Istanbul (14 page)

"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!

The death watch of six Kurdish tribesmen had stopped to pray. They dismounted and went to their knees, facing Mecca, touching their foreheads to the ground and beseeching Allah to protect them. All of them were true to their fierce philosophy — none of them thought of praying for the unbeliever, the infidel dog who was tied to the camel and would shortly be blown to bits by the mines. If there were mines.

N3, his hands bound behind him, his ankles roped together beneath the shaggy camel's belly, was thinking that at last he had made
the
mistake. The fatal mistake that every agent makes sooner or later. The one that expunges his name from the active rolls, that earns him a place on some bronze plaque of honor which few people see or care about.