The trunk of the Citroen was already open, its lid pushed high. A man crawled out, slammed the lid shut as another man joined him, and then both dashed for the rear doors of the car and ducked in, one on either side of the stunned Carlos.
‘What is -?’ Carlos had started to say, when the Astra was pulled away from his forehead and a swab of ether clamped over his mouth and nose. Carlos attempted to wrestle free, but the powerful men on both sides had him pinned back, while the hand of one exterted pressure on the soaked rag of ether covering his mouth and nostrils.
In short seconds Carlos’s resistance subsided and he went limp and unconscious, sagging against one of his abductors. With practised hands the man ran his fingers over Carlos’s body, until he found and removed the Skorpion YZ61 gun.
Together, the pair pushed Carlos off the car seat and rolled him over and down to the floor.
‘On our way,’ one of them called out.
The driver put the Citroen into reverse, and backed slowly out of the driveway into Rue Martel.
As the driver shifted into first, a voice in the rear shouted, ‘Hold it - here comes Pagano!’
Across the street a figure had materialized from the shadowed doorway of a closed shop and was running toward the car. The front door on the passenger side had been thrown open for him, and Pagano leaped in beside the driver and signaled ahead.
Stepping on the gas, the driver asked, ‘Anyone at No. 10 see this?’
‘Nobody,’ Pagano assured him. Pagano turned to the pair in the back seat. ‘You got the carcass, Quiggs?’
‘In dreamland,’ said Quiggs, poking his shoe into the unconscious lump on the floor. He looked up with a broad
smile, exulting, ‘Boy, this was a piece of cake for ten million American smackers.’
Accelerating, the Citroen sped up the Rue Martel.
Seconds later, a red Renault turned into the Rue Martel, with Victoria at the wheel and following.
When Carlos completely opened his eyes and his head began to clear and he focused, he realized that two men were standing over him, observing him. He also realized that he was strapped tightly into a sturdy chair, his wrists tied behind the chair, his ankles, in front of the chair, also tied.
Carlos had difficulty speaking. His tongue was thick. With effort, he managed to articulate a question. ‘Who are you?’ He turned his head in either direction. He was in a darkened room, a shabby living room, and he was aware that there were other persons somewhere in the room behind him. He managed another question. ‘Where am I?’
‘Never mind where you are,’ said the taller of the pair, settling down in a chair directly in front of him. ‘Since we’ll be together a little while, we don’t mind introducing ourselves. I’m Cooper. This is Quiggs.’
Carlos had found his voice. ‘You’re going to pay for this, you dirty fuckers.’
‘I’m not exactly worried,’ said Cooper. ‘I think you’re the one to start worrying - if you don’t cooperate.’
Carlos’s eyes smoldered. ‘Carlos doesn’t cooperate with anyone, if he doesn’t want to. And I don’t want to, not with a bunch of tinhorn scum and mercenaries. You let me go or -‘
‘Or what?’
‘Or I’ll see that each one of you is hunted down and cut to ribbons.’
Cooper reached for Carlos’s throat, placed his fingers around it, pressing his thumb against the terrorist’s Adam’s apple. When Carlos gagged, Cooper released his grip. ‘Listen to me, you fatheaded skunk, you’re not going to see to anything, now or ever. You’re going to have your head blown away. You’re going to have your corpse, in chains, at the bottom of the Seine.’ Cooper straightened. T don’t want any more crap from you. Either you cooperate or you’re wasted. You’ve got exactly one minute. Which is it?’
Carlos stared at him coldly, and at last gave a short shrug of surrender. ‘What do you want?’
‘Your gang,’ said Cooper.
‘You off your rocker, or what?’
‘We need your men for an operation,’ said Cooper. ‘We want your gang, and your gang will be wanting you. We have a special operation in mind. We’re not equipped to do it. Your men are. We want your men to pull it off. That’s our ransom demand. Your men pull this off for us, and we’ll set you free, return you to them.’
Carlos fixed on Cooper with his lethal stare, lips compressed. Finally he spoke.
‘What do you want done?’ said Carlos. ‘Obviously I can’t help. If you want something done, you’ll have to put it up to my men, not to me.’
Quiggs came closer, bending low. ‘Who do we contact?’
‘I don’t know. My partner, maybe. Without me there, he’s the only one who can speak for the others. Robert Jacklin’s the one.’
‘Where is he?’ Cooper demanded. ‘At your hideout in the Rue Martel?’
‘No,’ said Carlos. ‘Jacklin is in Istanbul laying the groundwork with the Turkish Popular Liberation Front for something of our own.’
Quiggs displayed a Turkish Airlines ticket. ‘You were on your way to meet him?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do we contact him in Istanbul with the ransom demand?’ Cooper wanted to know.
‘You can’t. He has no address in Istanbul.’
‘But you were on your way to see him,’ said Cooper. ‘Where?’
Carlos grimaced and squirmed. ‘Will you loosen these goddam straps?’
‘In due time,’ said Cooper. ‘Where were you meeting Jacklin?’
‘Inside a mosque - the Blue Mosque - tomorrow - eleven in the morning.’
‘Where inside the mosque?’
Carlos was reluctant to answer. He glared at his
tormentors, and finally gave in. ‘In front of the chanter’s balcony.’
‘You’ll have to explain that in a minute,’ said Cooper. ‘How do we identify Jacklin?’
‘A scar - he has a scar on his right cheek.’ Carlos continued to glare at Cooper and Quiggs. ‘You know he won’t talk to you.’
‘He will,’ said Cooper, ‘if he sees a ransom note from Carlos, a note in your own hand. You better play along with us, Carlos, if you want to see tomorrow.’
Carlos had begun to calm down. His predicament seemed to amuse him. A ghost of a smile played across his features. ‘I guess I have no choice,’ he said.
Cooper stood up, indicated the Turkish Airlines tickets that Quiggs was holding. ‘Give Gus these tickets. Tell him to get ready to take off soon as we get him the note. Tell him to inform our principal about the delay.’ He raised his hand to read his wristwatch. ‘Still time to make the three o’clock plane if he moves fast. I want him in Istanbul.’
An hour ago, probably less, Victoria had seen most of the action in the Rue Martel. Standing at the corner, she had seen a man in a plaid topcoat emerge from No. 10 and enter a Citroen taxi, a car that resembled the auto that had whisked Nick away from the Champs-Elysees, only this one had been a taxi. She had been unable to identify the lone passenger exactly, although from Nick’s earlier description and from her research notes he suspected that it might have been the world’s most wanted terrorist, Carlos.
She had seen the vehicle dart away from the curb, brake, skid, and plunge into the next driveway out of view. Moments later she had seen it back out, but this time there had been three men in the rear seat instead of one, and suddenly the one in the middle had been pushed down out of sight.
Victoria had veered off, eased casually into the Rue de Paradis, then run to her Renault and got it started. When she careened into the Rue Martel, the taxi had nearly reached the far end of the block and was turning the corner. Grimly, Victoria had followed.
As luck had it, two stoplights had allowed her to keep
within range of the fugitive taxi.
It had been a long, tense ride to the Left Bank.
She had observed them swing off the Rue de Seine into the Rue Jacob, and she had slowed to see the taxi vanish in a driveway beside a used bookstore on the street floor. She had bee
n tempted to go after them in the Rue Jacob, but had been afraid that she might be spotted as suspicious. Instead, she had proceeded up the Rue de Seine, impatient to find a parking place, and at last found an illegal spot in the Rue Dauphine.
Victoria had hastened back to the Rue Jacob, wondered if it could be foolhardy to enter the empty street, and at last cautiously ventured into it. Crossing over to the other side, she strolled along past the bookstore and driveway on the opposite side. There had been no sign of the taxi. But upstairs, she could see there were apartments, windows shielded by gray metal shutters and fronted by black-painted balcony bars.
Worried about being noticed lingering, she had retraced her steps to the corner of Rue Jacob and the Rue de Seine, where she hoped to be made less conspicuous by occasional foot traffic.
She was still at her same post on the corner, after twenty minutes or a half hour, when she saw the Citroen taxi poke out of the driveway. There was no way she could clearly make out the two men in the front seat, but she knew that they were vital to her investigation.
She charged into motion, running as fast as she could to the Rue Dauphine to recover the Renault and give chase, but when she approached her car she saw that there was a blue-uniformed policeman there, writing her a parking ticket.
It was hopeless now. She could never give chase. But she comforted herself with the fact that she knew where some unknown abductors had taken a member of the Carlos gang, probably Carlos himself.
She determined to return to her post and stand -watch as long as possible, until she could more plainly see someone else emerge and obtain a description of him for Armstead. Then, she felt positive, she might have the story of the year.
Upon his arrival at the Yesilkoy Airport outside Istanbul,
Gus Pagano had been met by the car and driver he had reserved in advance. The car was a small Turkish-made Anadol, and the driver was a mustached Muslim student named Vasif.
After checking into a comfortable suite in the Istanbul International Hilton Hotel, Pagano had taken an evening tour of the city, crossing the Galata Bridge over the Golden Horn, into the old city of Stamboul, then scouting the Mosque of Sultan Ahmed, which he learned was the formal name of the Blue Mosque.
The following morning, on schedule, Pagano, again impressed by the Obelisk and six minarets of the early seventeenth-century Blue Mosque, traversed the vast courtyard to the gate that led to a terrace. He descended steps to a cobbled path, brushing off the swarm of hawkers with their postcards and cheap souvenirs until he reached the green awning that covered the entrance to the mosque. To the left of the entrance he saw a wooden rack resembling a bookcase, where visitors were leaving their shoes. Pagano followed suit, pushing off his Gucci loafers and placing them neatly on the rack.
He ducked under the green awning, and in his stocking feet went inside.
The sight that assaulted him was entirely new to his experience.
The interior was a mammoth, colorful, man-made cavern. At the top, a mighty central cupola was supported by four thick grooved marble pillars. All around, from top to bottom and on all sides, were windows, stained-glass windows, mosdy blue - 260 windows, Vasif had told him - and the entire rectangular stone floor was covered with handmade patterned rugs of every size, contributed by various Turkish villages as well as by world heads of state. The dusty interior air seemed permeated by some kind of mystical atmosphere, and scattered throughout there were ordinary people, Turks and some foreigners, on their knees in prayer.
Pagano heard someone breathing beside him and saw that it was his driver, Vasif, who had followed him.
‘Extraordinary, no?’ said Vasif.
Pagano was reminded that he was not here for sightseeing. ‘Where’s the chanter’s balcony?’ Pagano asked.
Vasif pointed off to the right, to a square, windowless marble room within the mosque, atop which was a railed balcony. ‘From the balcony the chanter calls the prayer,’ explained Vasif.
‘Thanks,’ said Pagano. ‘I must be alone. Wait for me in the car.’
Watching until his driver left the mosque, Pagano turned back and fixed his sight on the small structure that held the balcony. At its doorway, a lone male figure knelt in prayer. Pagano had what he wanted. He had a glimpse of his wristwatch. Three minutes after eleven. On the nose.
Pagano trod quietly over the array of carpets, advancing on the lone kneeling figure. When he came up alongside, he lowered himself to his knees and took in the other. This was an olive-complexioned ferret of a man with slick black hair and the livid welt of a scar on his visible right cheek.
Losing no time, Pagano said under his breath, ‘You are Robert Jacklin?’
Jacklin was surprised, and attentive. ‘Who are you?’
T am here for Carlos,’ said Pagano.
‘Why?’
T am an emissary from a group in Paris that has kidnapped Carlos. We are holding him. You can have him back safe and sound if you comply with our ransom terms. I am to explain the terms to you.’
Not a muscle moved on Jacklin’s face. ‘How do I know you speak the truth?’
‘I will show you a message from Carlos. You will recognize his handwriting.’
‘I must see it.’
‘Yeah, you’ll see it, and then I will explain our demands to you. You will have time to consult with your compatriots in Paris. If you are willing to comply, you will meet with me -and my leader - at a table in the Bosphorus Terrace Restaurant of the Hilton at two o’clock tomorrow. Understand?’
Jacklin had raised himself off his knees. ‘Let me see the evidence that you have Carlos in custody. After that, outline your ransom demand. Please?’
‘Very well,’ said Pagano.
*
At a few minutes before two o’clock in the afternoon, Edward Armstead walked a step behind Pagano from the main lobby of the Istanbul International Hilton Hotel into the stretch of side lobby that led to the Bosphorus Terrace Restaurant at the far end.
Decidedly uncomfortable with the fluffy gray wig settled over his real hair, with the puttied extension of his nose and his flowing, pasted-down mustache, Armstead was nevertheless eager to go through any discomfort to attain the great achievement he had in mind.
Now he would meet Carlos’s right-hand man and he would know whether the operation would be undertaken. All would depend on the word from Robert Jacklin.
They strode past the alcove holding the cloakroom and WC’s, past the attractive walls tiled in green and blue, and stepped inside the restaurant. The maitre d’ came forward. Pagano said, ‘I believe you have a reservation for Mr. Walter Zimberg, a party of three, on the terrace.’ The maitre d’ scanned his reservation sheet. ‘Yes, of course/on the terrace for three. One of your guests has already arrived.’
Their table was really two square tables set side by side along a railing that looked down on a long, glistening pool. The neatly dressed, lean, smallish young man with a prominent scar on one tawny cheek did not bother to rise as Pagano pulled back a cane chair for Armstead directly across from him.
‘Mr. Robert Jacklin - Mr. Walter Zimberg.’
Jacklin jerked his head in curt acknowledgment as Armstead and Pagano sat down. Jacklin had a bottle of Kestana mineral water standing on the green-and-white-checkered tablecloth before him, and he poured himself a second glass.
‘I hope we haven’t kept you waiting,’ said Armstead politely.
‘No,’ said Jacklin. He eyed Armstead with a curl of his lips. ‘Your disguise is a poor one, poorly done. I mention this for your future welfare. Not that it matters, of course. I don’t really care who you are.’
Taken aback, Armstead sought a response, but before he could speak, a captain appeared with three menus. ‘Perhaps you would like to start with a drink first?’
Jacklin placed his hand over his glass. ‘I’m all right.’
Armstead opened the menu, then turned it over. ‘Do you have some white wine? Ah, yes, your beverage list. Want to share a bottle with me,
Gus?’
‘Why not?’ said Pagano.
‘May I recommend the Cankaya,’ suggested the captain.
‘Whatever’s the best,’ said Armstead. ‘While we have you, let’s order a bite. What about the scrambled eggs here?’
‘Menemen,’ said the captain. ‘Eggs with tomatoes, green peppers, parsley, and white cheese.’
‘I’ll have the same,’ said Pagano.
‘I’ll have the vanilla custard cream,’ said Jacklin, handing back the menu.
‘Krem Karamel Vanilyah,’ said the captain, as he wrote. ‘You are sure you do not wish something to start with?’
‘Nothing,’ said Jacklin.
They waited for the captain to go. Once he was out of sight, Armstead addressed himself to Jacklin quietly. ‘I assume by now you know what this is all about?’
Jacklin dipped his head. ‘I have a good idea, from the note Carlos wrote and from your friend here.’
‘Can you do it?’
‘We’ve done nearly everything, at some time or other. Not exactly one like this, but others, more dangerous. This one is a little unusual.’
The muscles in Armstead’s features went rigid. ‘I am not asking your judgment. I am asking if you can do it?’
Jacklin’s expression was bland. ‘We want Carlos back.’
‘You’ll do it,’ said Armstead.
‘We have to,’ said Jacklin. ‘Yes, I have talked to the others in Paris. They have agreed. We can do everything you want. Not simple, but it can be done. Fortunately, the key person required is available to us in Japan, through the Japanese Red Army. He will join us, if the price is acceptable.’
‘The price is Carlos.’
‘For us, yes. But for the key person in Japan, no. He has no interest in Carlos. He needs a guaranteed sum of money separately for his own purposes. Perhaps one million American dollars. I cannot say precisely. But he will cooperate if the price he requests is met. We must have him to make the operation work.’
Armstead did not give it a second thought. ‘I’ll see that the price is right.’
They all fell mute as a waiter rolled up the table containing their quickly prepared lunch orders. He passed out the dishes.
(1982) The Almighty Page 31
