I Spy Page 8

  Brushing past Evren, Trey found himself in a large, gaslit room that was crammed with tables, chairs, milling people of all sizes, drying clothes, steaming pots and a number of brindle cats. In the centre of this gentle chaos sat a large, rotund man wearing shiny pinstripe trousers and matching waistcoat, an off-white shirt with the detachable collar undone, and incongruously colourful red velvet slippers. He was mopping his forehead with his half-undone dark-blue and dark-red striped tie.

  “Welcome! Welcome to my most humble of abodes!” The man heaved himself upright and held out an enthusiastic hand, which Trey had no choice but to shake. “Duan Hendek, at your service young Drummond MacIntyre Three, terribly glad to meet you! Hatijeh...” Evren’s father turfed a cat off a nearby chair and offered it to Trey. “Sit, sit, sit! Hatijeh, wife of wives, scented everlasting love of my life, one extra for dinner!”

  15 THE MYSTERY DEEPENS...

  It was, in fact, more like three extra for dinner. Neyla stayed and a friend of the family turned up just as the food was being served. Evren’s father, who insisted on being called Baba Duan – baba, it turned out, meaning the same as pop – couldn’t have been more delighted.

  Frustrated as he was at the seemingly never-ending toing and froing (exactly how many times did the seating arrangements have to be changed?) and the general bedlam that kept him from asking Evren’s father all the questions he so desperately needed answers to – like how he knew his name, and where the merry heck was his money? – Trey couldn’t help but be fascinated by what was going on all around him.

  It turned out to be the most extraordinary meal Trey had ever eaten – the food was vibrant, exotic and spicy, much like the company – and quite unlike meals at his house which were, to say the least, quiet affairs. Evren’s mother, Hatijeh, never seemed to stay in her seat for more than a minute, refilling plates, cajoling Evren’s two younger brothers and baby sister, hugging her husband and attempting to engage Trey in conversation, even though she obviously didn’t speak a word of English; all he could do was smile in reply, but she didn’t seem to mind one bit.

  At one point Trey noticed Evren looking pointedly at Neyla, who was sitting next to him; she then leaned over and quickly whispered “Özür dilemek...sorry much...” in his ear. Before he could respond, Hatijeh wedged herself between them and began distributing plates loaded with various desserts; when she’d finished and moved away, Trey found Neyla had swapped places with Evren’s little sister and was acting like nothing had happened.

  And then, all of a sudden, like the tide going out, the meal was over, the guests departed, the table cleared and the younger children packed off, Trey presumed, to bed. He was left sitting at the table with Baba Duan, Evren and Neyla.

  “Tremendous!” Baba Duan patted his considerable stomach with both hands, beaming at Trey, who didn’t know whether he was referring to the meal, or its effect on his waistline. “I think now is the time we should retreat to my office, as it is never good manners to discuss business at the dinner table, wouldn’t you say?”

  Without waiting for an answer Evren’s father got up, swished the heavy curtain aside and disappeared down the stairs; Trey bit back the words “About time!” as he followed Evren and Neyla out of the room.

  Baba Duan sat in an old, leather-cushioned wooden swivel chair, his back to a large roll-top desk that was stuffed to the gills with paper – actual newspapers, as well as bills, notebooks, flimsy typewritten foolscap sheets, telegrams and the odd book. There were, Trey noticed, also two tin rubbish bins on the floor overflowing with yet more screwed-up pieces of discarded paper, and as he watched Baba Duan light an aromatic, oval-shaped cigarette he found himself hoping the place never caught fire.

  “So, Master T. Drummond MacIntyre Three...”

  Trey held up his hand. “Can I just ask you to explain something that’s been really bothering me, Mr., um, Hendek?”

  “It is my pleasure for you to be my guest in this matter, please to go ahead and ask!”

  “How d’you know my name?”

  “Explaining that is most precisely what I was about to do, Master T. Drummond MacIntyre Three...”

  “Call me Trey, everyone does...it’s, you know, easier,” Trey interrupted, then glanced at Neyla and Evren. “And I’d also like to know where my money is...”

  “So you shall, Trey, so you shall!” Baba Duan raised his eyebrows and smiled broadly, revealing a couple of gold teeth. “But first let me ask if you have been apologized to – this has happened, yes?” He looked from Evren to Neyla and then at Trey. “Yes?”

  Trey nodded as he glanced at Neyla, who was examining her fingernails rather closely.

  “It was not such a good thing that she did, the girl.” Baba Duan produced the most perfect smoke ring that Trey had ever seen, and then blew a second one right through the middle of it. “But here I have to say to you all just how extraordinary it is, this thing kismet! Tremendous! Because if Neyla had not done such a bad thing, you would not be sitting here tonight and I would not be in the position of most humbly being able to try and help you. Yes?”

  Trey nodded again.

  “Which would have been a bad thing, worse than the thing that Neyla originally did. No?”

  Confused, Trey did something between a shake and a nod.

  “Excellent, indeed splendid! Now we can say that is all sorted out...and, where was I?”

  “About to tell me how you know my name?” Trey offered.

  “Yes, yes, yes! But all in the best of time.” Baba Duan ground his cigarette out in a well-attended ashtray. “Your father, T. Drummond MacIntyre Two, who is he?”

  “Who is he?” Trey frowned. “He’s my father...what d’you mean ‘who is he?’? The thing I want to know is where is he?”

  “An excellent question, absolutely excellent!”

  “D’you know the answer?”

  “It says on his card...” Baba Duan ignored Trey’s question and reached into one of his capacious trouser pockets and pulled out a leather wallet, extracting a small piece of white pasteboard from it.

  “Hey!” Trey leaped up off his chair. “That’s my dad’s business card!”

  “And I think this is his, also,” Baba Duan handed the money clip over to Trey, “exactly as it was ‘found’, minus the business card that was with it. Which says that your father is –” Baba Duan patted his waistcoat until he found his half-glasses – “Senior Vice President of MacIntyre, MacIntyre and Moscowitz Engineering, of Chicago, Atlanta and New York City. And may I say, what a very marvellous job to have!”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Trey wasn’t at all sure he liked the tone of voice Evren’s father was now using.

  “It means, I suppose, that anyone can get a card printed saying whatever they like it to say...I myself find it necessary to use a number of different cards in the pursuit of my own business.”

  A phone started to ring in the room next door, its bell sounding much like a stone being lazily rattled round a tin can. Baba Duan looked at his pocket watch, wound it a bit and put it back in his waistcoat.

  “That should probably be the Daily Register’s New York City desk in London; Mr. Stevens approximately calls always at this hour, looking to find news to pass on across the ocean – Evren, see please what he might have to say.” As Evren went, moving like a greyhound out of its trap, Baba Duan returned his attention to Trey. “You must tell me – if you please – whether your father’s ‘Drummond MacIntyre’ name is a ruse or a ploy or some kind of – what can I say...stratagem? – or whether it is, in fact, real...and you must forgive my asking such wretched questions as these, but, here in Constantinople, very little is ever what it at first seems...”

  “Mr. Stevens say he would like a word, Baba.” Evren appeared in the doorway holding a candlestick telephone, its mouthpiece pressed to his chest; he gestured with the earpiece. “Will you?”

  “When Gotham calls –” the swivel chair creaked with relief as Baba Duan got up – “I answer.
”

  Taking the phone from his son, Baba Duan disappeared into the other room and left Trey feeling like a rug had just been pulled out from underneath him. How could this man possibly think that his father was pretending to be someone who he wasn’t? Him too, come to that! Did it mean, for some inexplicable reason, Baba Duan thought that his father was some kind of cheap, shyster con man? He looked up, aware that Neyla and Evren were observing him, waiting for some kind of reaction, aware also that they must be wondering if he was a liar or not.

  “I am who I say I am!” Trey could feel his ears reddening. “And I don’t care if you believe me or not...” He got up, willing himself to stand as tall and straight as he could. “Now I have my belongings back, give me directions to the hotel and I won’t be any more trouble to you, or your father.”

  “Please to sit down, Trey.”

  Trey hadn’t noticed Baba Duan had come back into the room.

  “What, so’s I can listen to you spout some more baloney about my father? I’ve had enough of an earful of that already.”

  “A thousand apologies, and more...” Baba Duan returned to his long-suffering chair, which complained quietly to itself as he lit another cigarette and leaned backwards. “In this city it pays handsomely never to take anything, or anyone, at the value of their face, Trey. It may seem a poor show, coming from a place where people are very much proud of being men of their word, but this is Constantinople! We always expect there to be a number of versions of every story – a Turkish one, naturally, an English one, a German, Russian or an Italian, or even an American one – any of which might turn out to be true!”

  “So are you saying that you now believe my father is who he says he is?” Baba Duan nodded. “Terrific – what changed your mind?”

  “The admirable Mr. Stevens, working, as he does, for the Daily Register’s London office, was able to confirm with alacrity that MacIntyre, MacIntyre and Moscowitz is indeed an entirely reputable company...”

  “I coulda told you my father would check out!” Trey grinned widely, an odd sense of relief making him feel almost light-headed – of course his father was who he said he was!

  “Well, I haven’t known you for a time that is long enough to trust you – and my family would never have enough to eat if I believed everything anyone of such a short acquaintance told me.” Dragon-like, Baba Duan blew smoke out of his nostrils. “And as you have so recently witnessed, my family, and friends, have gloriously healthy appetites.”

  “D’you trust me enough to tell me what the heck is going on? I mean, I can see how you found out my dad’s name, but what about mine?”

  “I know a lot more than that...including that your esteemed father has been of much interest to certain people, and that he is no longer to be found in his rooms at the Pera Palas.”

  Trey frowned, and he leaned forward. “Yeah, I know you know, but how do you know? And where is my father now, and what can I do?” Trey stood up, like his chair had burst into flame. “I...I should go to the police! That’s what I was trying to do when I met them,” he indicated Evren and Neyla. “The police’ll help me find him!”

  “Please take the seat once more.” Baba Duan waved calming hands at Trey. “In my most modest opinion it would be unwise in the most extreme to go to the police...”

  “Why?” Trey looked angrily puzzled, but did sit back down.

  “They generally truly know very little that is useful.”

  “The police?”

  Baba Duan nodded. “Unlike myself, the police do not like to pay for information, so do not get told very much. My business is the news business, young Master Trey, and I am pretty fairly good at it. In fact, sometimes I know what the story is going to be even before it happens!” Two phones began ringing at the same time in the other room and Evren was out of his chair before Baba Duan managed to even lift an eyebrow in his general direction. “I have people, they bring me scraps of information, from here and from there – a lot of people, including my son, and his friends.” He smiled at Neyla. “They supply me with the fresh ingredients, and I, the chef, cook the story and sell slices of it to my customers. Your father’s return to Constantinople – such a fuss with the luggage! – was one such particle, as was the fact that it was noticed that you were being followed. Add them together and you have, mmm –” Baba Duan licked his lips – “maybe a taste of something about to happen? Certainly a dish very worthy of keeping the eye on.”

  Evren appeared in the doorway, clasping two phones to himself with one hand and holding the earpieces in the other. “From London, Baba...Daily Telegraph and Daily Mirror. What to do?”

  “One moment, Trey, quite very possibly two...”

  That had been the last Trey had seen of Baba Duan, who he could still hear talking away, nineteen to the dozen in the other room, as he was led back upstairs by Evren. Disappointed. Irritated. Scuttled. Aggravated (and how!). He’d felt all those things, and he’d wanted to scream “Answer my questions first!”, but had known it wouldn’t have gotten him anywhere.

  And now here he was, lying in the makeshift bed that had been put together for him by Evren and his mother: a thin mattress, a soft cotton sheet folded over and a pillow, on the floor in the room where he’d eaten dinner. It sure as heck was not the Pera Palas, but he felt safe, as it seemed somehow very unlikely that anyone was going to bust in and try and take him off who knew where.

  As he lay on his back, waiting for sleep to pull the shades down over his eyes, his mind raced as he thought about his day; everything that had happened (so much of it!) was all jumbled up and kind of out of order – nearly being caught in the laundry chute...meeting Evren and the sticky-fingered Neyla...the blood on the floor of their suite...getting lost...the fortuitously soft landing in the basement. And then there was what Evren had told him as he’d taken him upstairs – about his father being bundled into a black sedan and driven away from the back of the hotel, according to one of Baba Duan’s informants who’d apparently witnessed the event. Plus there was also the comment about his father’s “return” to Constantinople.

  Trey sat up. He should go right back downstairs now and ask Baba Duan for some answers! He yawned and rubbed his gritty eyes. Then again, he was bushed. He could demand some action first thing tomorrow! Baba Duan had mentioned going to the American Consulate, which seemed like a neat idea, so he’d insist on going there straight away – maybe after finding out more about this nonsense concerning his father having been to the city before, as he was pretty darn positive this was the first time either of them had been to the place. But for now he was going to stop trying to figure out the unfigurable, as one of the private eyes had said in a story he’d read called The Toughest Nut.

  Instead, he thought about Baba Duan’s job. He’d told him he worked as what he called a “stringer”, a reporter who supplied stories to foreign newspapers. In Baba Duan’s case it was rather more complicated than that because he worked for a number of papers, all of whom he had somehow managed to convince he was doing so exclusively (“They pay nothing, these people...but they pay a bigger nothing if they think you work for no one else”). And it seemed like there were two papers in New York, two in London, one in Berlin, Germany, and one in Paris, France, all of whom were under the distinct impression they had their very own, individual correspondent in Constantinople.

  To maintain this illusion, Baba Duan had a number of phone lines (a “sensational” feat in itself, requiring very large amounts of bribery and palm-greasing to pull off, apparently) and then for each of his clients he operated with a different name. Hence his need for a selection of business cards. It brought to mind an act Trey had seen once on a visit to the circus, a man rushing about, desperately trying to keep plates spinning on the end of bamboo poles.

  As he drifted off Trey wondered how on earth you could keep a racket this complicated going without being driven completely screwy; although, he thought, you’d have to look pretty darned hard to find a more relaxed and happy person than
Baba Duan – but then his father wasn’t missing, quite possibly kidnapped, and he wasn’t lying on some strange kitchen floor trying to figure out what to do next...Trey sat bolt upright again. Check the hotel! He must check the hotel to see if his father had come back and this whole thing was a horrible misunderstanding! As he lay back down, it occurred to him that he’d be in trouble the like of which he’d never been in before if he’d got everything completely wrong. He couldn’t have...could he...?

  16 ...AND THE PLOT THICKENS

  Trey awoke with a start, light streaming in through the room’s unshuttered windows along with the eerie, almost other-worldly wail from a nearby mosque that heralded the beginning of a new day in Constantinople. He recalled, because his father had told him all about it on their first morning in the city, that this was a muezzin, “...the person who calls the faithful to prayers at the mosque, something which he will do, without fail, five times a day, every day; interestingly, in the past, son, he was often a blind man...”

  The hurly-burly of breakfast stopped him from doing anything about suggesting the hotel was checked. After it was over and cleared away, Baba Duan – looking exactly the same as the night before, right down to what looked like an identical tie, but now cleaned, pressed and tidy – stayed at the table reading a newspaper; Trey went and sat next to him as he took his first sips of coffee from a tiny, delicate bone-china cup which, in his hand, looked like it should be in his daughter’s tea set.

  “I meant to ask you last night...”

  Baba Duan looked over his half glasses. “Ask what about, young gentleman?”

  “Two things...you said that my father was coming back here to Constantinople, right?”

  “And what the question number one is?” Baba Duan put his paper down and sat back in his chair.

  “What did you mean? ’Cos we neither of us – cross my heart and hope to die – have ever been here before, Mr. Baba Duan, sir.”