The Hidden Target (22 page)

“Bob, did you see those huge nails? In that black-and-white marble gate?”

“More history, I guess. Where’s Suleyman the Magnificent?”

He was there, gesticulating from the other side of the street, urging them to hurry. So they did. Either the taxi driver was impatient or there were rules and regulations to be obeyed. Their departure was equally speedy, Suleyman looking after them with regret but partially consoled by Renwick’s tip, tactfully concealed in a warm handshake.

“I have to pay him,” Nina said, rousing herself, looking back in dismay.

“Taken care of.”

“And I’ll need him tomorrow morning. Madge and I will be visiting—”

“He’ll be at the hotel tomorrow, waiting for you.”

“You arranged that? I didn’t hear.”

“You told him your plans, didn’t you?”

“Well, I did mention the Bazaar and the Blue Mosque.”

“Then he’ll be at the hotel tomorrow. Now, let’s see...” Renwick fished a map from his pocket, and began reinforcing his directions to the Café Alhamra.

***

The café delighted Nina. It was small, set down in a public garden on a twisting hill road, with a terrace and flowerpots to mark its allotted space. From here, she could see the Bosporus and the coast of Asia. “How far?” she asked, eyeing the stretch of water and its busy traffic.

Renwick studied it. “More than a mile, perhaps a mile and a half. The port for the car ferry is just below this hill. That’s where you’ll be crossing over on Wednesday morning. I don’t imagine you’ll start out for Asia late tomorrow and risk travelling in darkness to Bursa. The roads over there can be tricky.”

She studied her glass. “This tea is marvellous.” As in all cafés in Islamic territory, only coffee or tea or fruit juice was served. “The best I’ve ever tasted. Where do the Turks get it?”

So we’re slipping away from the topic of Bursa, he thought. “It’s home-grown. Once they had orange groves. Then there was a stretch of bad frosts. So they planted tea instead. But over on the Asiatic side, winters must be warmer. That’s where the fruit orchards are. You’ll pass through miles of them on your way to Bursa.”

“Have you been there? What’s it like?”

“I’ve never seen it. But I hear it has a lot of charm—purely Turkish, of course. Not many foreigners around. You’ll like it.” He studied her eyes. Thank God she had taken off the dark sunglasses. Now he could really see the Nina he knew. “Don’t you want to go to Bursa?”

“I’d like more time in Istanbul.”

“Well, can’t you manage that? Don’t any of you have a say in the selection of major stops? The ones where you spend several nights?”

“Oh, we talk and plan and talk. But everyone has his own idea of where he wants to go. Someone just has to take charge and decide.”

“Who does?”

“Tony and Jim, usually. It makes sense. Tony has certain routes to follow—he is making a sort of test run, you know, for the manufacturers in England who want to know how their camper behaves. And Jim—well, he’s paying more than his share of the expenses as well as coping with all the documents and details.”

“What about sightseeing when you have several days to kill? Do you scatter, or does Jim shepherd you around?”

“Heavens, no. Jim—he’s writing some pieces for a newspaper, you know—goes off to meet people who can give him details for a story. And there’s money to be collected at a bank, and our mail to be weighed and sent off at a post office. Things like that,” she ended lamely. She was frowning.

“Don’t,” Renwick said, and reached out his hand, gently smoothed her brow. He could guess what had troubled her: a letter and two postcards that never had reached America.

She tried to smile, rushed on with talk about Tony, who guarded the camper while Jim was away and, once Jim returned to take charge of it, took a day off himself to have something replaced or checked or repaired. “He ought to have been a mechanic. He’s always tinkering around his machine, always fussing over his radio equipment.”

“You don’t like him too much, do you?”

“How did you guess?”

By the tightness in your voice, he said silently. By the cloud that’s still hanging over those beautiful eyes. “I just feel something is troubling you. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, Nina—come on.”

She was silent, stared unhappily at the view which had so delighted her fifteen minutes ago. “I really ought to ’phone Madge. She may be worrying—”

“She’s probably asleep. In any case, the Hilton is near—just at the top of this hill—and I’ll have you back there by half-past six.” That is, if our taxi driver returns here at six-twenty, as he promised. “Then you can have another wonderful bath, and rest, and I’ll be waiting in the lobby at eight-thirty. We’ll drive up the Bosporus—not too far—and have a leisurely dinner. How’s that?”

“I’d love it. But Madge—”

“If she feels up to it, bring her along,” he suggested without much enthusiasm. He didn’t want to wish Madge ill but he hoped she couldn’t face a Turkish dinner, not tonight. If she could? Then there would be no quiet meeting for two, no possible chance to persuade. Perhaps he’d better start the persuading now. My God, he thought as he looked at Nina, she can’t go with Kiley; she’s got to be eased out of his grasp. But how do I begin?

“Now you’re the one who’s looking worried,” Nina challenged him.

“I am. I’m thinking about that journey ahead of you. It’s the wrong time for it, Nina. Haven’t you been reading the news? Listening to the radio? There is trouble all along the line; if not—war, then armed revolts and—”

“Jim says we can bypass the danger points.”

“I suppose he’s arranged in advance for the fighting to stop as you approach?”

“Now, Bob! The main routes must still be safe. We’ve met other campers, with wives and children on board, who are travelling to India.”

Wrong tactics. Swallow your bitterness. “All right. But that doesn’t mean they’ll be safe from a raiding party or a bunch of guerrillas who mistake them for the enemy.” That had happened last week: a German schoolteacher, wife, two children, shot dead in Afghanistan, mistaken by the rebels for one of its hated government’s equally hated Soviet advisers. “I just don’t want to see you running these risks.”

Nina’s eyes softened. “You really
are
worried. Oh, Bob—we won’t be near the danger spots. Do you think Tony is going to have his precious bus shot up?” she asked lightly.

“Nina—how well do you know these two men?”

She glanced away at the other tables. So many foreigners, even in this small space, so many different kinds of people.

“Nina,” Renwick pleaded, and brought her back to him.

“How well do we know anyone?” she asked. “How well do I even know myself?” She shook her head, tried to smile, said sadly, “Perhaps I’m the one who is at fault. Perhaps I fall in love with a man and then—just as suddenly—start falling out for no reason at all. At least, no real reason that makes any sense.”

“In love with Kiley?” Renwick’s lips were tight, his voice almost inaudible.

“I thought I was. Why not?” She was on the defensive now. “He’s attractive, very attractive. And he’s in love with me.” Suddenly, she was miserable. “He has never actually said it. But—but—”

“But what?”

“Oh, this is all so difficult, so stupid. You don’t want to listen to my—” She broke off, then said, “It’s just that I have no one to talk to. Madge—no, that’s difficult—she was ready to fall in love with Jim herself. But you, Bob—you know how men feel. If you
were
in love, would you never even say “I love you,” never even mention marriage, and yet tell her that you want her to meet your uncle and that you want to meet her father?”

“To meet your father?” Renwick was startled. “When?”

“Around Thanksgiving—we’ll be passing through America then. But what does that mean, Bob? Marriage?” She shook her head, sighed. “He isn’t shy. He isn’t one of those awkward, tongue-tied men. What does it mean?”

He could guess what it meant: instructions. Get the girl to fall for you; it will make sure she’ll go along with you on this trip. But don’t let your emotions run away with you; keep your mind in control.

“Bob?” She was watching him anxiously, almost regretting her confidences.

“If you were in love with me, Nina, I’d be telling all the world. Kiley’s either a goddamned fool or a trickster.”

“Trickster?” She was indignant. “He couldn’t be more honest.” And then she frowned. “Not altogether,” she admitted. “Oh, how I hate lies! They make you feel used—as if you were some idiot who’d believe any story. Am I an idiot, Bob?”

He shook his head. “Only if you insist on going around the world with Kiley.”

“But I want to go.”

“Why? You aren’t in love with him now.”

His words had been sharp, almost angry. Surprised, she let his eyes hold hers, felt uncertainty, bewilderment.

“He isn’t the man for you, Nina.”

And who is? “How do you know so much about him?” she demanded. Annoyance increased the colour in her cheeks, brightened her eyes. “You just didn’t want me to make this trip. Why? Did Father send you here, ask you to—”

“I never saw your father. I wasn’t near Washington.”

“No?”

“No.” He eased his voice, added, “And that’s not a lie, either.” He glanced at his watch, signalled to the waiter. In a brisk five minutes, with silence complete from Nina, they were out of the café, into the taxi.

Her silence still held for another long minute. And then, contritely, she said, “Bob—I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

“About what?” I was the one to blame, she thought.

“That you won’t listen to me.”

“Perhaps I did. In my own way.” She paused. “If I don’t rejoin the camper, where do I go? Maryland, for Beryl’s dinners and parties? Or England again, to make my apologies for being late in arriving at Lower Wallop?”

“What about Paris? I have a friend there with an apartment on the Left Bank. He would lend it to me for September, and I’d lend it to you. That’s better than Lower Wallop or Upper Twistleton.”

“Pronounced Twitton?”

But in spite of the lightened mood, Renwick’s worry deepened. Was she or wasn’t she leaving with Kiley? If that guy could make love as well as he talked, Nina was lost.

“You look so serious,” she told him as they entered the hotel. “Am I such a responsibility?” Not yours, surely.

“Think about Paris. And let me know this evening. Will you?”

“But I must go on this trip, Bob. Because I’m curious.”

He didn’t quite understand, looked at her questioningly as they waited at the desk for her key.

“Exactly half-past six,” she said delightedly. “Bob, you’re wonderful. No, don’t come any further. Look at the crowd around us, all speaking English. I won’t get lost.” Suddenly, she reached up and kissed him gently. “Just wanted to. That’s all,” she quoted.

He caught her hand. “Nina—because you’re curious? About what?”

“About Jim. If he isn’t in love with me, why does he pretend? Why so eager to have me along on this trip? I didn’t force myself on him, you know.”

“I know,” Renwick said, releasing her hand. He watched her enter the elevator. Then he turned towards the bar, where Western rules prevailed and he could have a non-Islamic drink. Pierre Claudel had already found a table and ordered two tall glasses of scotch and soda.

“How did it go?” Claudel asked.

“She’s a hard girl to convince.” Apart from that, it had been a good afternoon—one of the best in a long time. She was easy to be with. Too damn easy, thought Renwick. And too unsettling.

“No large green camper with British registration and plate has yet crossed the frontier from Greece. And at the campsites, no inquiries have been made in Shawfield’s name or in Kiley’s.”

“Then they are late.” Nina might have her extra day in Istanbul after all. “That will give them something to worry about. They’ll have to juggle their timetable in Bursa.”

“Bursa?”

“That’s their main stopover. Not Istanbul.”

“What scared them away? The police arrests?”

“Could be.” In the last three weeks the Turkish authorities had been exceedingly active: the large political demonstration scheduled for this Sunday near the stadium was not, if the police could help it, going to have terrorists inciting a riot. This summer, politics were at boiling point, and both parties—the Republican socialists and the Justice conservatives—had their bands of wild extremists eager for bloody action. Renwick glanced around the placid bar, well filled with well-dressed people—some business-men still worrying over contracts; some tourists relaxing after a hard day’s pleasure. “Drink up,” he told Claudel. “We’d better get Kahraman to switch his attention from Istanbul to Bursa.”

“Damned annoying. He had it all nicely planned here.”

Renwick nodded. Kahraman might also have a more recent report from the Greek frontier.

Claudel drained his glass. “Meet you back at our hotel. Kahraman will be there at seven-fifteen.”

“I’ll have to leave before eight-thirty.” Their hotel, Kahraman’s choice, was a bare five minutes’ walk along Cumhurijet Avenue from the Hilton. “Help me disentangle by a quarter past eight.” Kahraman, brisk when he dealt with something that was already decided upon, could become painstaking and explorative when new tactics were being discussed. Bursa would mean an entire reshaping of his plans.

Claudel, quick in thought, quick in action, could sympathise. “I’ll do my best.” He was master of the sudden but polite departure. He nodded as he rose, and left.

Five minutes more and Renwick could leave, too.
Why does he pretend? Why so eager to have me along?
Nina’s questions lingered in his mind. They were only the first of more to follow: they were bound to arise, Nina being Nina. And questions demanded answers: she’d search for them, too. Bright, intelligent Nina was something Kiley hadn’t bargained for. Nor Theo... She was placing herself in extreme jeopardy: one question too many, one sign that she had found an answer, and she became a danger to Theo’s plans. She would be dumped out, abandoned in the wilds of Afghanistan—if she lasted that long.

Grim-faced, Renwick passed through the huge lobby, with its swirling currents of voice and movement. Outside, the light was golden, the glow of sunset spreading warmly over the wide avenue that lay beyond the hotel’s driveway. But the first hint of coolness was in the air, a first touch of night lay in the far horizons. Goddamn it, he told Nina, you just don’t
know
what could happen to you; you just don’t know, goddamn it.