“I’ll get home and pack my bags straightaway, Abdi. I’ll have to go to Istanbul as soon as I can get on a plane. Judy will need friends around her at a time like this.” She flung a Burberry raincoat over her kimono, as Abdi rang for the car.
An hour later, Abdullah appeared at Pagan’s front door. She had just hurled open a newly packed suitcase, hunting for her passport.
“I don’t like the idea of your going to Istanbul alone,” Abdullah said. “I think I’d better go with you. My people have never trusted the Turks so we have a good intelligence system there. So we might be able to help in some way. We have a very pleasant little palace in the diplomatic quarter. My dispatch boxes can be sent there. Suliman has arranged everything, our plane will leave in two hours.”
Pagan jumped up and kissed him. “Darling Abdi, you are so kind!” It did not occur to Pagan to wonder why Abdullah should be so willing to make this uncharacteristic gesture of support. “Now, where the hell is my passport?”
Patiently, Abdullah said, “Your passport is of no consequence when you are traveling with me. I suggest, however, that you ask your maid to find you something more suitable to wear.” Pagan looked down and realized that she had been about to depart in her blue kimono.
* * *
“Miss Jordan is expecting me,” Pagan explained to the desk clerk for the fourth time, demonstrating the universal habit of raising the voice to uncomprehending foreigners. The next moment, she was almost knocked off her feet, as the plump and sweaty manager of the Haroun al-Rashid bustled forward with two assistants and bowed to the thin man in uniform, who was standing behind Pagan.
The marble lobby of the hotel was alive with journalists of every nationality. Television cables crisscrossed the rich rugs on the floor, tripping the flustered bellhops as they carried messages. The telephone switchboard was lit up like Las Vegas, and one of the operators was quietly weeping. Everyone was sweating, shouting to make themselves heard, and confused by the hysterical rumors which swept through the press corps every half hour or so. Photographers jockeyed for position at the entrance on the side street; one intrepid lensman had climbed onto the roof of the hotel annex and was hopefully fitting telephoto lenses to his cameras in order to pry inside Judy’s suite.
Finally, Pagan threw up her arms in despair and, having been told that Judy was on the first floor, she bolted up the staircase to the first floor, shouting, “Judy, it’s Pagan, tell them to let me through!”
Judy heard her, flung open the heavy cedar doors of her suite, and Pagan tumbled into the room, and the two friends hugged each other.
“It’s like World War Three out there,” Pagan gasped when she got her breath.
“We’re waiting for the police chief,” Judy explained. “I hope he’s got some news.” There was a knock at the door and she whirled toward it. “That’ll be him now!” But, Gregg Eagleton, looking pale and crumpled, stood in the doorway. “I couldn’t get an earlier flight, Judy. What the hell is happening?”
* * *
Ten minutes later, the hotel manager escorted into the room a small group of Turkish policemen, headed by the tall thin man who Pagan had seen in the lobby.
Colonel Aziz had round, heavy-lidded eyes and a melancholy expression. He wore the beige uniform of the Turkish police but spoke perfect English, with a slight American accent, having done his basic training in Miami. He reassured Judy that everything possible was being done to find her daughter. “We have involved Interpol, the Sûreté in Paris, and the FBI; we have never had a case such as this. You, Miss Jordan, have informed the police of three ransom demands that sound like jokes, all beginning “Dear Daddy,” sent to a Greek shipping magnate, an American banker, and a pop singer. But I understand from Miss Jordan,” he inclined his head to Judy, “that Mademoiselle Lili’s father died before she was born.” He spread his long, narrow hands in a gesture of surprise.
He thinks this is a publicity stunt, Judy realized, as she handed over the telegram that Curtis had given her that morning, before disappearing to sleep off his journey. The British police had already sent out Angelface’s telegram. And Stiarkoz, when he spoke to Judy via the ship’s radio, had promised to deliver his cablegram when the Persephone docked in Istanbul.
Colonel Aziz examined the three pieces of paper. “There is little we can discover from these, other than that the messages are identical. We found no sign of force or struggle in Mademoiselle Lili’s suite, and our informants in the Grand Bazaar report no unusual disturbance yesterday.”
What would he describe as an unusual disturbance, Judy wondered, gazing up at the dusty chandelier, as she remembered the noisy, sweaty crowds that jostled in the smelly booths of the Bazaar: you could have garroted twenty people in that chaotic place and nobody would have noticed.
“So we are left with the possibility that whoever has abducted Mademoiselle Lili may be someone whom she knew, someone whom she would trust not to harm her.” The Colonel sat back in his green velvet armchair and looked from one strained face to another in turn. Gently he asked, “Who does Mademoiselle Lili know in Istanbul?”
“No one, as far as we know. She’s never been here before.” Judy took off her tortoise-shell glasses and rubbed her tired eyes. “Miss Bayriver, the Beauty Queen winner, and I are the only people that Lili knows in Turkey, apart from the hotel staff, our driver, and the guides. I can’t imagine any friend of Lili’s being capable of this.”
Gregg was slouched in a corner of the sofa, one ankle resting casually on the other knee. “Surely this is either a straightforward criminal case or a terrorist kidnapping?” Gregg had only ever before felt this anxiety fill his chest when his father was racing. He wished to God he hadn’t treated Lili as an ordinary woman: that was what she wanted, so he had tried to hide his bedazzlement behind a façade of unconcern. But she couldn’t be treated as an ordinary woman, because she wasn’t one. If only he’d looked after her more carefully. He wanted to accompany her on this trip, but Lili had insisted that she wanted to travel in the smallest possible group in order to get to know her mother. Gregg couldn’t stop accusing himself of neglecting Lili. If only, if only, if only, he thought.
“I’m inclined to rule out terrorism,” said Colonel Aziz. “Certainly, in Turkey, we have our fair share of these groups—AMLA, the PLO, some Kurdish separatists. What modern capital city is free of these parasites?” Colonel Aziz shrugged. “But when terrorists kidnap a person, they have two aims. They want a substantial sum of money to buy arms to use against people such as myself,” Colonel Aziz gave a tight smile, “and they want the maximum publicity for their cause.” He coughed. “Kidnapping an international celebrity is a highly effective way of insuring worldwide maximum press coverage, but it’s unusual for the terrorist group not to make themselves known immediately. Anonymous kidnapping is not terrorist style.”
Gregg said, “Are there any other alternatives?”
“Regrettably, yes.” The Colonel hesitated, looked at Judy, then continued. “We cannot rule out the possibility that this is an elaborately disguised murder. It’s not unknown for a murderer to lay a false trail, and the peculiar nature of the ransom notes suggests that this is not an authentic kidnap. Do you know whether Mademoiselle Lili had any enemies?”
“Why, I’ve just remembered something!” Pagan jumped up and knocked an engraved brass tray off its stand. “Lili’s just done a charity benefit in London and the performance was almost sabotaged. The man who did that is undoubtedly an enemy of Lili!”
Colonel Aziz made a note on his pad. “Did you make any inquiries at the time?”
“Yes, of course. Someone threw a big party for the entire theater audience at a smart hotel. That party was an expensive, well-planned, weird operation, like this kidnap.”
“Who paid for the party, Lady Swann?”
“The hotel staff was far too discreet to tell us who paid their bill. As nothing illegal had been done, they had to respect their client’s wish to remain anonymous.”
“We have no
proof that whoever paid for the party made the hoax telephone call,” Gregg reminded Pagan.
“Now that something illegal has been done, the hotel will have to tell us all they know, and so will the bank which paid the draft.” The Colonel tore off a sheet of note pad and handed it to one of his assistants.
“I think it was a nutter,” said Gregg. “Just another sicko, with a bit more loot than most of Lili’s crazy fans. Lili gets a regular stack of hate mail. Any one of those creeps might have flipped his lid and decided to grab her.”
“I doubt that the person behind this operation is the sort of person who pesters film stars.” Colonel Aziz looked from one face to another. “The obsessive fan is usually an inadequate, pathetic personality who can’t form relationships with real people, and so lives in a fantasy world. Any reality usually defeats such people.”
“But they still manage to assassinate the occasional rock star or head of state,” Judy observed, sourly. Having seen Lili besieged by obsessive male admirers, none of whom appeared inadequate or pathetic, she was exasperated by the Colonel’s bland psychological explanation.
“Such acts are generally accidents, rather than carefully planned crimes.” The Colonel dismissed Judy’s point. “But we are treating this as a carefully planned, clever crime. Whoever has kidnapped Mademoiselle Lili took great care to investigate your background, Miss Jordan. And he knew that Mademoiselle Lili would be in Turkey at this time.”
Gregg jumped up angrily, and started to pace around the room. “Anyone who can read a newspaper knows that Lili was on tour in Istanbul with Miss International Beauty.”
Colonel Aziz ignored him. “An obsessive man might want to possess Mademoiselle Lili as an art collector desires a painting.”
Gregg stood still. “Do you mean that the point of kidnapping Lili might not be to get money, but to get Lili herself?” Simultaneously, Judy and Pagan thought of the same man.
* * *
Slowly, the yacht Persephone sailed past the Leander Tower Lighthouse, then the vast white craft anchored in the middle of the shallow bay. Within a few minutes, the Haroun al-Rashid private launch, with one solitary passenger, was gliding across the blue-green water toward the yacht.
From the white linen cushions of the aft salon, Spyros Stiarkoz rose to greet Judy. No wonder this man frightens Lili, she thought, as she looked at the blunt hands, massive shoulders, and acquisitive, Levantine eyes of her host.
“My lawyer says that it’s unwise for me to be here.” Spyros waved Judy toward a white couch, and she sat down. A white-uniformed steward brought a brass pot of sweet Greek coffee, as Spyros handed Judy the much-fingered sheet of buff paper. “Here’s the telegram.” Judy twisted her hands together in her lap, then pressed them against her thighs to steady the trembling. Wordlessly, her face asked Spyros a question.
Spyros shook his head, “I will not pay the ransom.”
“Then why invite me on your yacht?” Judy tried not to sound as hostile as she felt.
“Naturally, I’m concerned for Lili’s safety or I wouldn’t have sailed here. But my advisors have made it clear that if I accede to one single kidnap demand, I will be paving the way for every member of my family and every employee of my organization to be kidnapped. I cannot afford to be as soft as Getty, and see my grandchildren threatened by kidnappers forever.”
Judy jumped to her feet. “Then what exactly does your concern for Lili amount to, Spyros?” Her voice shook. “Floating around on the Bosphorus, wishing us well, while these bandits start cutting off Lili’s fingers in order to motivate us?”
“I’m here to make sure that this affair is properly handled.” Spyros sipped his syrupy black coffee. “Police are the same all over the world—incompetent, mediocre bureaucrats.”
“But…” Judy stopped as Spyros held his hand up.
“I wonder if you are aware, Miss Jordan, how easily a situation such as this can be mishandled?” He stressed the “Miss” lightly, but with contempt. “If the kidnappers’ hiding place is found, the local police might be trigger happy and attempt to storm the building.” He put his cup down and motioned to the steward to refill it. “If so, they would probably kill half the bandits, get killed themselves, and perhaps be responsible for the death of innocent onlookers. And by the time they found Lili, she would also be dead.”
Judy hated him for being right. “Do you think the kidnappers are bandits?”
“Perhaps. My people are making inquiries, but we haven’t had any firm news yet. It could be the Kemaiat—like your Mafia—or it might be AMLA, which is, as you know, a group called the Asia Minor Liberation Army. So far they’ve funded their activities only by robbing small-town banks and by hijacking lorries, but perhaps they’re getting more ambitious.”
Half an hour later, Judy had repeatedly, unsuccessfully, pleaded and begged Spyros to pay the ransom. She stood up, intending to leave, because there seemed no point in staying.
“I’d like to make it clear, Spyros, that I think the most useful thing you can do is pay the money. Somehow, between us, Lili and I will be able to pay you back.”
This damned yacht had cost far more than ten million dollars. The Persephone, for all its glittering white luxury, seemed sinister and claustrophobic to her, and Judy was afraid that if she stayed any longer, listening to Spyros’s patronizing refusals, she might lose her temper and alienate a very powerful man. Judy was also afraid because Spyros Stiarkoz was a rich man, a careful, clever man, an obsessive art collector, and he was besotted by Lili. His other passion, as every gossip writer knew, was to acquire whatever and whoever had belonged to his dead brother.
Certainly, Stiarkoz had received a ransom demand, but wouldn’t it be the move of a clever man to send one to himself, in order to throw the police off the scent? With a heavy heart, Judy realized that if Stiarkoz had abducted Lili, then his presence there could only be for one of two reasons. Either he had the gall to openly check on police progress, or else he had arrived to gloat at their unsuccessful efforts to find Lili. Either possibility would mean that Stiarkoz could not be entirely sane. And either possibility meant that Judy was unlikely to see her daughter again.
* * *
Later that night, before dinner, Judy and Sandy waited for Pagan in the comforting darkness of the domed, carved balcony that hung over the Bosphorus like an enormous birdcage.
“That Colonel Aziz shouldn’t have questioned you for hours.” Sandy’s voice was sympathetic, but she couldn’t help wondering what was going to happen to Miss International Beauty’s world tour. After all, they were now supposed to be in Egypt, but the Turkish police wouldn’t allow Sandy to leave.
“He was only doing his job,” said Judy, “and in very difficult circumstances.” The world’s press had descended upon the hotel and Sandy’s picture had been flashed around the world. The press couldn’t believe their luck: one international beauty kidnapped, and another one available for photographs.
Sandy and Judy were now virtual prisoners in their hotel suite. All day, one or other of them had been barked at by the police and eventually, the telephone had been disconnected, because the Turkish operator could so easily be fooled by lying journalists, who assured her that they were returning Judy’s calls.
“I could have spat in the eye and stamped on the foot of that Colonel,” said Sandy. “In fact, when I think of what he put you through, I feel like kicking him in the balls.”
Judy was astonished to hear Sandy drop her genteel speech. “Why, Sandy, that’s the only criticism I’ve ever heard you make.” Judy was eager to divert her mind by talking about anything rather than the kidnap.
“Honey, in my business, a girl learns to watch her mouth,” said Sandy.
Judy looked at Sandy; she was pretty, bright, shrewd, and deftly practical, but all that cleverness and capacity for calculation was carefully used to give the impression that she was foolish and incompetent.
“Sandy, what made you decide to be a beauty queen?”
&nb
sp; “Honey, that’s only the first step up my ladder. In a few years, I aim to be hostessing my own TV show.”
“But why start on the glamour circuit? No one will take you seriously after that.”
“What about Bess Myerson? She was Miss America and now she’s in consumer affairs. Anyway, being a pretty girl is the only start you can get in a place like Baton Rouge.”
“Pretty is OK, Sandy, but what about your Southern belle act? Sure, the guys love it, especially the old ones, but you’ll have to stop being … acquiescent … if you want to host a talk show.”
“Honey, I guess I was brought up to be agreeable.”
“Sandy, it won’t work when you get older, and it won’t work when the going gets tough. There’s nothing more gruesome than an aging Blanche Dubois, simpering with girlish charm.”
Sandy was suddenly stung by the comparison to a Tennessee Williams version of a washed-up, neurotic Southern belle.
Boldly, she said what she’d been dying to say for days. “Judy, what I can’t understand is how Lili’s father can pay the ransom, when Lili told me that her father died long ago?”
“I have no idea, Sandy, how this kidnapper could be so crazy or so cruel.”
Sandy remembered the ransom note that had been delivered in the bunch of red roses. It read: “Wait in your hotel suite to hear from Lili’s father. He must pay the ransom.”
Sandy said, “I wonder how much longer we’ll have to wait?”
Judy’s nerves snapped. “For Heaven’s sake, can’t we talk about something else?”
Sandy said, “Why, yes, Judy, there is something else I have been longin’ to talk to you about, something I really want to ask you, Judy.” Sandy took a deep breath, then burst out, “Just which one of those bastards is Lili’s father?”
15
September 3, 1979
“IT’S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS!” Judy’s voice echoed across the dark water and rang around the still room behind them. “How dare you ask a question like that!”
Lace II Page 29
