Istanbul (5 page)
Coldly, Nick added, "Too bad about him, sir, but be had only himself to blame. And he damned near got Mousy and me killed. Anyway Mousy is through — his nerves have gone. I'll have to use him tonight on this deal, but after that, no more. Better get him out as fast as you can, sir."
"I'll get him out," Hawk said. "I'll set it up right away. But that's going to leave you pretty much on your own."
"It won't be the first time," Nick reminded him. "Anyway I like it that way. I've decided that about the only way I'll get anywhere is to barge into the china shop and start breaking up the merchandise. That's what I'm going to do tonight — at the Cinema Bleu! That's spelled B-L-E-U, sir, and means..."
Hawk coughed. "I was born a long time before you were, boy! They were making those kind of movies then, too. Just see that you keep your mind on business!"
"I will, sir, I will." Nick added: "I never liked those blue movies very much anyway, sir. Not enough action for me."
A little silence. Hawk cleared his throat. Then, to Nick's surprise, he came right back with malice in his voice. "There have been certain prophecies, my boy, around here, that when you are found dead it will be in a whorehouse! I think a blue movie will suffice, though it's stretching a point! Now if there's nothing else to say get on with your job — and try to- stay out of trouble. Good luck, son."
"Thanks, sir. I'll need it. Goodbye." Nick hung up. He had been tempted to make one last sarcastic remark, but decided against it. He had been brash enough for one day. Still — to send a man to kill four people and then advise him to stay out of trouble! Brother!
He left the clammy little niche where the radio consoles had been set up and went back along the passage to the central cavern. Nick paused at the entrance to the low-domed cavern and inspected the scene. He had finally decided what he must do about the girl — and it had both pleasant and unpleasant aspects.
It was quiet in the cavern. Quiet and damp and cold. Nick could hear water trickling as he lit one of the American cigarettes Mousy had so thoughtfully brought along from the station in Pera. Mousy was sleeping now in one of the niches ringing the cavern, sleeping from sheer exhaustion and a little too much fiery Turkish
raki
supplied by the old Albanian. Bici?
raki
supplied by the old Albanian. Bici?
Yes, that was it. Bici! AXE, it appeared, had in some way inherited him from the British. Mousy swore by him. He seemed okay. An old man of incredibly dirty and gnarled strength, he had fierce drooping
moustachios
and smoked a stinking cutty pipe. He was also sleeping now and his snores were the only audible sounds in the place.
moustachios
and smoked a stinking cutty pipe. He was also sleeping now and his snores were the only audible sounds in the place.
No sound came from the niche where the girl slept. Nick made a slight move in her direction, then halted. He glanced at his watch. Plenty of time before the job tonight. Meantime he had some thinking to do.
His briefing from Mousy that afternoon had been as comprehensive as the little man could make it. He had acquired substantial
dossiers
on three of the four they were after — there was not much on Johnny Ruthless who, in any case, had dropped out of sight.
dossiers
on three of the four they were after — there was not much on Johnny Ruthless who, in any case, had dropped out of sight.
Nick, who had been briefed in Washington on these men, nevertheless went through the local
dossiers.
There might be something Washington had overlooked, though it was unlikely.
dossiers.
There might be something Washington had overlooked, though it was unlikely.
Maurice Defarge, about sixty, jot, suffering from a heart condition. Of French origin, now a Turkish national. No record in France. Clean in Turkey except for certain rumors and suspicions, none of which could be proven. Head of Defarge Exporting Company, Ltd., with offices on top floor of the Divan Annex. Also lives on same floor in palatial suite which, along with offices, occupies entire floor. Unmarried. No obvious interest in women or men. Age may account for this. Exports tobacco and rugs. If connected with Syndicate is probably in administrative capacity. Many pictures available. All attempts to bug or tap have failed.
"That's one of the main difficulties," Mousy said. "These bastards must have a counter-intelligence setup that's a beauty. Professional! No matter what we try, how many electronic bugs we come up with, nothing works. They all go dead. Vanish. They know everything we know and how to guard against it. It's been driving us nuts! The only reason we ever tumbled to Defarge was that he visits the Cinema Bleu every now and then, and seems to be a friend of the woman who runs the place. Her name's Leslie Standish and the Turkish cops
know
she peddles dope. But she's small time and they're trying to use her. I talked them into letting us have a crack at her. We'll know more about that tonight, of course."
know
she peddles dope. But she's small time and they're trying to use her. I talked them into letting us have a crack at her. We'll know more about that tonight, of course."
Mija Gialellis, sipping at a small glass of
ouza,
a resinous wine she said she preferred to the potent
raki
— "after all I am half Greek" — put in a word at this point. The girl had not spoken much at first, and when she did she used English. For practice, she explained.
ouza,
a resinous wine she said she preferred to the potent
raki
— "after all I am half Greek" — put in a word at this point. The girl had not spoken much at first, and when she did she used English. For practice, she explained.
Now she said: "I saw this man Defarge in the Cinema Bleu at one or two times when I go there. One time I see him come from office of Leslie Standish. I... I myself am just come out." She paused for a moment, her oval brown eyes meeting Nick's searching glance without turning away. "It was when I was — how you say it? Using the dope? I am sorry — my English is not good?"
"It's better than my Turkish," Nick told her. He had not yet decided what to do about Mija. It could wait.
He went on, "What do
you
think he was doing there? A man of his age? Probably not a user?"
you
think he was doing there? A man of his age? Probably not a user?"
The girl had sturdy expressive shoulders. She used them now. Her full red mouth crinkled in a rather weary smile. "I not concern myself to think. I... I have myself troubles, you understand? But — wait! There is one thing I remember I think — that he looks like a crooks in American movie. A fat crooks!"
Mousy, who had been at the
raki
bottle again, grinned at her. "We've got a lot of fat crooks in the States. Both in the movies and out! Come on, Mija. Think, girl!"
raki
bottle again, grinned at her. "We've got a lot of fat crooks in the States. Both in the movies and out! Come on, Mija. Think, girl!"
She ran a small hand through her cap of shining blue-black hair. "Ohh… dum it! I cannot now — wait, I remember now. Sidney Groundstreet! No?"
"Greenstreet," said Nick. He regarded her closely, thinking that if she were a plant she was playing the part well. He'd know about that soon enough now. He continued, "Don't you think he went there for the same reason most people do? For the show?"
Mija made a face. "Oh, that! The bad pictures. No, I do not think so. He was alone — and the Standish did not allow but couples. It is a — a policy." She waved her hands in a little gesture and Nick thought he saw a hint of amusement in her eyes. "It does not matter
what
couples, but must be couples!"
what
couples, but must be couples!"
Mousy Morgan broke in again with a small leer. "Maybe the Standish dame was giving him a private show?"
Mija laughed shortly. "Not so. She is not like mans!"
Nick gave Mousy a look and the little man subsided. Nick had purposely allowed Mousy to get loaded because he knew how desperately the little guy needed a break, a chance to relax. Before the job tonight Nick was going to hold his head under one of the icy streams that trickled from the cavern's ceiling. Nick grinned at the thought. He had taken a bath and shaved in that water! Mousy would be sober tonight!
Now he said, rather harshly, "Let's get on with it!"
Carlos Gonzalez. Basque. About fifty. Former boxer in Europe and the States. Fine physique now going to fat. Many scars on face, mostly around eyes. Champion pelota player at one time in Spain. Married once, but no record of divorce and no sign of wife. Maybe suggestive, maybe not. Appears to have great physical strength. Hard to accumulate data on Gonzalez — background is hazy. Claims to be a geologist and may be, but suspect not. Has license from Turkish Government to prospect for oil, but this easily acquired. Does prospect with oil finding equipment, in Taurus and eastern Anatolia. Apparently spends much time in vicinity of Lake Van. No record of any kind obtainable on this man. Never in trouble with police so far as is known. Still a Spanish national but has Turkish resident permit. Two items possible importance — speaks Kurdish and is friendly with Kurds. If connected with Syndicate is probably in capacity of field organizer.
Nick looked at Mousy. The little man was smoking silently, staring at the ceiling of the cave. Now he said, "It's pretty obvious that this broken down pelota player is the straw boss, so to speak. We think he organizes the smuggling trains that take the opium across the border into Syria and Iran. Never been able to prove a damned thing, naturally. Can't catch him at it — I mean the border patrols never have! All they ever get after a raid, or a trap, is a lot of dead Kurds and even if they do get some live ones they never talk! Hot irons won't make a Kurd talk if he don't want to! We think maybe Gonzalez uses terror — you know, their families back home will get hurt if they talk. But Kurds are crazy wild bastards anyway — perfect for smuggling. Kurds hate everybody but Kurds! And it's been hard to get much on this Basque bastard because he hardly ever comes into civilization — stays out in the wilderness all the time. And there's plenty of that out there, believe me!"
Mousy reached for the
raki
jug.
raki
jug.
"No!" Nick's voice was sharp. "Lay off the popskull for now, Mousy. Let's get this over with and get some sleep. What about this Dr. Six — Joseph Six? Washington says he was a Nazi — worked as a doctor in a concentration camp! That right?"
Mousy reluctantly took his hand away from the jug. Old Bici, the Albanian, took the opportunity to seize it and put away a drink of terrifying proportions. Mousy stared at him in fascination while Bici wiped his
moustachios
on the back of a dirty hand. "My God," said Mousy in a reverent tone. "That would have killed me."
moustachios
on the back of a dirty hand. "My God," said Mousy in a reverent tone. "That would have killed me."
Nick was tolerant. "Mousy! Dr. Six?"
The little agent shrugged his thin shoulders. "Same old story. Can't prove a damned thing. He
is
a doctor, all right.
Doktor. Arzt.
Medicine, that is. At least I think it is — anyway I'd hate to know what he specialized in those concentration camps!"
is
a doctor, all right.
Doktor. Arzt.
Medicine, that is. At least I think it is — anyway I'd hate to know what he specialized in those concentration camps!"
N3's face was usually impassive. Never did it betray an emotion he did not wish it to. But someone who knew him intimately — and there were very few — would have noticed a slight hardening of his face now. He hated no one in the accepted sense of the word. In his job he could not afford to hate. It got you involved emotionally. Ruined your judgment. You made mistakes. No — N3 did not hate. But if he had a preference for killing it would be those who ran concentration camps — no matter when or where or for what dictatorship.
Nick said now, "Odd the Turks would let a character like that hang around."
"They need doctors," Mousy said. "How they need them! They're building a whole new country and every little bit helps. Anyway it's sort of like the opium —
our
problems aren't exactly
their
problems! They need us and they cooperate, but the viewpoints are different. And nothing can be proven against this Six. They had to let him go in Germany, after the war, and if
they
couldn't hang him...!"
our
problems aren't exactly
their
problems! They need us and they cooperate, but the viewpoints are different. And nothing can be proven against this Six. They had to let him go in Germany, after the war, and if
they
couldn't hang him...!"
Dr. Joseph Six. German. In Turkey on resident and valued worker's permit. Age — about sixty-five. Tall, thin, so called intellectual type. Runs sanitarium on the Bosphorus, European side, near Lido Hotel. Has wealthy clientele, but also runs large clinic for the poor. Later fact believed to influence attitude of Turkish police. Friend of Defarge, who several times has stayed at sanitarium for treatment of heart condition. If connected with Syndicate cannot guess in what capacity.
Nick stared at Mousy, but for the moment hardly saw the little man. Mousy had compiled the
dossiers,
but then Mousy was vastly inexperienced compared to Nick. N3 thought he saw how a man like Dr. Six could be useful. Sometimes the enforcers of the Syndicate wouldn't want to
kill
a man, at least not at first. They would want to question him! What better place than a sanitarium with its operating table and its truth serums and its sharp little knives?"
dossiers,
but then Mousy was vastly inexperienced compared to Nick. N3 thought he saw how a man like Dr. Six could be useful. Sometimes the enforcers of the Syndicate wouldn't want to
kill
a man, at least not at first. They would want to question him! What better place than a sanitarium with its operating table and its truth serums and its sharp little knives?"
"I think I can guess the capacity," Nick said. For some reason Mousy found himself shivering at the chill in his chief's voice. Then the moment passed. Nick said, "And now we get to the last — but I've got an idea not least — Johnny Ruthless! From all I hear we don't know much about him?"
"You hear right," Mousy admitted. He took off his horn rims and polished them. Nick, without particular compassion, noted how pale and fatigued the little guy was, how the purple shadows beneath the weak eyes were rapidly becoming pouches. This was a nasty job and it had moved in suddenly and Mousy wasn't the man for it. After tonight he would be on his way back to the States and a nice long rest.
"We don't even know his name," Mousy said, replacing his glasses. He peered through the candle-guttering gloom at Nick. "Just that everybody clams up the minute you mention Johnny Ruthless! We know so little that I didn't even try to compile a
dossier
on him. I'll just give it to you first hand, shall I? What we think, what we know, what we suspect — anyway you look at it it's not much."
dossier
on him. I'll just give it to you first hand, shall I? What we think, what we know, what we suspect — anyway you look at it it's not much."
The Albanian had banished into his niche some time before. Now Mija Gialellis stood up with a graceful motion. She was wearing black stretch pants that moulded her long legs beautifully. She looked at Nick.
"A ffedersiniz?"
Nick nodded curtly. "Excused. I'll want to talk to you later, alone."
The girl nodded and went to her niche and disappeared. They heard cot springs squeak.
Nick looked at Mousy. "Now tell me about our Johnny."
"Okay. I hope you won't be disappointed. First — no pix of any sort. By the time we knew we needed pictures he wasn't around any more. That was about three months ago, when this thing started to get hot. But his description, from all we've been able to get since, is that he's young — about thirty, maybe. Slim. Good looking, with a little pencil moustache. Black hair slicked down close to his head. One thing — he seems to like to wear evening clothes. You know, a dinner jacket. A tux."
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