"I'll get him out," Hawk said. "I'll set it up right away. But that's going to leave you pretty much on your own."
"It won't be the first time," Nick reminded him. "Anyway I like it that way. I've decided that about the only way I'll get anywhere is to barge into the china shop and start breaking up the merchandise. That's what I'm going to do tonight — at the Cinema Bleu! That's spelled B-L-E-U, sir, and means…"
Hawk coughed. "I was born a long time before you were, boy! They were making those kind of movies then, too. Just see that you keep your mind on business!"
"I will, sir, I will." Nick added: "I never liked those blue movies very much anyway, sir. Not enough action for me."
A little silence. Hawk cleared his throat. Then, to Nick's surprise, he came right back with malice in his voice. "There have been certain prophecies, my boy, around here, that when you are found dead it will be in a whorehouse! I think a blue movie will suffice, though it's stretching a point! Now if there's nothing else to say get on with your job — and try to- stay out of trouble. Good luck, son."
"Thanks, sir. I'll need it. Goodbye." Nick hung up. He had been tempted to make one last sarcastic remark, but decided against it. He had been brash enough for one day. Still — to send a man to kill four people and then advise him to stay out of trouble! Brother!
He left the clammy little niche where the radio consoles had been set up and went back along the passage to the central cavern. Nick paused at the entrance to the low-domed cavern and inspected the scene. He had finally decided what he must do about the girl — and it had both pleasant and unpleasant aspects.
It was quiet in the cavern. Quiet and damp and cold. Nick could hear water trickling as he lit one of the American cigarettes Mousy had so thoughtfully brought along from the station in Pera. Mousy was sleeping now in one of the niches ringing the cavern, sleeping from sheer exhaustion and a little too much fiery Turkish raki supplied by the old Albanian. Bici?
Yes, that was it. Bici! AXE, it appeared, had in some way inherited him from the British. Mousy swore by him. He seemed okay. An old man of incredibly dirty and gnarled strength, he had fierce drooping moustachios and smoked a stinking cutty pipe. He was also sleeping now and his snores were the only audible sounds in the place.
No sound came from the niche where the girl slept. Nick made a slight move in her direction, then halted. He glanced at his watch. Plenty of time before the job tonight. Meantime he had some thinking to do.
His briefing from Mousy that afternoon had been as comprehensive as the little man could make it. He had acquired substantial dossiers on three of the four they were after — there was not much on Johnny Ruthless who, in any case, had dropped out of sight.
Nick, who had been briefed in Washington on these men, nevertheless went through the local dossiers. There might be something Washington had overlooked, though it was unlikely.
Maurice Defarge, about sixty, jot, suffering from a heart condition. Of French origin, now a Turkish national. No record in France. Clean in Turkey except for certain rumors and suspicions, none of which could be proven. Head of Defarge Exporting Company, Ltd., with offices on top floor of the Divan Annex. Also lives on same floor in palatial suite which, along with offices, occupies entire floor. Unmarried. No obvious interest in women or men. Age may account for this. Exports tobacco and rugs. If connected with Syndicate is probably in administrative capacity. Many pictures available. All attempts to bug or tap have failed.
"That's one of the main difficulties," Mousy said. "These bastards must have a counter-intelligence setup that's a beauty. Professional! No matter what we try, how many electronic bugs we come up with, nothing works. They all go dead. Vanish. They know everything we know and how to guard against it. It's been driving us nuts! The only reason we ever tumbled to Defarge was that he visits the Cinema Bleu every now and then, and seems to be a friend of the woman who runs the place. Her name's Leslie Standish and the Turkish cops know she peddles dope. But she's small time and they're trying to use her. I talked them into letting us have a crack at her. We'll know more about that tonight, of course."
Mija Gialellis, sipping at a small glass of ouza, a resinous wine she said she preferred to the potent raki— "after all I am half Greek" — put in a word at this point. The girl had not spoken much at first, and when she did she used English. For practice, she explained.
Now she said: "I saw this man Defarge in the Cinema Bleu at one or two times when I go there. One time I see him come from office of Leslie Standish. I… I myself am just come out." She paused for a moment, her oval brown eyes meeting Nick's searching glance without turning away. "It was when I was — how you say it? Using the dope? I am sorry — my English is not good?"
"It's better than my Turkish," Nick told her. He had not yet decided what to do about Mija. It could wait.
He went on, "What do you think he was doing there? A man of his age? Probably not a user?"
The girl had sturdy expressive shoulders. She used them now. Her full red mouth crinkled in a rather weary smile. "I not concern myself to think. I… I have myself troubles, you understand? But — wait! There is one thing I remember I think — that he looks like a crooks in American movie. A fat crooks!"
Mousy, who had been at the raki bottle again, grinned at her. "We've got a lot of fat crooks in the States. Both in the movies and out! Come on, Mija. Think, girl!"
She ran a small hand through her cap of shining blue-black hair. "Ohh… dum it! I cannot now — wait, I remember now. Sidney Groundstreet! No?"
"Greenstreet," said Nick. He regarded her closely, thinking that if she were a plant she was playing the part well. He'd know about that soon enough now. He continued, "Don't you think he went there for the same reason most people do? For the show?"
Mija made a face. "Oh, that! The bad pictures. No, I do not think so. He was alone — and the Standish did not allow but couples. It is a — a policy." She waved her hands in a little gesture and Nick thought he saw a hint of amusement in her eyes. "It does not matter what couples, but must be couples!"
Mousy Morgan broke in again with a small leer. "Maybe the Standish dame was giving him a private show?"
Mija laughed shortly. "Not so. She is not like mans!"
Nick gave Mousy a look and the little man subsided. Nick had purposely allowed Mousy to get loaded because he knew how desperately the little guy needed a break, a chance to relax. Before the job tonight Nick was going to hold his head under one of the icy streams that trickled from the cavern's ceiling. Nick grinned at the thought. He had taken a bath and shaved in that water! Mousy would be sober tonight!
Now he said, rather harshly, "Let's get on with it!"
Carlos Gonzalez. Basque. About fifty. Former boxer in Europe and the States. Fine physique now going to fat. Many scars on face, mostly around eyes. Champion pelota player at one time in Spain. Married once, but no record of divorce and no sign of wife. Maybe suggestive, maybe not. Appears to have great physical strength. Hard to accumulate data on Gonzalez — background is hazy. Claims to be a geologist and may be, but suspect not. Has license from Turkish Government to prospect for oil, but this easily acquired. Does prospect with oil finding equipment, in Taurus and eastern Anatolia. Apparently spends much time in vicinity of Lake Van. No record of any kind obtainable on this man. Never in trouble with police so far as is known. Still a Spanish national but has Turkish resident permit. Two items possible importance — speaks Kurdish and is friendly with Kurds. If connected with Syndicate is probably in capacity of field organizer.