“I was just trying to help,” I said lamely. But I was laughing inside. I knew he would use the fatal name we gave him. He was so dumb, we’d even bugged his ship behind his back.
“Well, here’s to a successful mission,” I said, standing up and shaking him by the hand. “I am sure you will be a great agent. Just what we want.”
As I went out, I looked again at the warplanes: the huge maws of their single cannon could blast away half a planet: the tug wouldn’t even be a swallow for them. With a shudder, I hurried off to the hangar quarters for ship crews to find Stabb. I would spread a new rumor that Heller had secret orders to kill them all, including the assassin pilots. Maybe, then, they’d slaughter Heller before we left and I’d never again have to ride in that (bleeped) tug! I don’t like warplanes and I’d detest being shot down by one.
Chapter 5
I was in no fit mood for what I received next.
With a new pitcher of iced sira, I was just lying back in the temple’s shadow once more when, pell-mell, here came Karagoz.
“You got a caller,” he said. “The taxi driver says he’s got to see you right away.”
I uncoiled like a striking snake. “(Bleep) him!” Here was something I could vent my venom on! “Show him into the atrium!” There was a fountain there. Maybe I could hold his head under water until he drowned!
The atrium, the courtyard which the main Roman house was built around, usually was quite bare and forbidding, a suitable place for an execution. But today, it was changed. Karagoz and the gardener had brought in some tall, vased plants; expensive new rugs draped the tiles; comfortable seats were ranged around the fountain and the play of the water made the place musical and cool. (Bleep). Wrong setting!
The taxi driver was standing there spinning his cap airily around a forefinger. He was smiling and cheerful. (Bleep)! Wrong mood!
Well, I’d soon cut him down to size! “What the Hells do you mean sending a perfectly clean girl back to Istanbul?”
He didn’t seem to remember. Then he said, “Oh, that girl! Oh, you were lucky, Sultan Bey. The doctor found she had (bleep) and (bleep) both. A walking epidemic! A total hellcat in the bargain. You said to take her for a ride, so I got her rid back to Istanbul!”
I knew he was lying. I was just sucking in my breath to really blast him and demand a return of some lira, when this crazy nut had the nerve to sit down! In my presence! Right on a padded lounge! It took my breath away. Such gall!
But there was a sly, conspiratorial air about him. He looked at the doorway and satisfied himself that we were alone. “Officer Gris,” he whispered, “I’ve really run into something!”
I hoped he was going to tell me he had smashed up his car completely. But he looked too cheerful. There is something about people about to whisper secrets that makes one listen.
“When that girl blew up on you,” he whispered, “I knew you would be upset. I certainly didn’t want to tangle with you.”
That was better. Proper respect after all! I sat down and leaned closer to hear better. “A couple weeks ago,” he continued in a low voice, “I heard of a certain fellow to the east of here, over at Bolvadin to be exact. So I ran over there in my off-time — I won’t charge you for the trip because we’re friends.”
This was better.
“What would you say to a real dancing girl? Not some Istanbul whore that can just twitch her belly, but a real one!”
I leaned closer.
“Listen, Officer Gris. This is really wonderful. The Russians in Turkmen, over on the other side of the Caspian Sea, have been grabbing the nomads and forcing them onto collective farms. They’re mopping up the whole Kara Kum Desert!
“Them as don’t settle get shot. It’s pretty grisly. But listen, there’s a plus side to it for us.” He drew very close. “Rather than live like that, guess what? The women,”
and he looked around carefully and lowered his voice, “are selling themselves off!”
Oh, did he have my attention now!
“These girls,” he continued, “are real Turks. The Turks, you know, inhabited an area from the Caspian to Siberia at one time. They all speak the same language. They hardly even have local accents. And, Officer Gris, they’ve maintained all their original social customs and these girls are nomad desert girls and they are the absolute cream of all Turkish dancers! And they’re also experts at… well… you know.”
He came even closer. “They’re virgins because the tribal customs won’t have it otherwise. So there’s no danger of you know what.”
I was right on the edge of my seat.
“Now, what they have to do is smuggle them out from behind the Iron Curtain. They have to push them from the Kara Kum Desert to the Caspian Sea port of Cheleken. Then they are carried down to the Iranian port of Pahlevi. They cross Iran and at the border town of Rezaiyeh, they are smuggled into Turkey. They are taken to Bolvadin and she can be brought here.”
He sat back. I didn’t. “I am sure you can furnish identity papers. As she would be a real Turk, speaking Turkish, that’s easy. Well, what do you say?”
My head was spinning! What an opportunity! And right in my line! When you’re an expert in tradecraft, you can appreciate these things.
“What would she look like?” I slavered.
He looked around again. We were still alone but he lowered his voice. “He had already sold most of them. Actually, he only had just one left. And I don’t think she’ll be wanting takers very long.” He was secretively fishing in his pocket. “Her name is Utanc.” And he handed me a photograph.
Oh, Heavens, my heart almost turned over!
The face! The beautiful face!
She looked very young, possibly eighteen. She had enormous eyes, vivid even though they were downcast. She had a perfect heart-shaped face. Her lips were very full and a finger posed against the lower one obscured them not at all. She seemed to be withdrawing slightly.
Of course! Utanc! Turks name their women after qualities. And utanc means “shame, modesty, bashfulness.”
So sweet! So beautiful! So utterly frail! So undefended!
An emotion very foreign to me welled up. An absolute passion to protect her welled up in me. I felt I should at once charge over the border, slay the whole Russian Army, cast myself at her feet and beg for just one smile.
I sighed and somehow tore my eyes away. I turned the photograph over. On the back, in pencil, was written: $5,000 U.S. Cash.
“You’d own her completely,” whispered the driver. “She would be your slave forever. And saving her from the raping Russian troops would earn her gratitude to such a degree, she would never be able to thank you enough!”
Well, what could I do?
I reached into my pocket and I hauled out five thousand U.S. dollars and literally pushed them at him.
“There’s the transport costs and commissions,” said the driver. “They come to another five thousand.”
I reached into my pocket and hauled out the other five thousand.
He got up. “I’m so glad to be able to do you a favor, Sultan Bey. We’ll forget about my gas and travel time.”
He tried to refuse the wad of lira I thrust at him. Finally he shrugged and took it.
“It will take them a week or so to smuggle her through,” he said. “Now I’ve got to rush back to Bolvadin to get this payment in before she is sold to someone else.” And he hurried off and I heard his tires screech as the “taxi” departed. I certainly hoped he was in time.