by Graham Marks
“Thank you, Jenkins.” George Stanhope-Leigh nodded at his secretary, who left the room. “Do sit down, Mr., um, Hendek. What exactly can I do for you?”
“For me? Nothing.”
“Nothing? I see...” George Stanhope-Leigh couldn’t hide his surprise as he picked Baba Duan’s business card up from the desk and turned it over. “Why, then, did you ask for this to be given to me, along with the information that you knew where this particular person was? Why would you think I would be interested?”
“Because I am pretty much sure that you have this particular person –” Baba Duan made inverted commas with his fingers – “Mr. Trade Secretary. You, and not the Russian, or anyone else you might have tried to make people believe. And I also know that T. Drummond MacIntyre Three is missing and most probably in the hands of a certain Herr Oberst Reinhardt Gessler.”
“You seem to know a lot of things, Mr. Hendek...” George Stanhope-Leigh got up and closed the door his secretary had left slightly ajar. “Although I thought people in your line of work normally negotiated the fee for divulging information before they divulged it. I don’t quite understand what you want from me. In my position as Trade Secretary, that is.”
“I think, here in this room,” Baba Duan waved his hand rather elaborately, “you and I can understand everything, no? Most especially that I am not here wishing for money, or to talk to you about trade.” Baba Duan sat back in his chair frowning. “I am telling you because I am unfortunately quite responsible for the young Trey being where I am almost entirely positive he is. I am not a bad man, Mr. Stanhope-Leigh, but fear I am not so good a one when threatened.”
“Herr Gessler has, ah, kidnapped this person’s son?”
“Indeed.” Baba Duan took out a packet of oval cigarettes, lit one and blew three concentric smoke rings. “I am informed that yesterday Herr Gessler himself flew up to his yali, the villa he has taken in Rumeli Kavagi. I think I am most sure he has the boy, Trey, with him.”
“And why do you think I have Trey’s father?”
“Oh I don’t think that, Mr. Stanhope-Leigh.” Baba Duan’s eyes twinkled as he smiled broadly. “I am entirely, one hundred per cent confident in this matter!”
“I see...” A look of consternation passed quickly across George Stanhope-Leigh’s face, and then he returned Baba Duan’s smile. “Is this matter then common knowledge in the markets and bazaars, Mr. Hendek?”
Baba Duan shook his head and pursed his lips as he tutted. “No, no, no, Mr. Trade Secretary, it is not. It is my deduction, which I have kept only to myself, until this moment.”
“I do hope that is true.” George Stanhope-Leigh pulled open the drawer in front of him and drew out a heavy, blue-black six-shot pistol, which he put on the desk. Its barrel was pointing in Baba Duan’s general direction.
“To be sure...” Baba Duan stared at his host, aware that this was the second day running he had had a very large pistol pulled on him and briefly wondered if it was going to become a regular occurrence in his life. “It is very true.”
“Good.” George Stanhope-Leigh stood up and straightened his shoulders. “And now I think we have some work to do...”
“We?”
“Yes, Mr. Hendek, you are coming with me.”
“I know where Trey’s father is...”
“You know where Trey’s pater is?” Arthur stared, open-mouthed, at his dainty, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth sister. “I mean to say, how?”
The look of utter disbelief on her brother’s face would, ordinarily, have tickled Christina pink, but today it didn’t. Today all she felt was guilty. At first she hadn’t told Arthur what she’d heard because he’d been so perfectly dreadful to her, and then, after she’d realized she ought to say something, the fact that she hadn’t earlier had made it all so very difficult. She really did hate admitting she was wrong. And then everything got so very complicated, the way things can do if you don’t do what you know you should.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Well...because. And I am sorry, Arthur...”
“But...!”
“Let me finish, Arthur!” Christina played nervously with one of her curls. “You see, I was up rather earlier than you this morning...”
“But...!”
“Excuse?” Evren waved his hand as he tried to attract the attention of either of the siblings as Neyla watched, bemused; at this point in an argument, in her house, there would by now definitely be some vigorous pushing and shoving.
“What?” Arthur looked like he’d forgotten anyone else was there.
“Where is Trey father?”
“As I was just saying...” Christina, her arms folded, turned her attention to Evren. “I was up early and I heard voices downstairs, in Papa’s study, and as I went past I couldn’t help but overhear...”
“Overhear what?” demanded Arthur.
“Papa talking to someone he called Mr. MacIntyre, that’s what.”
“Why on earth didn’t you say something before!” Arthur appeared to be about to explode.
Christina looked away and shrugged. “Because you’d been beastly.”
Arthur appeared to have completely lost the power of speech.
“Where is Mr. Macktire now?” Evren butted in, before he could regain it. “It is important, Christina.”
“He’s in the annexe; I heard Papa ask him if he was comfortable, and Mr. MacIntyre said that he was.” Christina looked at the expectant faces watching and waiting. “Which is how I know where he is; but before that I heard Mr. MacIntyre asking a lot of questions about Trey.”
“Questions?” Arthur frowned.
“From what I could work out, Papa had Mr. MacIntyre picked up from the hotel to keep him safe from something, I don’t know what; Trey was supposed to be there, too...”
“...but was late getting back.” Arthur shook his head. “He said his pa was a bit of a stickler for timing.”
“Well, the fact is they think that Trey’s missing – which, I suppose, he is, in a manner of speaking – but they don’t know he’s been captured by Russians. Mr. MacIntyre wanted to know what exactly was being done to find him; he sounded quite angry and Papa tried to calm him down. I couldn’t make out everything they were saying, and then I heard one of the servants coming and I had to go.”
“You spied on Pater?” Arthur’s jaw dropped.
“So did you.”
“But...”
“Where is this place, this ‘annexe’, please?” said Evren, trying not to lose his temper because of the seemingly interminable squabbling.
“Just over there.” Christina pointed to a small building behind some trees, not twenty yards away, which Evren hadn’t noticed before.
“You think he could be there, still?”
“Oh I think so, I did hear Papa say that Mr. MacIntyre really must stay out of sight until things were cleared up.”
Arthur looked at his sister in complete disbelief. “How long were you listening outside Pater’s study without getting caught?”
“Oh, I don’t know, about five minutes, I suppose.”
“It really isn’t fair,” huffed Arthur, who always seemed to get collared by someone or other whenever he tried to eavesdrop.
“We should see Mr. Macktire soon, I think maybe now, yes?”
“But...” Arthur stopped mid-sentence, frowned at Evren and then nodded to himself. “No, you’re right old chap, spot on. We must tell Trey’s pater everything straight away, he’ll know what to do next. Come on!”
Leading the way as if he was astride a charger in the vanguard of the Light Brigade, Arthur galloped across the lawn towards the single storey building, swiftly followed by Evren and Neyla, with Christina very genteelly bringing up the rear. Skidding to a halt in front of the door he began hammering on it with his fist, almost as if he was trying to break it down.
“Mr. MacIntyre, are you there?” he yelled.
“Shhh, Arthur!” hissed Christina. “They’ll hear you
up at the house – and we’re not supposed to know anyone’s here!”
At which point the door opened to reveal a man dressed in a crisp white shirt, a blood-red tie with dark blue pattern and a grey three-piece suit. A man whom everyone recognized from the photos they’d seen in the file Arthur had brought to Ahmet’s taxi the night before. Evren, who was the only person to have actually seen the “other” man, was shocked by how much Trey’s father looked like him. The resemblance was extraordinary.
“You must be Arthur, and ah, Christina, I believe it is?” said the man, with the exact same accent as Trey had; he looked slightly quizzically at Evren and Neyla, who clearly weren’t either Arthur or Christina.
“These are our friends, and they’re friends of Trey’s as well, Mr. MacIntyre,” Arthur explained.
“Ah, right, very nice to meet all of you.” Mr. MacIntyre’s smile was very tight as he slowly ran his fingers through his hair. “But I’m sorry to say that Trey is not here right at the moment, so...”
“We know, Mr. Macktire.” Evren stepped forward, as if to accept whatever punishment was to come his way, as he did feel responsible for Trey not being there. “He has been kidnap.”
“He has what?”
“It’s true, Evren and Neyla saw it happen, Mr. MacIntyre,” Arthur said. “And we suspect that a Russian who had been following you kidnapped him. And we think we know where he is...”
27 BULLETS FLY
Trey felt happier, even though he was still making achingly slow progress, now that he’d left the main road. However he wouldn’t say he was delirious, as The Enemy was still out there and no doubt still looking for him. But, because the horse was going so slowly, this lulled him into daydreaming about restaurants and food and the astonishing meal (with all the trimmings) that he’d order and eat just as soon as he could. And, because of his lack of attention, he failed to notice that the lane he’d taken was, in fact, gently looping its way back to join the main road again.
He was so bound up in devising his perfect menu that it was more than a few minutes after rejoining the road that he woke up to where he was. And while he could blame the horse for a lot of things, this wasn’t one of them. Trey pulled back on the reins and the horse obligingly stopped and began clipping some nearby vegetation, making him wish it was that easy to satisfy his own hunger pangs. He was just about to get the map out again when he heard the faint roar of an engine being double-declutched and around a bend a couple of hundred yards down the road came a car, its tyres squealing as they sought to keep the machine actually on the crude strip of tarmacadam.
It was The Enemy.
It had to be.
It couldn’t be anybody else.
Trey’s mind went into overdrive: the car was going so fast that there was ab-so-lutely no chance that he’d be able to pull off hiding behind the horse again. And, equally, not a hope in Hades, as Trent would say, that he’d be able to outrun it, even if the animal knew what the word “gallop” meant. Which he seriously doubted.
But, as he was not about to be captured without a fight, the only alternative was to get ready for battle. Swinging the briefcase round he fumbled the clasps open and took out the pistol. The pistol which, as he hastily checked, he was more than relieved to see was loaded.
He had fired guns before, target practice out on Gramps’s ranch, shooting at empty bean cans and such, but this would be the first time he’d pulled a trigger in anger. And he was angry. Scared, too. This felt like such a final course of action, like the last thing you were ever going to do...
The gun felt awkward, almost too big and heavy for him to hold. But he had to do this, show these people, whoever they were, that they couldn’t simply drag T. Drummond MacIntyre III off the street and expect to get away with it scot-free! Not to mention that no gumshoe worthy of the name would ever be taken without a fight. Trey raised the gun up, using both hands. The barrel wavered. He took a deep breath, steadied himself on the horse, aimed at the radiator grille of the car accelerating towards him and pulled the trigger.
Nothing...nothing!
It wasn’t loaded?
No, no, it was the safety catch.
He’d forgotten the safety catch!
Trey pushed it forward with his thumb, repeated steps one, two and three and got knocked backwards by the force of the kick. Not to mention deafened by the bang. But with his ears still ringing, Trey had no time to think, let alone look to see where the bullet had gone, as everything started to happen at once.
The sudden loud explosion (not to mention the lump of lead whistling just inches above its head) had obviously put some much-needed vim into the nag, which reared up, nearly throwing Trey, and took off. At a speed, he had to admit, very much like a gallop. Just managing to grab a handful of mane, Trey hunched down and hung on like grim death as the horse thundered down the narrow road. In the direction of The Enemy, coming the other way. Exactly what a crash involving a large carthorse and an automobile would look like Trey couldn’t even begin to imagine, except that it would not be a pretty sight.
But it never happened.
Its massive hooves ringing a dull tattoo on the uneven road, the horse sped on, right past the car, which had veered off to the left. Trey had no way of knowing whether this was because his shot had hit it, or that the driver (the bearded man he’d caught a glimpse of as he’d been stuffed in the trunk of the car) didn’t want to hit a couple of tons of careening horse meat.
Risking a swift glance over his shoulder Trey saw the car being backed out onto the road again, which answered that question; then he saw the blond-haired passenger turning round in his seat and waving what looked like a stick at him. A puff of smoke erupted from the end of the stick, followed a second later by the crack of a pistol shot; the bullet missed, whining by like an angry hornet. Only now aware that somehow he’d managed to hold onto his own pistol, Trey fleetingly wondered if he could, like the Indian braves in the movies, fire back at them over his shoulder.
Figuring that he was going to have enough trouble just keeping from falling off, Trey flicked the safety back on and decided to concentrate on what was up ahead and save the shooting for when there wasn’t an alternative. He knew he’d no chance of being able to outrun the car on the road – no matter how fast the horse went – and if he didn’t find a way to go that the car couldn’t, and soon, they were going to catch him up.
What he found, as the horse continued round the bend on its fear-driven, unstoppable, pell-mell journey, was salvation in the form of a flock of sheep about to come out of their field and onto the road. Trey galloped past, but unfortunately for Herr Oberst Gessler and Leutnant Becht, by the time they rounded the bend the animals were completely blocking the road and going at a pace dictated by the old shepherd and his even older assistant. This was meanderingly slow, and, as it turned out, something no amount of cursing, ordering, horn blaring and offers of money made any difference to.
It was quite a few minutes before Trey grasped that, while he wasn’t home free yet, he’d at least been given a reprieve...
The driver pulled up outside George Stanhope-Leigh’s house; he put on the handbrake, but left the engine idling. Stanhope-Leigh looked Baba Duan, sitting next to him in the back of the car, straight in the eye. “I shall only be a moment, Mr. Hendek.” Opening the door he got out, then ducked back down and poked his head inside the car. “Once again, I apologize for any inconvenience, but I cannot have you loose in Constantinople, not with what you know.”
“But I do assure you most profoundly that I would not breathe the merest syllable.” Baba Duan looked at the men with extremely short haircuts and granite jawlines sitting in the two front seats. “Not one, on my departed mother’s life.”
“Be that as it may, Mr. Hendek, you will remain my guest for the moment.”
“Guests can usually say when they go home; in Turkey, at least.”
“Don’t do anything stupid, Mr. Hendek, you will be home soon enough.”
Bab
a Duan watched the man walk up the steps to his front door, then sat back and lit himself a cigarette; he thought about offering one to the two men, but in the end he didn’t. Some time after stubbing the cigarette out he’d begun to think that Mr. Stanhope-Leigh must have stopped for a light snack (it was, according to his own watch, some ten minutes before nine o’clock and therefore over two hours since he himself had last eaten, so this would be completely understandable), then the Englishman appeared at the front door with a very formally dressed older man who was, he noticed, wearing white gloves. Mr. Stanhope-Leigh’s face was thunderous.
“Trouble.” The man on the right looked at his colleague.
“Guvnor’s not an ’appy man.” The driver continued cleaning his nails with a small penknife.
“Best-laid plans, as they say.” The first man nodded to himself.
“Very true, Jimmy. Very true.”
Stanhope-Leigh got back in and slammed the car door. “I told the man to stay put and stay out of sight – for his own safety! How difficult is that to understand? Particularly as I was under the distinct impression we and our American cousins spoke the same language.”
“Guvnor?”
“Mr. MacIntyre has gone, we know not where, Taylor.” Stanhope-Leigh steepled his fingers and remained silent for a second or two, thinking. “Right!” He clapped his hands together, a decision obviously made. “Let’s get a move on, Taylor – how far is it to where you say Gessler has his place, Mr. Hendek?”
“Rumeli Kavagi? I should imagine something not less than thirty kilometres, possibly? This road is not the very best, but it has not rained...”
“Take the coast road, Taylor. Fast as you like.”
“Guvnor.” Ernie Taylor (according to the Consulate’s official listings the Trade Secretary’s driver, but also a trained MI6 agent) started the car and moved smoothly away from the kerb.
