‘Far enough, till I know who you might be!’
‘Friends! Allies!’
Burtenshaw had yelled it. Nick amplified, ‘There are some Turks with knives chasing us. I think they intend to rob us.’ But now another man had materialised from a shaded deckhouse doorway. He was tall, slim, about Nick’s age, with shiny swept-back hair and spectacles that flashed in the radiance of the gangway lamps. He was dressed in immaculate evening clothes. The other man, after a word from this newcomer, had gone down to the shore end of the gangway, and could be heard now talking to one of their pursuers. It was one of the caïque’s crew, all right, and he’d stopped on the edge of the pool of light down there.
The well-dressed American turned to Nick.
‘That is no Turk, sir. That is a Lazz – else I’m a Dutchman.’
‘A Lazz?’
‘Scum of the earth. Smugglers, thieves, murderers. They’ll smuggle gold out and kidnapped virgins in. Whatever you may have a hankering for, a Lazz will quote you a price for it: or if someone else pays him more, he’ll cut your throat.’ He listened for a while, cupping a hand to one ear; then he turned back to them, satisfied that the other man was handling the shoreside situation well enough. ‘If I were to make what you might think was a somewhat personal comment, gentlemen – I wouldn’t say you were dressed quite like you sound?’
Nick admitted, ‘By and large I suppose we’re dressed Lazz-style.’
‘Allies, you did say?’
‘Well, most certainly—’
‘Counsellor.’ The petty officer stepped off the gangway. ‘We have a coupla dog-collar men headin’ this way.’
‘Might have known there would be.’ The tall man told Nick, speaking more quickly now, ‘I’m Benjamin Mortimer. This yacht is the ambassador’s stationaire. Ambassador Morgenthau is in the States at this time, the embassy’s closed during his absence and I’m sort of looking after what still has to be done … Might I assume you two are British, perhaps escaped prisoners of war, something like that?’
Nick agreed. ‘Something like that.’
‘Well, as you are probably aware, the United States and Turkey are not at war, and it so happens we represent British interests here when we’re called upon to do so. Regrettably, that does not permit me to – ah – harbour you, as it were … They still coming, Parker?’
‘Sure are.’ The petty officer stepped on to the gangway and headed down towards the jetty. Benjamin Mortimer murmured, ‘He’ll stall ’em, but I’m the one talks their lingo … We might say you were Bulgarian soldiers – fought in Turk formations and gotten wounded, now you’re fresh out of hospital, and in the goodness of my heart I’m contemplating employing you as maintenance hands aboard this yacht?’
Nick smiled gratefully. ‘Your heart’s good, all right.’
‘Blood’s thicker ’n water, I guess. Now look, though – aren’t that number of Bulgarians walking around talking your kind of English. Stay dumb, eh?’
He turned away towards the quayside. Parker was coming back up the gangway. At its foot, two swarthy, fattish men in dark uniforms like the pair they’d seen earlier but with brass crescents slung across their chests were blinking upwards at the lights. Mortimer went on down, and Turkish compliments flew to and fro. Parker said, getting off the gangway, ‘Special police. They have this ship under surveillance most days an’ nights. Anyone comes or goes, they show up.’
‘Dog-collar men, you said?’
‘Says Quanum on them brass tags. Means “Law”. They’re worse’n the regular ones. Mr Mortimer pays ’em plenty not to bother us more’n they have to.’
The conversation down there still sounded polite enough. Nick commented, ‘Very pretty ship, this. Do you take her to sea at all?’
‘Not so often.’ Parker stared at their clothes as if he’d only just noticed them. Now he noticed Nick noticing the inspection, and he politely glanced away. He nodded. ‘Time o’ the Spanish-American war, this little lady was a blockade-runner. Had steel armour fixed all down her sides.’
‘She’s used to troubled waters then.’
‘You could say that.’ He looked round as Mortimer, smoking a black cigar now, came back up the gangway. ‘All serene, sir?’
‘Well.’ Mortimer waved the strong-smelling weed. ‘Let’s say they found it difficult not to accept the facts as I described them.’
Parker rubbed his heavy jaw. ‘Ain’t much they don’t find it difficult not to accept.’
‘They are indeed – receptive.’ Mortimer smiled drily as he reached for his cigar-case. ‘Care to smoke?’
They both declined. Nick said, ‘What we would care for – if it’s not overpresuming on your kindness – is something to drink.’
‘Brandy? I’ve only a Greek variety, but—’
‘Water – please?’
Hard to think about it … Burtenshaw ran a dry tongue over dry lips. ‘Yes — if—’ Mortimer had suddenly understood. ‘Parker, whistle up that steward. Gentlemen – please, if you’d step inside …’
‘Inside’ turned out to be a warmly-lit saloon, all mahogany, soft carpet, oil paintings and the gleam of crystal glass and silver: and within minutes, cool fresh water trickling down one’s throat. Burtenshaw sighed, ‘Oh, delicious!’ and poured himself another glass. Nick said, ‘Can’t tell you how grateful we are to you for taking such a chance on us.’
‘Coupla months back, don’t know I would have.’ Mortimer wagged his head. ‘Now – well …’ He’d a tumbler of brandy and water in his fist. ‘There’s a rumour around suggesting your British fleet won’t be long coming.’
‘Let’s hope rumour’s right for once.’ Nick asked him, ‘Any rumours about a French submarine called Louve?’
‘Sure is.’ The American put his glass down. ‘Towed her in right past us here, coupla days back. She’s higher up – beyond where they have Yavuz now.’
‘Yavuz – that’s—’
Nick cut across Burtenshaw’s quick excitement. ‘Crew still on board Louve, d’you know?’
‘They have them in the Military Prison. That’s in the Ministry of War compound in Stambul.’ He’d jerked a thumb south-eastward. ‘Seems she got beached under the guns of one of their Dardanelles forts. Don’t know how. Some place near this Marmara end. Her captain wasn’t able to blow her up on account he had certain civilians on board and when he passed the word “abandon ship” they wouldn’t budge. Too scared, I guess. And she got taken in one piece.’
Nick glanced at Burtenshaw. They’d been an odd-looking bunch, that French cloak-and-dagger party. Mortimer added, ‘The civilians did ’emselves no damn good, by all accounts. Bedri Bey had ’em tortured and the word is they’re dead. Bedri’s old Talaat’s right-hand man – and he’s one mean Turk.’ He looked from one of them to the other. ‘Care for some’n stronger, before you leave us?’
Nick declined, but he also took the hint. ‘Before we do leave you – one more bit of information? You mentioned Yavuz – the battle-cruiser we still call Goeben—’
‘Well, I have to call her Yavuz Sultan Selim. She flies the crescent and star, and her crew wear fezes. Not my business what language they converse in. I can fly my country’s flag here because we don’t happen to be at war with Turkey. But if I had to say that ship was a goddam Fritz, well…’
Nick saw the point. ‘But – is she anchored or moored out in the stream, or is she alongside?’
‘The latter. They had her between buoys, but she berthed on the quayside yesterday. Last evening. Looks like she could be going someplace. Been loading stores all day, taking in fresh water, had a collier alongside top. Parker here reckons she’s raising steam.’
Nick was up on his feet, trying to look as if he wasn’t in a hurry. Burtenshaw, half up, was reaching for the rucksack which he’d kept beside him. Mortimer sank lower in his chair. Smoke drifted from his lips as he smiled gently, watching them.
‘Boy, you’re subtle. I’d never guess what brought you here. Never in a billion years.�
�
‘One more favour.’ Nick was thinking about the two dog-collar men. Somehow they’d have to get past them without being stopped and questioned. ‘Tell us how we can find the Maritza Hotel?’
The American stared at him, as if he’d asked for something difficult this time. He shook his head slowly. ‘I guess I better not.’
‘Why—’
Mortimer took the cigar out of his mouth, and sighed. ‘They raided the Maritza, last evening. Tell you the truth I wouldn’t know what delayed ’em this long. Bakhsheesh, no doubt… Dog-collar men took off a whole load of the regular clientele, so I heard. If I were you, I’d stay clear.’
Nick stared at him while it sank in. He was thinking of Goeben raising steam, sailing at dawn, taking everyone by surprise again. The least he’d be expected to do was get a signal out. But without contacts, how?
Benjamin Mortimer had risen to his feet.
‘Your intention had been to meet a friend or friends there, I might suppose.’
‘Never know your luck.’
‘Quite so.’ The Counsellor nodded seriously. ‘But it’s not impossible I might be able to point you the right way – if you’d tell me the identity of the person you’re hoping to locate.’
Nick wondered if he’d already said too much. You could take risks when it was just your own neck at risk – but other people’s? The Grey Lady’s?
Mortimer frowned.
‘My credentials – if that might be what’s causing you to hesitate – are flying over this ship’s stern, sir.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He was embarrassed. ‘I’m not for a moment questioning your—’
‘Then permit me to make it simpler for you. Would your contact happen to be of the female sex and your own nationality?’ Nick nodded. The American crossed the saloon and stooped to a bureau drawer: cigar in mouth, groping in the drawer … ‘Street map here, some place …’
* * *
E.57’s diesels growled steadily into the darkness, a white-flecked blackness that felt so thick with danger that you could imagine something there every time you put your glasses up; this close to Constantinople there’d have to be destroyer or gunboat patrols. Particularly with a flap on – the Germans knowing that at least one hostile submarine was patrolling in the Marmara – and even more so if there was any likelihood of Goeben breaking out to sea … The boat was trimmed down so low in the water that there was no more than her bridge to be seen; but standing on it, in these circumstances, it felt as big as a haystack and illuminated by the white foam flooding over the hull and tanks below it. One felt – in a word – conspicuous … Wishart, Jake and Ellery were on the bridge, and all three pairs of binoculars were busy all the time, lowered only for the few seconds it took occasionally to wipe lenses fogged by the sea-dew. They’d been on the surface for about half an hour now, straining their eyes to probe the night, breathing the faint reek of oil exhaust, and conscious of the closeness of the Turkish coast. The voicepipe squawked, and Jake answered it.
‘Bridge.’
‘Permission to rig W/T mast, sir?’
Wishart muttered an affirmative, and Jake passed it down.
But they wouldn’t be transmitting. It wasn’t only the breaking of wireless silence that would be bound to alert the enemy: there would also be the customary display of blue sparks from the aerial connections – a frightening piece of self-advertisement when one was as close inshore as this. Jake, sweeping with his glasses across the bow and trying to keep track of the dividing line between sea and sky, heard Weatherspoon and Agnew clattering about and muttering to themselves as they rigged the mast and aerial at the back of the bridge. Wishart called, ‘Quick as you can, leading tel.’
Five men on the bridge were about three too many, in this situation.
‘Aerial’s rigged, sir!’
‘Well done.’
Familiarity with the job made for speed. The telegraphists practised in harbour with blindfolds on and stop-watches timing them. They’d left the bridge, now.
‘I’m going below, pilot.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
Now it was only himself and the signalman; both of them circling slowly, continuously. No good staring at any one point for more than a second: the eye was best at picking up a ‘foreign body’ as it passed over them. It wasn’t the object that you saw, it was the difference between it and its dark surroundings. Over the bow, and down the starboard side; the voicepipe yelped, ‘Bridge!’
‘Bridge.’
‘Time for the next leg to port, sir.’
‘Starboard ten.’ They were carrying out a programmed zigzag, and the helmsman down below watched the times for each alteration. Jake called down, ‘Ease to five and steady on one-two-oh.’ He straightened, raised his binoculars again, leaving Anderson to get on with it; he’d covered about ten degrees of black horizon before something glimmered white. Back on it now: it looked like a small, dim light, but he knew it was a fast ship’s bow-wave.
‘Dive – dive – dive!’
Racket of the klaxon – vents thudding open … Ellery was down inside and Jake followed down on top of him, dragging the lid shut and jerking its clips over, shouting to Ellery to tell Wishart, ‘Bow-wave – destroyer or patrol-boat – northerly bearing about five cables, coming towards!’
Bearing and range were rough, just guesswork … He heard Wishart order forty feet, felt the angle as she tilted downwards, nosing deep; then he was off the ladder and Ellery had climbed up to shut the lower hatch; Weatherspoon reported, ‘HE – true bearing oh-one-four – fast, reciprocating, closing, sir!’
‘Group down, stop starboard.’ Agnew repeated the orders as he clanged the telegraphs around; Hobday was getting the trim adjusted for the forty-foot depth. Glances drifted upwards as the Turk patrol craft, whatever it was, thrashed overhead. Wishart asked Jake, ‘Any chance he could have seen us?’
‘Doubt it, sir.’
‘Fadin’, sir.’ Weatherspoon added, ‘Bearing just west of south now, sir.’
Holding a straight course, then. Which meant he had not seen them.
‘Twenty feet.’ Wishart looked over towards the silent cabinet. ‘Still on to him?’
‘Just about gone, sir.’
Hobday was having to work on the buoyancy tank now, as she came up again. Jake wondered how far Nick Everard and the Marine had got. He heard Hobday order, ‘Stop flooding.’
Twenty-four feet: twenty-two …
‘Stand by to surface.’ Wishart told Weatherspoon, ‘Be ready to come up when I pass the word. You’ll have to bring the aerial down and dry out the contacts, then rerig it, and I want it set up and working before we have to dive again.’
So he thought it was to be that sort of a night. And it would be, probably. You couldn’t expect to be left undisturbed this close to an enemy port. Weatherspoon stared commandingly across the compartment at his assistant. Agnew, who’d be doing all the donkey-work with the aerial, looked fed-up and sucked his teeth. ERA Bradshaw muttered reprovingly, ‘It ain’t all beer an’ baggy trousers, lad.’
‘Ready to surface, sir.’
Ellery pushed the hatch open and got down off the ladder; Wishart started up it.
‘Surface!’
Hobday snapped, ‘Blow three, four, five and six main ballast!’ He’d only blow them half out. She’d lie like a hippo with her nostrils just clear of water, practically invisible and ready to slip under again in seconds. Nobody was going to get much sleep tonight.
* * *
Nick and Burtenshaw had been ready to leave the yacht, but Mortimer had stopped them.
‘You want to meet Bedri Bey? The dog-collar men’ll be on you before you’re round that corner!’
Burtenshaw looked glumly at Nick. ‘Not to mention the caïque’s crew. Be out there somewhere, won’t they?’
‘We’ll have to run for it, dodge ’em somehow.’
‘Wait.’ Mortimer had sent for Parker, the PO. Waiting for him, he’d explained, ‘He can send some of the bo
ys ashore on a punishment fatigue. With you two in among ’em. Once you’re at the bridge in the traffic, your own mothers wouldn’t find you.’
Parker had rounded up a dozen volunteers. Scorpion had a crew of seventy men, Mortimer had told them, and twisting Turks’ tails had become their favourite sport. Within minutes they were all moving off at the double, Nick and Burtenshaw in the centre of the squad. Long before they reached the north end of Galata Bridge they could see the dense tangle of carts, cabs, motors honking impatiendy, and moving like glue all around and through it, a mob of pedestrians. The sailor doubling on Nick’s right told him as they jogged along, ‘We’ll wheel left and left again on the first block up from the bridge, sir. At the second turn you go straight on up the hill. You’ll be like part of the crowd there got caught up with us.’
‘Very much obliged.’
‘Our pleasure, sir.’
Twenty minutes later they were entering the exclusive European district of Pera. The Galata Tower had been the first landmark; then the Tokatlian Hotel, where behind plate-glass windows facing the street fat Turkish officials and pompous-looking German officers were entertaining richly-dressed, jewelled women at supper tables. Glimpses of champagne bottles in silver ice-buckets, obsequious waiters scurrying around. A bored-looking girl stared straight at Nick with an expression of disdain: he smiled at her, and saw her companion half turn in his chair and glower: he was a scrawny, beak-nosed German, something in the region of a colonel, and his anger was directed at this low-class street-lounger who’d insulted the girl with his grin … Hurrying on – and getting into smaller, confusing streets now, ten minutes later. Still quite a sprinkling of pedestrians: but all hurrying, not looking at each other, each minding his own business.
‘Which?’
Burtenshaw pointed.
‘How d’you know?’
‘See trees through that other gap. And we had to pass between two areas of park?’
Patrol to the Golden Horn Page 25
