I Spy Page 16

  “Did you bring everything, Wallace?”

  Jimmy Wallace looked over his shoulder and nodded. “Got enough in the boot to start a small war, Guvnor. Just in case.”

  Baba Duan swallowed hard. “There is to be very much shooting?”

  “Hopefully not.” George Stanhope-Leigh leaned forward and got a copy of The Times from the seat pocket in front of him. “But, as Mr. Wallace says, it’s always best to be prepared for all eventualities.”

  “And Mr. Macktire?” Baba Duan enquired as the car picked up speed. “What about him?”

  “In this life, Mr. Hendek, if you don’t do as you’re told, then whatever happens will be upon your own head. The person I must help now is his son, if I’m not too late...”

  28 LINES CONVERGE

  T. Drummond MacIntyre II had been warned that this European trip was going to have its fair share of testing, not to say unusual circumstances, but being blackmailed by a gang of children was one he was sure he could never have imagined, even in his wildest dreams. But young Arthur Stanhope-Leigh, a real chip-off-the-old-block, had made it very clear that if he and his friends weren’t allowed to come along there would be trouble. They somehow knew that he wasn’t supposed to leave the grounds, and the girl, Christina, had even quoted her father’s phrase – “under any circumstances” – word for word and in the same tone of voice.

  Glancing down the street he saw the two girls, Christina and the Turkish one whose name he couldn’t recall, watching him; at least they were doing what they’d been told. Unlike himself. That notwithstanding, if Trey was here in this house, surely Arthur’s father would understand that he had a duty to get him back. Keeping his right hand in his jacket pocket, anxiously gripping the small Colt .32 automatic (a bullet in the chamber and ready to go, he reminded himself), he hammered on the door of the house for a second time and waited.

  Still no reply.

  Thinking about it, he should probably have held on for a bit. The Turkish boy had gone to get Ahmet, and it might have been better to wait for them, but he felt he’d waited long enough and that action had to be taken. Standing back from the door he scanned the windows, a number of which he noticed showed signs of having been recently re-glazed, and saw that someone on the first floor was observing him from behind a curtain. Then the front door quickly opened and closed behind a nervous-looking man who pretty much fitted the description the Turkish kids had given him.

  Mr. MacIntyre tipped the hat he’d decided to wear, along with a pair of dark glasses, as the nearest thing he had to a disguise. “Stanislaus Levedski?”

  “Was machen Sie hier?” the man snapped, frowning tensely.

  “I don’t ‘sprechen Sie Deutsch’, or Russian, for that matter.” Trey’s father looked sideways and saw the Turkish girl, Neyla, giving him a subtle thumbs up; this was the right guy. Awkwardly he shoved the gun forward in his pocket, aiming it at the man’s stomach. “Look, Mr. Levedski,” he said, trying to sound a whole lot tougher than he felt, “give me back my son now, before I plug you!”

  “Have you gone mad, Gessler?” Levedski said in a hissed whisper, a fixed grin glued on his face as he tried desperately to appear, to those he knew for sure were watching them, as if everything was just fine. “Why are you here? You must go away from here now... Sofort – right now!”

  The front door opened again and a grim-faced older man, balding and wearing glasses, came out; staring at Trey’s father, he spoke in hushed tones to Levedski, who was shaking his head. Without warning, the older man grabbed at Levedski’s jacket and, yelling fit to bust, tried to drag him back into the house.

  T. Drummond MacIntyre was a man of business, and by no means a natural Man of Action, but, with the fate of his only son at stake, something inside of him decided that now was not the time to worry too much about the differences and distinctions. Now was the time to do something, or he’d end up on the losing side (which was not where he ever liked to find himself), but just as he was about to wade in the cavalry arrived!

  A horn blaring down the street, accompanied by shouts from the kids, signalled that Arthur’s young Turkish friend, who had scuttled off claiming that he would have no trouble in finding Ahmet the chauffeur, had indeed succeeded in doing so. And not before time.

  The car pulled up, disgorging the boy, as Mr. MacIntyre pulled the pistol out of his jacket pocket and jabbed it at the bald man’s head. “Let him go!” he yelled, grabbing hold of Levedski’s shirt front.

  As if having to deal with a wild-eyed, pistol-wielding man first thing in the morning wasn’t bad enough, with no warning at all, the man attempting to drag Stanislaus Levedski back into the house found himself being attacked by a pack of unhinged children. They punched, they kicked, and the rather dainty girl with the blonde curly hair even bit his hand; but it was the hail of stones which eventually forced the bald-headed man to retreat into the house and close the door, leaving Mr. MacIntyre and Levedski outside alone.

  “Where’s my son – where’s Trey?” Mr. MacIntyre growled, his nose inches away from Levedski’s.

  “Who is this Trey?”

  “Is he in the darn house?” Mr. MacIntyre shook Levedski like a doll. “Tell me, or I’ll...”

  “Who are you?” Levedski broke in, peering at his inquisitor, the penny dropping that this man definitely wasn’t at all whom he, even at rather-too-close-for-comfort inspection, appeared to be. This was not Gessler! So whom had they been following these last few days? And why did this person now want to know where the boy he’d brought with him, for some inexplicable reason, was? The gears in Levedski’s head meshed and spun as he tried to work out what these oddest of events could mean; it took a matter of seconds, because he was a clever, if deceitful and treacherous man, for him to calculate that he was in extremely deep trouble.

  Gessler, the real one, worked for the German spy service, the Abwehr. He, Levedski, worked for his own country’s secret service, the OGPU, and the Abwehr, and it did not do for double agents to get caught. He had witnessed what could happen when one was and it wasn’t a pretty sight. Ever since the first report had come in that Herr Gessler had been spotted, here in Constantinople and acting very oddly for a German intelligence officer, Levedski had been completely on edge. And his nerves were being rattled even more by the fact that his clandestine and very secret association with the man had never ever included him turning up on his doorstep!

  All their communications were done through coded messages in newspapers and “dead letter drops”, special places where messages, and money, could be left at designated times; the last one had been very odd, with Gessler informing him he was back in Constantinople to “sort out the problem”, and that he would be up at the house in Rumeli Kavagi so there would be no more communications for a bit. No mention of what he was up to, or any boy.

  From Levedski’s point of view, the problem that needed sorting out was standing right in front of him: this man, who definitely wasn’t Reinhardt Gessler, could get him killed. Or worse: tortured, then killed. Because his boss, Paklov, was profoundly suspicious – that was his business, after all – and in his world suspicion and guilt were often treated as one and the same thing. His boss would see he was talking to a German spy and be very quick to put two and two together. So he needed a way out, and fast. “I don’t know about any boy, but I know where Gessler is, I will take you...” Levedski saw the front door open again, and he knew his time was running out. “Now, we must go now!”

  Levedski broke away from Mr. MacIntyre and dashed straight for the car, flinging himself into the back. For a split second it seemed as if everyone was waiting to see what would happen next: the shirt-sleeved beetle-brow who’d come out of the house frowned at Mr. MacIntyre, who sized his opponent up and made for the car himself.

  Beaten to it by Arthur, Neyla and Evren, only at the last moment did Trey’s father realize that someone was missing; he turned to see Christina, who was dressed more for a light luncheon than this sort of undertaking, frozen
between the car and the advancing Russian. Before Trey’s father had a chance to do anything (he was considering a warning shot) Evren leaped past him like a whippet, grabbed Christina’s hand and had her in the back of the car so fast it was almost magical.

  “Go, effendi?” enquired Ahmet.

  “GO!” came a chorus of voices from the back of the cab, which took off as Mr. MacIntyre, holding his hat on, just made it into the front passenger seat.

  “But go to where, if I may ask?” Ahmet changed gear and the cab speeded up.

  “Mr. Levedski?” Mr. MacIntyre turned round and pointed the gun at the Russian.

  “Rumeli Kavagi. There is a house.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “It is only maybe less than thirty or so kilometres.” Ahmet answered the question as he swung the cab round a corner. “But the roads...” He shrugged expressively, not needing to finish the sentence.

  “Step on the gas, Ahmet, I think that’s where my boy is.” T. Drummond MacIntyre II, known during his school years as Deuce, had, unlike his son, never liked his nickname. But, after this morning’s exploits, he thought Deuce MacIntyre sounded exactly like the kind of fellow Trey read about in his magazines, and he had to admit he quite liked the sound of it.

  Ahmet tapped his wrist. “What is the time, can I ask?”

  “Just after ten to nine,” said Arthur. “Oh-eight fifty-one, to be precise.”

  “Arthur, really...” Christina sighed loudly. But she let her brother’s annoyingness go because she was far too excited about being rescued – rescued, just wait till she told her friends – by a handsome, if slightly scruffy, boy! She hadn’t had such an exciting day ever!

  George Stanhope-Leigh’s driver cursed roundly under his breath. The traffic in Constantinople, at almost any time of day, was enough to drive a saint to drink, it was really. He was a man who lived by rules, and here he was, living in a city that didn’t seem to have any. At least not on the roads, that was for sure. He pulled out to get past a man leading two slow, heavily laden donkeys to find the way blocked by a cart that had lost a wheel and spilled its load of hay across the road.

  “When in Rome,” said Mr. Stanhope-Leigh from the back of the car.

  “Pardon, Guv?”

  “Go up on the pavement; no one will mind a bit, I’m sure. Wouldn’t you say, Mr. Hendek?”

  “I think you are very possibly absolutely quite correct,” Baba Duan nodded, “otherwise we will be here a lot of time. And there is no one of too much importance on the pavement.”

  Shaking his head at the foreign ways he had to put up with in his job, the driver followed orders and a couple of minutes later he was turning left onto the main shore road that lead all the way up the Bosphorus to Rumeli Kavagi.

  A few minutes later, some way down the street, a taxi cab made a similar left turn and also started to drive north.

  29 AN UNEXPECTED RENDEZVOUS

  Why the horse finally decided to come to a halt Trey had no notion, but he guessed exhaustion would be pretty high up on the list of reasons. After all, he was pretty much dog-tired himself just from hanging on. So, one moment he was on the wildest rodeo ride of his life, and the next the horse was standing, its head bowed, covered in soapy sweat and with wisps of steam rising off it. This was, thought Trey as he slid to the ground, one animal which was not going to be going anywhere for quite some time. Something of a problem when you were being chased by The Enemy in a car.

  Looking around (now that he was able to take in where he was, without fear of falling off) he saw there were a lot more houses hereabouts, and quite fancy ones at that. Which might mean that he was now actually not too far from Constantinople. But, considering the state of his ride, the only way he was going to get there was by Shanks’s mare, as Gramps liked to call walking. Figuring that he’d better get the horse out of sight first, as The Enemy couldn’t be that far behind him, he was about to lead it between a couple of houses when a car roared round the bend.

  Trey panicked, not even stopping to see if it actually was The Enemy; this was possibly not the most sensible decision he could have made, but all he wanted to do was keep these men from getting their hands on him again. Dropping the reins he found a reserve of energy from somewhere and pelted down the road as if his pants were on fire, only moments later to have the car overtake him, fishtailing wildly as it came to a screeching stop sideways across the road.

  Trey stopped, too. It was The Enemy.

  Now that the worst had happened he was astonished to find that his mind cleared and he was able to think straight; in that moment the words of Trent Gripp came back to him: “If you can’t run, the only alternative you’ve got is to stay and fight”.

  It was obvious, if you thought about it.

  Trey pulled the pistol out from where he’d stuck it in his belt and aimed it at the bearded man getting out of the driver’s side of the car. “Drop it!” he ordered, as the man turned to look at him, his eyes momentarily flicking down at the pistol, registering that it was one of his own Lugers.

  “I do not have a gun.” The man held his palms out.

  “Hands up, then!” Trey stared at the man standing there, smiling at him as if they were having a polite conversation. Stared at his face, seeing the shape of it under his beard, and not quite believing it...imagining what his hair would look like if it wasn’t brilliantined.

  “Give that to me, Junge. Bitte.”

  The man’s voice brought Trey back. “No – what d’you think I am, stupid?”

  “I do not. I think you have proved you are no dummkopf, so I also think that you will see that now is the time to stop this.”

  “Who are you?” Trey spoke before he could stop himself; he really didn’t need to ask: he was the man in the pictures Evren had taken. The man who wasn’t his father.

  “Give me the gun, before you get hurt.”

  “Before I get hurt?” Trey shook his head in slightly overdramatic disbelief. “You’re the one looking at the wrong end of a bullet, Mr. Gessler.”

  Trey was heartened to see that the mention of his name had stopped the man in his tracks and made him think twice.

  “It seems you know somehow far too much for your own good.” Gessler’s eyes narrowed, and he snapped his fingers in irritation. “I have not got the time, or the inclination, to discuss this any further – Viktor...”

  Trey began to retreat as he saw the blond man get out of the car, holding an evil-looking sub-machine gun. The thought that this was not what you would call fair play fleetingly crossed Trey’s mind as he wondered if now was the moment when he should shoot first and ask questions later, like his personal hero, Trent Gripp. Before he could make his mind up as to what he should do, a dusty Citroën squealed to a halt, its driver leaning on his horn because the road was blocked and he seemed to be in something of a hurry to get past.

  And then the weirdest thing happened...Trey heard his name being called.

  He squinted at the car, the sun glinting on its windshield making it impossible to see who was inside – until Ahmet’s head popped out, followed by Evren’s and Christina’s from behind him, and finally a man wearing a wide-brimmed hat and dark glasses appeared out of the taxi, a gun in his hand.

  “Don’t worry, son,” the man said, in a voice that shocked Trey rigid.

  “Pops?” Trey whispered to himself, thinking he must be dreaming, that any minute he’d wake up and find himself in his bed at the Pera Palas...until reality bit and Gessler, moving like greased lightning, roughly grabbed him, snatching the pistol. And he found himself with a barrel pressed, hard, against the side of his head.

  “Let him go, Colonel Gessler.” T. Drummond MacIntyre II kept what Trey could see was really quite a small pistol pointed somewhere between the two armed men he was facing, one of whom had taken his son prisoner while the other was pointing quite a large sub-machine gun back at him. “He’s not a part of this.”

  “I think you will find that, as my hostage, he is,”
Gessler said, his grip tightening on Trey’s shoulder. “Who are you, anyway?”

  Trey watched as his father took off the hat that was shading his face, putting it on the hood of Ahmet’s taxi, and removed his dark glasses. “T. Drummond MacIntyre II, at your service,” he said.

  “Gott in Himmel!” Trey glanced sideways and saw the blond man pointing, open-mouthed, at his father. “Er ist Ihr Doppelgänger, Herr Oberst – he looks just like you!”

  “Quiet! Keep him covered...” Trey thought Gessler sounded rattled, but the gun remained jammed hard against his head. “Explain this situation immediately, or I shall shoot the boy.”

  All eyes were on the drama unfolding, everyone’s focus on the deadly triangle. As the seconds ticked by anyone could, if they had not been concentrating so hard, have heard life elsewhere carrying on as if nothing was happening (and, this being the case, it explained why nobody noticed Arthur Stanhope-Leigh’s surreptitious exit from Ahmet’s taxi, or heard him slink oh-so-very-quietly behind it, allowing him the opportunity to line up his shot, take aim and fire a smooth pebble at the man with the sub-machine gun).

  It was, all things considered, a cracking shot, which had the desired effect of laying Viktor Becht out cold as a fish.

  As Arthur’s target keeled over, his machine gun dropping to the ground with a loud clatter, Trey felt the grip on his shoulder loosen as, without thinking, Gessler turned to see what had occurred. Knowing that this was his now-or-never moment, Trey wrenched himself free, swung round and kicked out at his captor’s leg for all he was worth; like the title of a Trent Gripp short story put it: Second Thoughts Are For Losers!

  “Kleines Miststück! Was die...” Gessler staggered sideways, grimacing, but aiming steady and straight at Trey, who reckoned he now knew what it felt like when your number was well and truly up.

  Trey saw the man’s finger tighten on the trigger...but there was no bang, no smoke, the gun did not fire. And then he realized why: the safety was still on! Opportunities, he knew, had to be taken, grabbed with both hands before they disappeared. Which, leaping forward like a torpedo, is what Trey did to the gun barrel, the element of surprise allowing him to twist the Luger right out of Gessler’s hands as they both fell to the ground.