul and let the others have at least a little time here. You see, we weren’t going to stop in Istanbul at all. Jim said the campsite was all booked up—he always likes to arrange everything in advance, you know.”

  “Only one campsite near here?” Renwick was smiling.

  Sharply, she looked at him. “Are there more?”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  She frowned, halted at the gate, turned to stare back at the far walls of the seraglio.

  What the hell did I say? he wondered. He said, “If not Istanbul, where were you going to stop?”

  “Bursa.”

  “Bursa?”

  She nodded, fell silent, became engrossed by her last view of Topkapi: towers and cupolas, palaces and gardens, courtyards and terraces, all guarded by the vast encircling wall. “Riches and treasures...” Then her eyes travelled over the courtyard of the Janissaries. Her voice stifled. “Poor children.” She turned towards the gate.

  He had taken her arm. Suddenly, he kissed her cheek.

  “For what?” she asked, a smile coming back to her lips.

  For hearing the cries of pain. Not many did. They’d marvel at history as it was laid out before them, wonder how much money it had taken to build this or furnish that. Eyes were bewildered by incredible treasures. Ears were deaf. He said, leading her through Bab-i-Hümayan into the esplanade, “I wanted to. That’s all.”

  “Bob, did you see those huge nails? In that black-and-white marble gate?”

  “More history, I guess. Where’s Suleyman the Magnificent?”

  He was there, gesticulating from the other side of the street, urging them to hurry. So they did. Either the taxi driver was impatient or there were rules and regulations to be obeyed. Their departure was equally speedy, Suleyman looking after them with regret but partially consoled by Renwick’s tip, tactfully concealed in a warm handshake.

  “I have to pay him,” Nina said, rousing herself, looking back in dismay.

  “Taken care of.”

  “And I’ll need him tomorrow morning. Madge and I will be visiting—”

  “He’ll be at the hotel tomorrow, waiting for you.”

  “You arranged that? I didn’t hear.”

  “You told him your plans, didn’t you?”

  “Well, I did mention the Bazaar and the Blue Mosque.”

  “Then he’ll be at the hotel tomorrow. Now, let’s see...” Renwick fished a map from his pocket, and began reinforcing his directions to the Café Alhamra.

  ***

  The café delighted Nina. It was small, set down in a public garden on a twisting hill road, with a terrace and flowerpots to mark its allotted space. From here, she could see the Bosporus and the coast of Asia. “How far?” she asked, eyeing the stretch of water and its busy traffic.

  Renwick studied it. “More than a mile, perhaps a mile and a half. The port for the car ferry is just below this hill. That’s where you’ll be crossing over on Wednesday morning. I don’t imagine you’ll start out for Asia late tomorrow and risk travelling in darkness to Bursa. The roads over there can be tricky.”

  She studied her glass. “This tea is marvellous.” As in all cafés in Islamic territory, only coffee or tea or fruit juice was served. “The best I’ve ever tasted. Where do the Turks get it?”

  So we’re slipping away from the topic of Bursa, he thought. “It’s home-grown. Once they had orange groves. Then there was a stretch of bad frosts. So they planted tea instead. But over on the Asiatic side, winters must be warmer. That’s where the fruit orchards are. You’ll pass through miles of them on your way to Bursa.”

  “Have you been there? What’s it like?”

  “I’ve never seen it. But I hear it has a lot of charm—purely Turkish, of course. Not many foreigners around. You’ll like it.” He studied her eyes. Thank God she had taken off the dark sunglasses. Now he could really see the Nina he knew. “Don’t you want to go to Bursa?”

  “I’d like more time in Istanbul.”

  “Well, can’t you manage that? Don’t any of you have a say in the selection of major stops? The ones where you spend several nights?”

  “Oh, we talk and plan and talk. But everyone has his own idea of where he wants to go. Someone just has to take charge and decide.”

  “Who does?”

  “Tony and Jim, usually. It makes sense. Tony has certain routes to follow—he is making a sort of test run, you know, for the manufacturers in England who want to know how their camper behaves. And Jim—well, he’s paying more than his share of the expenses as well as coping with all the documents and details.”

  “What about sightseeing when you have several days to kill? Do you scatter, or does Jim shepherd you around?”

  “Heavens, no. Jim—he’s writing some pieces for a newspaper, you know—goes off to meet people who can give him details for a story. And there’s money to be collected at a bank, and our mail to be weighed and sent off at a post office. Things like that,” s
he ended lamely. She was frowning.

  “Don’t,” Renwick said, and reached out his hand, gently smoothed her brow. He could guess what had troubled her: a letter and two postcards that never had reached America.

  She tried to smile, rushed on with talk about Tony, who guarded the camper while Jim was away and, once Jim returned to take charge of it, took a day off himself to have something replaced or checked or repaired. “He ought to have been a mechanic. He’s always tinkering around his machine, always fussing over his radio equipment.”

  “You don’t like him too much, do you?”

  “How did you guess?”

  By the tightness in your voice, he said silently. By the cloud that’s still hanging over those beautiful eyes. “I just feel something is troubling you. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh, Nina—come on.”

  She was silent, stared unhappily at the view which had so delighted her fifteen minutes ago. “I really ought to ’phone Madge. She may be worrying—”

  “She’s probably asleep. In any case, the Hilton is near—just at the top of this hill—and I’ll have you back there by half-past six.” That is, if our taxi driver returns here at six-twenty, as he promised. “Then you can have another wonderful bath, and rest, and I’ll be waiting in the lobby at eight-thirty. We’ll drive up the Bosporus—not too far—and have a leisurely dinner. How’s that?”

  “I’d love it. But Madge—”

  “If she feels up to it, bring her along,” he suggested without much enthusiasm. He didn’t want to wish Madge ill but he hoped she couldn’t face a Turkish dinner, not tonight. If she could? Then there would be no quiet meeting for two, no possible chance to persuade. Perhaps he’d better start the persuading now. My God, he thought as he looked at Nina, she can’t go with Kiley; she’s got to be eased out of his grasp. But how do I begin?