Istanbul (3 page)

Istanbul! Stamboul, to the English tongue. Old Constantinople in song and history book. Ravished and reborn a hundred times. A squalid, teeming, dynamic nexus between Europe and Asia. A natural magnet for intrigue and for the inevitable concomitant of intrigue — Death!

The oiler peered to starboard. There across the oily waters of the Horn lay Beyoglu. He smiled to himself and for a moment the harsh planes of his face were gentle. She had been a white Russian. Her name was Jali. And she could have given lessons to the
houri.
She had known how to make a man happy, that one. Without clinging.

The oiler sighed and glanced at his wrist watch. He did not like to think about Jali. He had failed her. One of those unaccountable slips that every agent made now and then. Only he had not had to pay the tab. Jail had paid it. They had decoyed him away and cut her throat!

The oiler shifted his feet. He stared into the mist. The signal should come from somewhere between the Maritime Station and the Musretiye Mosque. If all had gone well. If there had been no slips — if! A big word in his profession!

There it was now! A bright little eye winking in the misty dark.
Di da
—
da di di da
—
dit
—
AXE!

The oiler took a pen flash out of his pocket and flashed an answer back across the misty Horn.
AXE!

Once more the blinker came back.
AXE!

"Evet," said the oiler, speaking to himself in Turkish. Might as well get in the mood of things. Yes. This was it.

He picked up the suitcase and went over the side feet first. As he went over the rail he patted it. "So long, old girl. Good luck!"

There was nothing golden about the waters of the Golden Horn. They were as cold as he had expected, and as stinking with oil and garbage and other harbor debris. He surfaced and swam away from the
Bannockburn.

He made a hundred yards and stopped to tread water. The
Bannockburn
kept steadily on her slow course for the Galata Bridge. Her stern lights faded into the mist. Now and then he held the pen flash over his head and flashed —
AXE!

Five minutes passed before he heard the sound of oars to his left. He flashed the signal again. A reply blinked back at him. A moment later a voice, made eerie by mist and water, floated to him. "N3?"

The man in the water recognized the voice. Charles "Mousy" Morgan. It was okay. He answered softly. "N3 here. Get me out of this soup. It's colder than a brass monkey!"

A pale face, made owl-like by horn rimmed glasses, peered down at him. "Welcome to our harbor, N3. Refer all complaints to Ankara, please. This is a hell of a time to go swimming anyway, if you ask me!"

Nick grabbed the gunwale and swung himself into the little boat. Mousy Morgan said, "Easy, pal! This ain't much of a boat, but it's all we got." He looked at Nick's suitcase dripping in the bottom of the boat. "Dunking isn't going to do
that
much good!"

Nick was squeezing water out of his pants. "Won't hurt it," he said. "Specially waterproofed for this job. Wish I was!" Nick leaned close to Mousy and nodded toward the big man who was rowing. "Who's our pal?" Nick was not especially pleased to find that Mousy had company. He had expected the little agent to be alone.

The bulky man wearing a raincoat and a snapbrim hat, and handling the oars, answered for himself: "Jim Todhunter, sir. Narcotics."

Nick gave the man a curt nod.

Mousy Morgan said, "It's okay, N3. I couldn't handle this damned tub myself. Anyway he's doing all the work." Mousy chuckled and added, "And he stole the boat!"

Nick sniffed. "Not much doubt where he stole it, either."

Mousy chuckled again. "Yeah. I know. Horn fishermen don't worry much about cleaning their boats."

"All right," Nick commanded. "Let's get the hell out of here before we have harbor patrol trouble. It'll be light soon.

Todhunter put his broad back into the rowing. Nick sat in the stern sheets the Gladstone bag at his feet, and regarded Mousy sitting on the thwart facing him. This little character hasn't changed much, Nick thought with a touch of affection. Brash and big-mouthed as always. Compensation for lack of size. Mousy came by his nickname legitimately. Mousy was superbly unnoticeable. Nondescript. And an extremely valuable agent! No one ever really
saw
Mousy — until it was too late. Mousy could never have made it through PURG, the section of Hell that AXE used for training and conditioning its agents, but special dispensation was made in his case. Mousy wasn't meant for the rough jobs. His speciality was creeping in and out of tiny holes where no one else could go!

Mousy leaned toward Nick and whispered so the man rowing could not hear. "I'm glad they sent you, Nick. I guess they really mean business this time. About time, too! But we're okay now — if anybody can put those bastards behind bars you can!"

For years now Mousy Morgan had had a galloping case of hero worship for Nick Carter. Nick tolerated it because he knew the little man was sincere.

Nick was feeling a little better about Jim Todhunter's presence. Todhunter would know him only as N3. And to all of them — the AXE men, the Narcotics people, the Turkish cops, he would appear to be on a routine mission. Object to apprehend the ring-leaders of the Syndicate.

It might be different, of course, when the corpses start-

ed turning up! He would worry about that when the time came. Meantime only Hawk and the man in the bedroom knew his real mission. Even Mousy Morgan did not know that Nick held the rank of KILLMASTER, with a license to kill at discretion!

So Nick whispered back to Mousy, "What's the setup now? You people making any progress?"

Mousy leaned closer. "I think we've finally gotten a break! We found a girl — or rather the Turkish cops found her and turned her over to us. She's a cured addict! Her name is Mija Gialellis. A Greek-Turk girl. She hates those dope pushing bastards worse than we do. The Turkish cops turned her over to Todhunter and I wangled her from him — I've got her on ice at the station! She's a beautiful kid. Smart, too! There's only one thing..." Mousy tended to squeak a little when he got excited — "she's practically a dead woman — unless we're very careful! The people we're after know she's cured — know she's a danger to them, too. They'll kill her if they can."

"Then we'll keep her alive," Nick said grimly. "At least until the job..."

Todhunter stopped rowing and sat in a listening attitude. The dawn was coming fast now and the mist was thinning, though still heavy in spots. Todhunter took a heavy Colt ,45 from his shoulder clip and laid it on the thwart beside him.

Mousy said: "He's been hearing things all night. Thinks someone is dogging us."

Nick held up a hand for silence. "What about it, Todhunter?"

"Unless my ears have been playing tricks," Todhunter said, "we
are
being dogged. I keep hearing a motor. First I hear it, then I don't. Like they were gunning it for awhile, then turning off and coasting. It's been too dark for them to see us — until right now!"

But Nick said, "I haven't heard anything."

"They've been lying doggo," Todhunter said. "But I'll swear I heard an engine a minute ago!"

Nick admitted the possibility. He and Mousy had been intent on their own conversation.

"Could be the harbor patrol," said Mousy.

"That would be almost as bad as the other creeps," the Narcotics man said sourly. "They'd ask a million questions."

Nick said: "Keep rowing, Todhunter! How far are we from where we're going?"

"Three — four hundred yards from the jetty we want. Or were. The current is taking us out again."

"Row then! As quietly as you can. No more talking."

Nick bent to fumble with the straps and buckles of the Gladstone bag. From it now he took a small object. It was the size and shape of a lemon. It was the new weapon, as yet untried in the field, that had been given him by Editing and Special Effects just before he left Washington. Old man Poindexter, chief of Special Effects, had advised Nick to be extremely careful with the new weapon. It was, quite literally, murder!

Mousy Morgan stared at the little object, started to say something, then closed his mouth. Nick slipped the deadly lemon into his pocket.

Nick closed and locked the Gladstone and waited. The Luger was taped to his leg. Pierre, the gas pellet, was in his armpit. Hugo the stiletto was snug in a sheath on Nick's arm. None of them would be much help if trouble broke now. No more than Todhunter's Colt. But the little lemon might!

The big Owens cruiser had been hiding in a patch of mist near the jetty. Waiting like a sleek cat for the mouse to venture within pouncing range!

It pounced now with a roar of powerful engines. The cruiser came slashing out of the drifting mist, headed straight for them.

Todhunter swore, dropped the oars and reached for his Colt. Mousy sat for a split instant of petrified fear and inaction.

Nick Carter analyzed the situation and reacted with the speed of a striking snake. The gunner on the flying bridge! A lone man with a submachine gun bulky in his hands, steadying it on the rail, drawing a bead on the three men in the little rowboat. This was more than just a hit and run attempt. These killers were out to make sure!

Nick yelled. "Overboard! Go deep and stay down!"

He kicked the suitcase at Mousy. "Take care of that! Todhunter..."

Too late! The Narcotics man was on his feet, the Colt heavy and black in his hand. The pistol boomed hollowly in the morning air. The machine gunner, dark silhouette against gray dawn, took careful aim and loosed a burst.

"Damn fool!" Nick lunged across the thwarts, trying to get to the Narcotics man and shove him over. Mousy slid over the side, lugging the big suitcase with him.

Pieces of boat were flying around Nick. Todhunter went to one knee, his face twisted, still firing as the big cruiser smashed toward them. The gunner let go another burst. Nick had to hug the bottom or he would have been torn apart. Lead whispered over his head.

Nick watched the slugs stitch little red holes in Todhunter's thick body. Still the man fired back, the Colt heavy in his hand now.

Todhunter made one last agonized effort to fire again. The gunner ripped off another clip and Todhunter's face flew apart like a burst tomato!

The cruiser sliced through the rowboat. Nick went over the side. In the same motion he tossed the lemon shaped bomb into the after cockpit of the Owens.

Nick went deep. Deeper! He hoped Mousy was doing the same. Tiny Tim, as the new grenade was called, was having its first field test. As he went deeper and deeper Nick found himself hoping, fervently, that he would be around to make a report on it.

N3 heard nothing. He
felt
it. A giant hand plunged into the Golden Horn, probing and stirring the greasy waters into lashing fury. Nick was tossed and battered and spun and then the downward pressure came and he was thrust so deep his face rammed mud. Suddenly the cork was drawn and he was pulled upward with a terrible strength, finally hurled out of the water like a leaping fish!

Nick floated in a daze. His head was splitting, his ears rang and he was half blind.

He was treading water in the midst of carnage. In a slowly widening wheel of total destruction. Part of a body floated past. No head, but the torso was too husky to be Mousy.

Nick pushed his way through the flotsam, searching. No Mousy Morgan.

He couldn't spend forever looking. He had to get the hell out of there. If Mousy was dead, and he probably was, then he had died in the line of duty. There was still the mission. It would be a hell of a lot tougher without Mousy. Nick didn't even know where the station was in Stamboul — no AXE agent was ever told more than he had to know to do his job — and there was the girl Mousy had mentioned. He would have to find her. Nick started to swim in the direction of the jetty. First thing was to get out of the Horn and lose himself!

"Nick! — help! Help me..."

Nick swirled in the water, searching. That had been Mousy's voice. But where, damn it? Time was running out. The sun would be popping over the minarets any minute now. And the harbor patrol would be along! "Nick! Over h — here!"

Nick zeroed in on the sound. "Keep talking," he yelled. "I'm coming."

He found the little man still clinging to the suitcase. He collared Mousy and started for the jetty, swimming hard.

Mousy Morgan was beaten and battered and nearly half-dead, but he retained his spirits. "What," he gasped as Nick towed him along, "what in God's name was that? An atom bomb?"

Nick grunted. "You guessed it, little man. Half a grain of sand of fissionable matter! Tiny Tim! Now shut up and don't lose that suitcase or I'll lose you!"

"The ball," Mousy said weakly, "sure has opened with a bang!"

Nick couldn't have agreed more.

Nick was feeling the beginnings of exhaustion when he pulled Mousy and the suitcase onto a low stone jetty. Shallow stairs, worn and grooved by centuries, led up to a narrow bricked street where a crowd was beginning to form.

Nick grabbed the little man by the elbow and hustled him up the stairs. "We've got to get the hell out of here before the cops show. Where's the car?"

"Couple of streets over. In an alley. A black Opel. It's my own, not an AXE job."

"It's a car," Nick said grimly. "That's all I care about at the moment. This quay is going to be swarming with
polls
any minute."

"Inshallah,"
said Mousy. "Allah willing."

Nick pushed his way through a little knot of silent, staring people. After they had passed the spate of excited chatter began. Turkish, new and old, Greek, Armenian, French! When the cops did arrive they were going to hear some wild stories. And the harbor patrol — they would be going crazy!