The Hidden Target (32 page)

“What’s wrong with them? They are harmless, make you feel wonderful.”

“They may not be harmless. They may lead—”

“It will soon be dark,” Madge said curtly. The long road ahead, tree-lined, was unlit and already slipping into the night shadows. To her relief, the camper slowed down before a flat-roofed building of virulent pink, one-storied, with a small gas station at one side. At the other side, where the camper was now following a rough driveway into the rear courtyard, was a café with its name in bold lettering of dashes, dots, and curlicues sprawled above a bleakly illuminated door.

They drew up in the courtyard, a large square of packed earth surrounded by trees on three sides. Other cars were following them, but there was room—and space to spare—for everyone. Shawfield still sat at the wheel as his crowd followed Selim out of the camper; he was ready to angle it into another corner of the yard if some cars were parked too near him. But they settled for the garage side of the inn. He noted them carefully: the Fiat with the Turks; the station wagon with the Swedes; even the red Ferrari and the Australians. Only the Germans in the Mercedes had preferred to go on their way with a more expensive lodging in mind. As his crowd straggled slowly across the yard to the entrance of the building, Kiley joined him. “We’ll get them asleep by midnight,” Kiley said. “Does that give you time?”

“That should do it. You’d better give O’Connell a pill tonight, make sure she’s as stretched out as the rest of them.”

“She’s tired enough.”

“Don’t chance it,” Shawfield warned him. “Hey, what is she doing now?”

Kiley looked across the yard to the small group halted outside the inn’s central doorway. He swore, jumped out of the camper, then checked his pace to a saunter. Nina was talking with one of the Turks. The other was listening in rapt attention. So was Madge. And the Swedish couple. “Hello, hello,” Kiley said genially as he reached them. “Quite a traffic block we’ve got here.”

“I’m getting some names,” Nina told him, excitement and success bringing her face to life. “Names of places where the best carpets are made.” She turned back to the Turk, a handsome man with large dark eyes and a sweeping black moustache. “Would you repeat them again, please?” And to Kiley, “Jim, can you note them down for me?”

“We may not be anywhere near these places,” he warned her.

The Swedish newspaperman had his note-book out, ready for dictation.

“There are a few places in Tabriz,” Nina was saying, “And some on the outskirts of Tehran.”

“Ab ’Ali,” prompted the Turkish carpet dealer. “Good at Isfahan. Ver’ good at Shiraz. Also Kerman ver’ good.”

“I’ve got them,” said the Swede, scribbling hard. “I’ll give you a copy,” he told Nina. “Tomorrow morning? I will draw you a little map, too.”

“Wonderful.”

“Very educational,” he remarked to his wife as they left in search of the children.

“Thank you,” Nina said to the carpet experts. They bowed gravely, spoke a phrase in Turkish as polite goodbye, and entered the inn.

“Their Turkish sounds better than their English,” Kiley said, letting the Swedes pass inside. “Must be Eastern mind readers, too. How did they know you wanted to see carpets?”

“I asked them,” Nina said, “It was simple.”

Madge was laughing. “You know Nina. She just goes up to a stranger with her best smile and asks him if he speaks English. He looked a little astounded, I must say. Then he answered, “Ver’ good English.” But it did take him a few moments to understand her questions.”

“Ver’ simple,” Nina said.

Kiley took her arm, led her indoors. “We’ll have some music tonight. Marie-Louise tells me she has mastered two of the gipsy tunes that she heard in Istanbul. That was a good night, wasn’t it?”

On the outskirts of Istanbul, Nina thought. But that had been a good night. In spite of her anger and almost-revolt on leaving the Hilton, she had enjoyed herself. Negative emotions had ebbed away, leaving only a touch of guilt: Jim was thoughtful, Jim was kind, and what was she? “Marie-Louise says one of these songs was brought from India by the gypsies. It’s one of the ragas that are played there. She’s hoping to trace it—”

“Ragas? We’re getting fancy, aren’t we?”

“Well, that’s their name.”

“How do you pick up all these little pieces of information?” He half turned to the entrance, where Shawfield and Madge had appeared. “I know—you go up to a stranger, stun him with a smile, and ask if he speaks English. That’s how she does it, Tony. Got the names of carpet towns from our Turkish traders. Everything okay outside?”

“Locked up and secure.” Shawfield looked around the small hall suffocated with large posters above its side counter, where Selim was superintending their registration. Ahead of him, through a wide doorway, he could see a dining-room. Sparse lighting, but plenty of space. It looked clean even if it was overdressed with garlands of bright-coloured paper flowers decorating cracks in newly plastered walls. Posters there, too: religious leaders in black turbans, the cult of personality, brooding over several large tables. At least, he thought, we won’t be packed together with a mish-mash of strangers. “Could be worse,” he said and relaxed.

Selim was triumphant. “We have three rooms. The Australians have one. The Turks have one. The Swedes have one. But I have obtained three.”

“All together?” Shawfield asked.

“Impossible. Only three bedrooms on each side of this hall. The biggest one was required for the Swedish family. We have one on either side of them.” He pointed to a corridor on his left.

“That will do.” The three girls in one of them: Tromp, Lambrese, and Dissen in the second. “Kiley and I will take the room on the other side of the hall.”

Selim’s eyes were pleading. “And me?”

Nina said, “You could sleep in the camper. Couldn’t he, Tony?”

Tony gave her a look that chilled her bones. “No one sleeps in the camper. It stays locked for the night.”

Hastily, Selim said, “I’ll sleep in the dining-room. Okay? Now I need your passports.”

“I’ll collect them,” Kiley said. Then to Nina, “Let’s find your room and see if you’ll be comfortable.”

“Where are the bathrooms?” Madge wanted to know.

“One bathroom. Very nice,” Selim assured her. “Next the kitchen.” He pointed to his right. “Very new.”

The kitchen would be easy to find: women’s voices were loud and the smell of food was rich. Madge started in its direction.

“But much engaged,” Selim called after her. “Everyone standing in good line.”

Kiley led Nina along a narrow hall to its furthest room. “All right?” he asked anxiously.

“Fine.” It was small with three narrow cots, two wooden chairs, one window and a row of pegs on one wall. “And we do have a bathroom if we must stand in good line. Poor Selim— must he sleep in the dining-room?”

“Do you think we want him bending our ear all through the night?” Kiley looked around the room again. The window, covered by a straight hanging curtain, was barred. “All right?” he asked again.

“Of course it is!” Nina handed him her passport. “I’ll need that back by tomorrow morning. I’m going into town, and I’d better carry some identification, don’t you think?”

“Why not wait until the next day? I’ll take you into Tabriz then.”

“Tomorrow you’ll be busy?”

“Bank—a travel bureau to meet our new guide—a visit to the university to see a professor of English, an old friend from Chicago. Yes, I guess you could say I’ll be busy. Everything takes time in this part of the world. I’ll leave fairly early in the morning. Around eight. You just rest up or explore the food markets nearby. You’ll see a lot of new types there.” Again he looked anxiously at her. “All right?” he asked for the third time.

“Yes.” Her voice softened, a smile came into her eyes. “I do notice the trouble you’ve taken. I’m not ungrateful, really I am not.”

He caught her in his arms, kissed her long and hard, would have kissed her again but the door opened and Madge came in.

***

Almost three o’clock in the morning and wide awake. Nina turned over again on her cot. Its mattress was thin, with a middle depression. Silence everywhere outside, making Marie-Louise’s snores seem louder than they were. Madge lay still, gently breathing. Both had fallen into deep sleep by midnight. I’m tired, yet I can’t sleep, Nina thought: it’s this small room and the window closed, securely locked. What are the owners of this inn afraid of? Prowlers or night air? I’m suffocating.

She rose, drew on her dark-blue robe—practical in weight and colour for travelling—and found the pen flashlight in its pocket. She switched it on to search for her sandals, and then played its weak small beam across the floor to lead her safely to the door. Quietly, she turned the key. “Keep this door locked,” Jim had said as he kissed her good night. So she drew the key out, closed the door and locked it, slipping the key deep into her pocket as she started along the corridor. Dark and silent, with deep breathing from the Swedes’ room, with steady snores from Sven, Guido, and Henryk next door. She switched off her flashlight before she reached the entrance hall, where one small bulb had been left burning. The counter that served as a reception desk was empty. The owner of the inn must be in bed and asleep, lucky man. But voices were coming from the dining-room. One meagre light there—such extravagance, she thought with a smile, recognising Selim’s voice. The other talker? It could be the owner’s son, who had bustled around the dining tables, directing the waiters—four small boys, thirteen or fourteen years old, anxious and willing and overworked. She looked at the front door, wondering if Selim and his friend would hear the turning of its heavy key. It might be better if she told them that she was only wanting ten minutes of cool sweet air. But she knew what would happen: Selim would come with her, talk and talk. No, she decided; not that. She’d be driven inside within four minutes flat.

She reached the door. The key in its lock was massive. It wouldn’t turn. Then she realised it wouldn’t budge because it was already in the unlocked position. Some security, she thought: windows shut and covered with iron screens, and an entrance door left open for anyone to enter. She stepped out into the yard, pulling the door closed behind her to cut off the insistent murmur of voices from the dining-room.

There was only a sliver of moon, but the stars were clear and beautiful. She drew long deep breaths, welcoming the cold air. Dawn was still some time away. No wind, not even a breeze to stir the surrounding trees. The parked cars, three neatly placed shadows, their colour eaten up by the night, were at one side of the yard. The camper, curtains drawn, stood aloof like some proud beauty. And its lines were good, she admitted. Custom-built, outside as well as in. It must have cost Tony all his savings; no wonder he guarded it so constantly. Then, as she studied it she saw a faint almost imperceptible glow spreading into the darkness from the ventilation window on its roof. Careless of Tony, she thought at first: he has left one of the small lights turned on. Or has someone broken into the camper?

She hesitated, looked at the door behind her. No, she had better make certain the camper really had been entered before she alerted Selim. A false alarm and she would be apologising all tomorrow for waking up everyone: Selim wouldn’t handle this quietly; of that she was sure.

Cautiously, she approached the camper. Its hood pointed towards a line of trees, its rear end—with its door—stretched into the centre of the courtyard. If anyone is inside, she told herself, I’m not risking that back door: it could be opened at any moment. The side of the camper was safer; its curtained windows, slightly opened at the top to air it thoroughly, should let her hear the sounds of anyone moving around. She reached it and steadied herself against its smooth surface, her legs suddenly weak. She was more nervous than she had realised. Nervous? She was terrified.

She calmed down. There was no movement inside the camper. Tony had been careless about the light, that was all. With relief, she was about to turn away. And then she heard a voice raised in a sudden burst of anger. Jim’s voice. Good old American swear words, she thought, and smiled. And stopped smiling as he broke into German. Another voice answered him, speaking German, too. Tony’s? The pitch was Tony’s—that short bitter laugh was Tony’s—but in German? Neither of them knew much German, had never been in Germany, had called on Sven Dissen for help in being understood when they were in Basel, in Innsbruck.

Disbelief and shock seemed to paralyse her body. Unable to move, she stood with her hand resting on the camper’s side. She couldn’t hear much, now that the voices had quietened. In any case, their fluent exchange was too quick for her, far beyond the German she had learned at school. Something about “a change,” “arrangements cancelled,” “new arrangements made.” The word “Afghanistan” was repeated twice. So was the phrase “absolutely necessary.”

And then Tony’s voice became clearer—he must have moved close to the window near where she stood. “They will call us again. At twelve noon. What is your message?”

Jim’s reply was less audible, but it sounded authoritative.

Tony said, “Okay. I will tell them.”

There was a brief silence. Suddenly, she heard the rear door open. Nina took an uncertain step away, abandoned her hope of reaching the inn. Instinctively she edged towards the front of the camper, feeling some protection from its solid body. They were talking as they closed and locked the door, their voices sounding so near that she was unnerved. Quickly, she moved to the nearest tree, only six paces away. She drew behind its trunk, her heart beating wildly, her eyes on the two men as they started a slow walk to the inn. From behind her, an arm went around her waist, a hand went over her mouth.

“Don’t scream,” a voice whispered in her ear. “Please don’t scream. And how could we explain this situation to Mr. James Kiley?” Her struggles ceased. The hand left her lips. “Sorry. There was no other way.” The arm was still firm around her waist, supporting her now. She needed it. “I’m a friend,” the whispering voice said. “Your Turkish adviser on Persian carpets.”

Nina turned her head to look. It was too dark to see anything clearly beyond black hair, black moustache, and a wide smile. “Your English has improved.”