Paradise Spells Danger

by George B Mair

  ‘Only because she’s part of the Krystelle package,’ snapped Grant. ‘So get the Hell and do what you like. Who cares? Just remember the vomit angle and be ready to take evasive action.’

  Harry had a final look round the room. ‘Honest, David. As a liar you stand alone. Bloody fantastic. And all off the cuff. But I got the set-up. Started a harem! Best of luck. I got my own supplies.’

  ‘Then use them,’ said Grant and pointed for the door. ‘But before we leave, any questions?’

  Frank grinned. ‘You know us, man. We even got the Turkish address. One guy said we had photographic memories. See you at the Divan. And watch it. You’ve become hot property.’

  Harry lifted his grip. ‘Okay, Duke. On your way. You got nice time to make the airport. See you.’

  Grant felt for the first time that they might be getting somewhere, and memory of the shoes in Holland had boosted morale. It was odds in favour of rendezvous at the Divan on the following night!

  He reappraised the passport photograph and gave Harry full marks. Allowing for changes in hair styles it would pass most frontiers.

  He checked in at the airport without incident.

  If anyone marked his departure that was okay by Grant. ‘They’ would expect him to hit Paris without delay, but he did take evasive action at Orly after a long and conspicuous telephone call calculated to put ‘them’ at ease. Even so, he was on tenterhooks until take-off for Amsterdam, and at Schiphol picked up an Avis car arranged in advance.

  He used minor roads towards The Hague, but with a stop for beer at Halfweg to revisit a kinky pub run as a semi-nudist undress-as-you-please tourist attraction which was good for a laugh. And after the Istanbul show he felt that he deserved a laugh!

  His detective superintendent friend kept late hours, but Grant had sent a telex from Vienna to the office asking him to stand by. He lived in a new area of the city and was a widower.

  ‘David Grant,’ he said warmly. ‘How very nice to see you. Even if it is only because you want something.’

  Grant lifted a Bols and eased himself into deeply comfortable cushions surrounded by old oak furnishings. ‘I came here first,’ he said, ‘but things are complicated and I’ve a lot to do.’

  ‘Like giving yourself up to Interpol?’ The Dutchman looked at him with almost professional neutrality. ‘I don’t want to force secrets which could embarrass you. But may I assume that there is a good explanation for everything?’

  ‘You can.’ Grant knew when to talk and rated Ger Spielmann as a friend. But there would have to be no secrets, the man’s intuition where crime was concerned had made him a superintendent at thirty-two!

  ‘So,’ he ended. ‘I need a different public image and I need the gas shoes.’

  Spielmann was unexpectedly serious. ‘Your make-up expert is in Italy and the shoes at my bank in safe deposit. They wouldn’t open up short of an order from government or the chairman of the board.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Your friend made a good job of the Doosterberg photograph. So we keep the passport but change your personality just a little. And surely we can do that ourselves. As for the gas, too bad. But is there anything else you could use?’

  Grant’s campaign had been built up around the paralysing nerve gas which had got him out of more impossible situations than he liked to think about. It was difficult to figure a substitute. ‘I’ll try to think of something,’ he said at last. ‘But let’s get to work on the other thing.’

  When he boarded the morning flight for Istanbul he felt marginally more reassured. The Dutchman had slightly stained his teeth and given him a hefty dose of ultra violet light which had created a pink and white complexion. One cheek pad on the right side made his features slightly lopsided and he wore a monocle. The eye-glass bothered him as attracting attention, but Spielmann argued that no ‘wanted’ man ever attracted attention to himself, and so for that reason alone the monocle was a worth-while affectation. He carried no gun or knife because Turkish customs were thorough as well as sensitive about some things, but Spielmann had given him a small container labelled Quikyshave and with a brand name attached which contained the most evil-smelling substance he had ever known. It evaporated rapidly at even three degrees Centigrade and one drachm was guaranteed to make an average sized room uninhabitable. More important, it had a terrific emetic effect and victims were rendered harmless because of intense nausea. Best of all, he had a supply of nostril plugs which, properly inserted, gave protection without need for elborate masks. The plugs could be explained away to customs people as for use in aircraft because of ear problems.

  He settled into his seat and closed his eyes. The steward had been instructed to waken him with coffee and sandwiches forty-five minutes from touch-down at Istanbul and not before. The aircraft was half empty and flying conditions perfect. He was passing through Immigration by 1430 and organised with an Avis car by 1500.

  Grant accepted that his biggest fault was impatience, but nothing could have argued him into staying away from the address given by the dead American. He already had a vague idea of the probable set-up, but confirmation was essential. Thoughts of the girls had seldom been out of his mind since he had surfaced in Austria. He had no illusions, and knew that if he was once marked in Istanbul they would disappear within the hour into some brothel which he might never locate. Yet he also accepted that risks would have to be run if he were to get anywhere at all.

  He double-checked for the hundredth time on the address. Turkish street names could sometimes be confusing! And then he found it. A narrow road paved still with cobbles and flanked by old houses. Several were of wood and it was a survival piece from the old days. It was entered within a hundred metres of Topkapi’s outer walls where the western remains angled towards the Golden Horn, and just south of a ruined gateway which had been the Sublime Porte and approach to the Palace of the Grand Vizier.

  He parked the car near Aya Sofia. Ger Spielmann had added a camera at the last minute ‘in case you need to look like a tourist’. A visit to the cathedral-mosque-museum came first and afterwards a snap of Saint Irene including part of the southern ‘land’ wall of the Seraglio Palace. The walls seemed to interest him more than the Hippodrome behind and he sauntered downhill until level with the Alai Kiosk rising high above his head.

  Grant had visited the Alai Kiosk only once but recalled it as a natural gazebo commanding an ideal view of the streets below and of the Sublime Porte only a few score paces across the busy road. The Kiosk had had an interesting history which dated right back to the sixteenth century. One Sultan, Murad IV, had even used it as a nest from which to practise with his arquebus on innocent passers-by until outraged public opinion had forced even the Sultan to limit his ‘bag’ to not more than ten corpses per day. The Kiosk had also been used for emergency public audiences when an anxious sultan was forced to move fast in order to talk an angry mob into reason: or until he had time to summon the janissaries, the private army which was dreaded by public and sultan alike. Now the place was presenting an exhibition of photographs by leading European artists and open to the public. It was an hour before closing time and he lingered inside by the windows until the complicated maze of houses and walls began to make sense. Later, when he talked with Kemal, he might be glad that he had refreshed his memory. And for sure, he thought, as he walked back to the car, if a man went into that little white house up the street and didn’t come out the front door then he came out somewhere else. In this part of Stamboul the only thing which made sense was an underground passage, and he had vague memories that such a tunnel did link the old Grand Vizier Palace with the Second Court of Topkapi itself. But if so why not another to the houses behind, which seemed made to measure for illicit lovers?

  Istanbul traffic was at its height when he drove towards Galata Bridge and he cursed himself for having forgotten that a trip which used to take only ten minutes or so could now add up to an hour or more when everything snarled up at the bottlenecks. Apart from anythi
ng else, the one thing he could not afford was an accident, since Turkish police played things by the book and time ceased to matter.

  His watch was showing 2145 when he finally eased in to the parking lot beside the Divan. Istanbul was still short of hotels but the Park and the Divan remained his favourites, though the Divan now had the edge over the Park ever since tourists had hit the city in numbers and the Park had expanded.

  Harry was reading a French paper-back and Frank, five tables away, picking his teeth with a pin when Grant entered the dining-room. A former Miss Turkey was sipping what looked like pink gin with a well known film producer and few of the waiters had been changed since his last visit. He was curious to see if any would remember him, and relaxed when he had placed his order. He was well known in the Divan and if he passed without recognition Ger Schliemann had done a good job. Even so, he knew that Frank at least had marked him. The pin was back in his lapel and he was lounging back in his seat, the picture of relaxed satisfaction.

  He was sipping his first cup of sweet Turkish coffee when he saw that a newly lighted cigarette was burning on Harry’s ash-tray and realised that the man must have gone to the loo.

  Harry was washing his hands and irritated. ‘Got lead in your feet or something?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Grant knew that he had been careless and off guard. ‘What bothers?’

  ‘Safe to talk here?’

  ‘If it’s urgent.’ He looked inside the cabins. ‘All clear.’

  ‘Well, Frank made it without problems. But when I checked in one character was interested. I’ve seen him around in Paris. Maybe A-C D-C, I don’t know. But face familiar and he seemed to know me. Looked like a top pop type or a TV personality.’

  ‘Long black hair and kind of haggard sensitive face? Thickish lips and a good tan?’

  ‘No. But you’ve just described a second guy in the background. A loner waiting at the bar. A loner if ever I saw one.’

  ‘And you don’t know where he fits in?’

  ‘I was concentrating on the first one. Gave me the creeps. Funny eyes. Sort of like ice.’

  ‘Did anything happen?’

  ‘He took a cab back to town. Would have forgotten him but for the eyes.’

  ‘Was he suspicious?’

  Harry became impatient. ‘How did I know? He was there. He saw me. He flickered a bit when I signed the register. He posted a card and he took a cab.’

  ‘Then why are you telling me now? This tic-tac arrangement for a fast talk was to cover emergencies.’

  ‘Then you’ve got one,’ said Harry. ‘Because I don’t like coincidences, and right now the same guy is having dinner nine tables away from you. He’s got a bird along, but I lip-read and he’s been telling her exactly how she’s to pick me up. Idea is to make for my room after I’ve signed the bill and have a good laugh when she finds she’s confused the number. Corny! But it could work. In fact one pro could only expect to take another thataway because it is so dead corny no one could possibly expect it.’

  ‘What language were they using?’

  ‘French.’

  ‘And what’s to happen after the pick-up?’

  ‘She’s to get me into circulation outside. A look at the shops in Hilton Arcade before we get down to business.’

  ‘Maybe they really do think you’re a tourist,’ said Grant at last.

  ‘Do I look like one?’

  Grant knew more than most foreigners how Turks assessed people. ‘Could be,’ he said. ‘You were reading a French paper-back. The suit is too snazzy for a business executive or politician. There were a lot of hotel labels on your baggage. You’re travelling alone and not with a party. Your name won’t have been mentioned in the gossip columns of the evening paper so it can’t be a “big” name like Sinatra, or Heath or Humperdinck or Frost. They’ve probably got you taped as a French minor tycoon bird hunting on vacation!’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘You play it by ear. Frank and I will be around.’

  ‘Okay.’ Harry adjusted his tie in the mirror. ‘See you.’

  Five minutes later Grant returned to the dining-room and signed his bill.

  Chapter Eight – ‘You didn’t say “friend”’

  Grant knew that Frank would cover Harry all the way.

  The drill was standard.

  Even so the situation made no sense. Sex kittens could pick up better bets and more dollars in the Hilton.

  ‘The Hell with it;’ he said quietly and decided upon shock tactics. Harry and he had suites in the same corridor and action seemed due to start at Harry’s door towards the far end.

  It was difficult to forget that Harry had reacted to Miss Sidder’s description of ‘ice-blue eyes’ or that a man who could fit the bill hadn’t only been off-stage at Divan reception but was now dining in the same restaurant with a girl briefed to pick him up.

  Frank was reading in the landing, his face half concealed by the New York Herald Tribune when he reached his own rooms and tried to interpret sounds out in the passage.

  One set of footsteps was too loud and just had to be a man.

  A long silence was broken by a couple chattering in English about a Black Sea cruise.

  He took a chance when he heard short, swiftly padding steps on the carpet and opened the door. The girl outside was a stranger, but for sure she had dined with a young man close to his own table and he streaked into action, his grip over mouth and neck smothering a yelp of surprise as he lifted her inside.

  An evening scarf doubled as gag and he fought to anchor ankles and wrists to the bed. She kicked like a drunken bar girl and he ended squatting astride her, one leg over each arm and one buttock against her neck forcing her chin upwards. The whole thing was over in less than two minutes and so far as he could guess only Frank had seen the action.

  Even so, a thought crossed his mind. If the girl did belong to the other side she might well be carrying a bug, and listening devices could be made almost as small as buttons. Chances were that her movements were being monitored. He slipped off her shoes, reached for a pair of scissors from his dressing case and cut skirt with top along the seams. The girl’s eyes were registering only hate, but it was enough for Grant. With an expression like that she just had to be a professional! There was no fear. Not even particular surprise. Only rage.

  He carefully rolled up the clothes, unhooked her bra and snipped off miniscule pants, leaving her with only a length of sheer pantie-hose which seemed to emphasise her long limbs. The clothes he wrapped in a bath towel and slipped in to the waste container in the bathroom. Her handbag was tiny and held only a handkerchief, lipstick and powder-puff together with some notes. Even so, he added it to the bin. He guessed that Frank would be waiting a signal and double-checked on the gag before lifting a pair of shoes and putting them outside his door as though for routine cleaning. The area was still clear except for Frank who seemed, now, to be deep in a well-thumbed New Yorker. Seconds later he was standing by the bedside, smiling. ‘Sure a fast worker, David. But why the strip routine?’

  ‘Possibility of a bug or something. Playing safe.’

  ‘So what gives now?’

  Grant scribbled a name. ‘Get this from the nearest drugstore. And if they don’t sell it, take it. But keep things cool if you can.’

  ‘You know what you’re doing?’

  ‘And keep away from Harry. He’ll stay put till further notice. But I want that script fast. A sort of truth drug, if you’ve heard the name.’

  Frank looked at the girl. ‘Take a heap of explaining if that chick is in the clear!’ He paused and stared again. ‘Could be, mind you. Face means nothing.’

  ‘Then the sooner you get that shot the sooner something will mean something,’ said Grant. ‘But careful.’

  He cleaned and loaded one of Harry’s guns, switched off the lights and posted himself near a chink in the window curtains. It was impossible to spot anything unusual in the sidewalks below. The café was only half full and the streets quiet, b
ut half an hour later Frank sauntered towards the entrance hall. He was wearing a candy-stripe non-crush jacket with wide lapels, natural hide sandals, tan trousers and a glaring tie. His camera with flash hung round his neck and he filled the eye. Like Grant, he seemed to have decided that, for this once at least, it might pay to be conspicuous.

  ‘Hi, man.’ Frank’s voice was still relaxed, but he had entered the room without making a sound. ‘Got a coupla packs to be on the safe side. And four syringes. They must’ve made around three hundred per cent profit.’

  ‘And you weren’t tailed?’

  Frank looked hurt. ‘You talk too much.’

  Pentothal was now old-fashioned, but Grant had chosen it rather than one of the more recent products which might not yet be available in Turkey. It had worked in the past, he remembered, so there was no reason why it shouldn’t work again. The damn thing was still estimating dose. Too much and she would pass out. Her eyes filled with fear as she felt the needle slip into a vein in front of her elbow and then she slowly began to lose muscle tension. A crucial question was when to remove her gag but Frank was standing by to cope when Grant gave the sign and he did so only when her breathing was regular, her limbs loose but not limp, and her eyes somehow vaguely intelligent. ‘Great,’ he said, ‘and now switch on that pocket tape. We don’t want to miss anything.’

  Frank carried a ‘diary memo’ no larger than two packs of cards but which operated a cassette which could run for twenty minutes on each side. Frank even claimed that it could pick up a moth breathing at twenty paces.

  ‘Your name,’ said Grant.

  The girl’s voice was soft but only slightly slurred and she spoke in French. ‘Monique.’

  ‘Why are you in Istanbul?’

  ‘Working.’

  ‘What sort of work?’

  ‘I must help to catch a man.’

  ‘Who is the man?’

  ‘’Arri.’

  ‘His second name?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why must you catch him?’