Lace II (42 page)

*   *   *

The moon came out from behind a cloud and lit up the distant domes of the Topkapi Palace. On the balcony, Sandy turned to Judy and said, “You did the right thing, honey. Life is tough for a small-town girl, once she’s left home. We have to do whatever we can, to get wherever we can.”

Judy decided not to continue. Even Sandy might not understand the full story.

September 4 1979

T
HE BUILDING WHICH
Abdullah had described to Pagan as “a pleasant little palace,” was an eighteenth-century, imposing pale building with an Arab garden, through which Pagan and Abdullah were walking in the early morning sunlight, along an avenue of lofty palms, toward an elaborate fountain. The palace gardens, scented with rosemary, roses, and jasmine, were purple with falls of bougainvillea. The soft splashing of water came from the interlinked streams, fountains and pools among the verdant foliage and bright flowers.

At the end of the avenue was an octagonal, white-marble pool with fountains jetting into it. Pagan sat on the edge of the pool and trailed her hand in the water.

Abdullah sat beside her and gently caught her hand underwater. He said, “Pagan, I know I’m a difficult man and I have a difficult job to do. I have been involved with many women but you were my first love, and it seems that you have always stayed in my heart.” He looked at her, in her lavender-gauze, loose, long robe, with her hair streaming down her back. “Let’s not waste any more of our lives, Pagan. I love you and I need you, and I’m only going to ask
you once, and I must request a positive answer. Will you marry me?”

Pagan looked at him and, slowly, she nodded. Abdullah took her in his arms and held her against his heart. Together, they laughed with relief.

They felt that they shared a secret that the world did not yet know. Abdullah seemed to drop his worries, and, gleeful as a schoolboy, excitedly started to plan their future.

Much, much later, Pagan said, “We can’t announce it now. We’ll have to wait until this business of Lili is … resolved.” She added, “I can’t bear to see Judy so distraught.” Hesitantly, she looked at Abdullah. “Are you sure that it’s not possible to help her raise the money, Abdi?” Privately, Pagan was thinking that ten million dollars wouldn’t amount to more than one day’s output from Sydon’s oil fields.

Pagan, sitting on the low surround of the marble fountain, said, “Couldn’t you possibly … help Judy directly, Abdullah?”

Abdullah thought, I shouldn’t have come here. When first he had read that weird telegram, he had thought it some drunkard’s joke. He had once loved Lili, but she had walked out on him and it was no affair of his. He had intended to stay uninvolved, to ignore the telegram. Then Pagan had read the newspaper report, and Abdullah realized that Lili’s disappearance was genuine. They had arrived in Istanbul to discover that identical telegrams had been sent to other rich men in Lili’s life. Abdullah had decided to keep silent about his telegram, rather than attract undesirable publicity. That wouldn’t help the situation.

Pagan trailed her hand in the fountain pool.
“Please
help, Abdi.”

“Pagan, I’ve already explained that one should never give in to kidnappers; many more lives might be in danger if ransom is paid to terrorists, because they’d use the money to kill innocent people.”

He seems so detached, thought Pagan. She was uneasy about the objectivity with which Arabs view women, particularly Western women. Suppose I had been kidnapped, Pagan wondered. Would Abdi talk like this? Maybe women are expendable to him.

Abdullah added, “Paying the money wouldn’t guarantee
Lili’s safe return. Once she’d served her purpose, as soon as they got their money, the kidnappers might kill her; it would be safer for them.”

A red uniformed servant approached the fountain to announce Abdullah’s next appointment, so Pagan went into the conservatory. Pagan had always loved conservatories. Waiting among the scented orange trees and the dripping fern fronds calmed her anxiety. She was feeling her usual optimistic self by the time she saw the gray Mercedes slowly drive from the Palace entrance and pass the conservatory. In the back of the limousine was a small, slim figure who seemed familiar but, although Pagan strained her shortsighted eyes in the bright sunlight, she could not see the face of the passenger.

*   *   *

Mark Scott, wearing his usual crumpled khaki shirt and trousers, carried his battered silver càmera case into the lobby of the Haroun al-Rashid and asked for Miss Jordan. The clerk at the check-in desk was unhelpful; Miss Jordan and her party had left the hotel. Mark asked for a room, and was told the hotel was full.

Mark tucked a fifty dollar bill in his passport, handed it to the desk clerk, said he was sure that there was a free closet somewhere and which suite did Miss Jordan occupy? The clerk said he would try to find a room, kept the money, handed back the passport and delicately rested his hand on the pigeonhole numbered 104. Mark dumped his bags and ran up the marble staircase to the first floor.

Somehow, Mark had expected to find Judy alone, not sitting with a group of people that included Gregg, Sandy, and two policemen. His rehearsal speech forgotten, he simply looked at Judy and said, “I came as soon as I could.” Judy seemed smaller, sadder, and older than he had ever seen her look, thought Mark, longing to take her in his arms. “Can I help in any way?” Mark asked.

“No, there’s nothing you can do, Mark,” Judy said quietly, “the police are handling the problem. Would you please go.”

Mark looked at the group. “Judy, can’t we speak alone? I want to tell you why I’ve come here.”

She longed to touch him, to smell him, to hold him. But she
knew that she dared not invite humiliation. “Mark, I know why you’ve come, but I want you to go. Please.”

Mark said, “In case you change your mind, I’ll let you know where I’m staying, as soon as I know.”

Back in the lobby, Mark sat down and checked his cameras. After thirty minutes, the desk clerk discovered that two German tourists were leaving, because they couldn’t stand the pandemonium of police and photographers. So Mark had a room. Again, he climbed up the marble staircase (no elevator), but Gregg, who had been watching him from the floor above, stepped out and barred his way. “No you don’t, chum. Find somewhere else to stay. Judy doesn’t want you here.”

Angrily, Mark shoved Gregg aside, saying, “What’s it to you?”

Gregg shoved Mark. Mark lost his footing and grabbed Gregg’s arm, then slipped on the smooth marble staircase. Together, the two men tumbled down the stairs, shouting accusations as they fell, and then continued their fight in the hotel lobby. As Mark struggled to rise, Gregg grabbed Mark’s foot, and again he lost his balance.

The two men were strangers. Gregg only knew from Lili that Mark fancied her. Mark didn’t know who the hell Gregg was, but knew that he was frustrating Mark’s attempts to see Judy. Had it not been for the tension they both felt because of the kidnapping, they would not have been fighting, but the fight enabled them to externalize their feelings.

As the two men kicked and punched, grappled and yelled, the pressmen who were hanging around the lobby formed a noisy circle, then started taking pictures, shouting, cheering on their buddy, Mark, and betting on the result of the fight.

Suddenly, there was silence as Colonel Aziz and his escort entered the lobby.

“Who is Mr. Eagleton fighting?” the police chief demanded of the nearest cameraman.

“Mark Scott—a freelancer who works mostly for
Time
magazine,” the man replied. Colonel Aziz immediately remembered that Mark’s name had been included in the long list of men who were, according to Judy, obsessed by Lili.

Colonel Aziz pointed to Mark. “Get that man off the floor and arrest him,” he ordered his men.

Accustomed to being jailed by hostile police officials, Mark knew that he had only to bide his time until his fellow journalists, who had seen the arrest, were able to telephone his editor at
Time
magazine. His editor would then telephone their man in Washington, who would have a word with the appropriate government department on Capitol Hill; he would send a note, via the U.S. Ambassador in Turkey, to the Turkish Foreign Ministry, and at that point, some Turkish civil servant would lean on the Police Department and secure Mark’s release. It would take less than twenty-four hours, in a trivial case such as this.

Mark still thought he had been arrested for brawling, and not as a kidnapping suspect.

At about 3
A.M
., Colonel Aziz decided to interrogate Mark. He was brought from his cell and told to sit in front of the police chief’s table.

Colonel Aziz said, “You have been arrested for causing a disturbance at the Haroun al-Rashid Hotel, and I am holding you to help us with our inquiries into the kidnapping of the French actress, Lili. Tomorrow a lawyer will be appointed for you by the court. You are not obliged to say anything but I strongly advise you to cooperate.”

“How long am I being held here?” asked the astonished Mark. “I want to telephone my embassy. You have my passport, you can see that I only entered the country yesterday. Surely that’s enough evidence? I can hardly have arranged a kidnap from Nicaragua.”

“Passports can be falsified. Nobody has accused you of being a kidnapper, but it’s interesting that you should jump to that conclusion. How long have you known Mademoiselle Lili?”

“None of your business.”

“Oh, but it is. Be careful, Mr. Scott. You are perfectly qualified to have committed this crime. You are accustomed to procuring illegal services in foreign countries, and you are accustomed to conducting clever, lengthy research investigations. And I am informed by Miss Jordan that you were involved with the victim.”

“And I’m probably the only suspect you’ve got?”

“Be careful. You are a long way from home, Mr. Scott. You
are clearly capable of being involved with this crime, and you have a motive.”

“A motive? Why would I do it?” Mark laughed and put his hands behind his head.

A policeman stepped forward and prodded Mark painfully in the ribs with a truncheon. Sharply, Mark brought his arms down.

“Your motive might be vengeance. You might have kidnapped Mademoiselle Lili because she would have nothing to do with you.”

“What a crazy idea! There was never anything between us.” Mark wasn’t worried, but he was irritated and knew he had to hide his irritation. The best thing to do was not to refuse to talk to Old Bootface here, but to say as little as possible, and just put up with the situation for a couple of days.

“But perhaps you
wish
there was something between you, Mr. Scott. You are under suspicion because you know Mademoiselle Lili. We have reason to believe that she was abducted by someone she knew. If you had told her a plausible story, she might have left the hotel, accompanied by you, without struggle.”

“If you look at my passport, Colonel, you’ll see it would be very difficult to fake.” Mark looked at his thick, much-stamped, many-visaed, often-confiscated, dog-eared passport, which was now laying on the Colonel’s table. “You’ll soon receive news of me from your superiors, Colonel. As you also confiscated my accreditation, you’re aware of my connections.”

Colonel Aziz jerked his head and said to the policeman standing behind Mark. “Take him back to his cell.”

The next morning, Mark was released and his property was returned. With resignation, he signed for it, knowing in advance that it was unlikely to include most of his cash and his most expensive camera.

*   *   *

In a small park by the edge of the Bosphorus, Curtis Halifax was walking with Judy, who wore large dark glasses. Judy said, “So now you know as much as I do about these weird telegrams, and I’ve told you as much as I’m prepared to
tell you about my affair with Angelface Harris, but remember that I only became involved with Angelface because you left me.”

After so many years of guilt, believing Judy’s child to be his, Curtis had been stunned by the news of Angelface’s ransom telegram, which he had read about in the
International Herald Tribune
as soon as he stepped into the Istanbul Hilton.

Honest himself, Curtis found Judy’s deception difficult to understand. Now he said, “But you let me think that Lili was my daughter. You asked me to pay for her care as a child.”

“Curtis, I’m sorry. I can’t bear to hear myself say this but at the time I didn’t know which of you was Lili’s father. You paid 25 percent of the cost of her care, and there was more than a 25 percent possibility that Lili was your child.”

“She still might be my child.”

“No,” Judy was sorrowful but firm. “The grown-up Lili resembles her father, in temperament more than looks. I’m truly sorry that I involved you, but at the time I thought I was doing the best thing for my daughter. You and Angelface both helped to pay for her care, until she was six, when I was told she was dead. There was some surplus money, but not by the time I’d finished searching for Lili in the refugee camps. That trip cost a small fortune and left me in debt.”