The Lincoln was there and looking very clean.
“I had it washed,” he said. “It had too many finger marks on it. It’ll be dusty again by the time you get to Istanbul. You had better look at the doors.”
I had warned him to be careful about the interior door panels. They were leather and had been quite clean when I had taken the car over in Athens. If some clumsy lout of an army fitter had made scratches or marks when replacing them, Harper would be bound to notice.
I could see nothing wrong, however. If I had not been told, I would not have known that the panels had ever been taken off.
“It’s all inside there, just as it was before?” I asked.
“The customs inspector says so. All the objects were taped out of the way of the window glasses against the metal. Photographs were taken before they were removed.”
He had a set of prints in his pocket and he showed them to me. They didn’t convey much. They looked like pictures of hibernating bats.
“Have you any idea where the stuff was bought?” I asked.
“A good question. The pistols and ammunition are German, of course. The grenades, all kinds, are French. That doesn’t help us much. We do know that the packing was done in Greece.”
“How?”
“It was padded with newspapers to stop any rattling. There are bits of Athens papers dated a week ago.” He took a sealed envelope from the front seat of the car and opened it up. “These are the things that were taken from you at the frontier post,” he said. “You had better put them back in your pockets now and I will keep the envelope. I have had a special tourist visa stamped in the passport validating it as a travel document within Turkey for one month. That is in case the hotel clerk should notice the expiry date, or if you are stopped by the traffic police for any reason. If Harper or any one else should happen to see it, you will simply say that the security control made no difficulties when you promised to get the passport renewed in Istanbul. The carnet is in order, of course, and there are your other personal papers.” He handed them to me, then tore the envelope in four and put the pieces in his pocket.
“Now,” he went on, “as to your orders. You know the information we want. First, the names and addresses of all contacts, their descriptions, what they say and do. Secondly, you will attempt, by keeping your ears and eyes open, to discover where and how these arms are to be used. In that connection you will take particular note of any place names mentioned, no matter in what context. Buildings or particular areas, too. Do you understand that?”
“I understand. How do I report?”
“I am coming to that. First, from the moment you leave here you will be under surveillance. The persons allocated to this duty will be changed frequently, but if you should happen to recognize any of them you will pretend not to. Only in an emergency, or in a case of extreme urgency, will you approach them. In that event they will help you if you say my name. You will report normally by telephone, but not from a telephone that goes through a private switchboard. Certainly not from the telephone in a hotel room. Use cafe telephones. Unless, for physical or security reasons, it is impossible, you will report at ten every night, or at eight the following morning if you have missed the ten o’clock call.” He took a box of matches from his pocket. “The number is written here underneath the matches. As soon as you are certain that you will not forget it, throw the box away. If you want to communicate other than at the daily report times, a duty officer will pass your call or give you another number at which I can be reached. Is that all clear?”
“Yes.” I took the matches and looked at the number.
“Just one more thing,” he said. “The Director is not an amiable or kindly man. You will keep faith with us because it would not be in your interests to do otherwise. He knows that, of course. But, for him, stupidity or clumsiness in carrying out orders are just as unacceptable as bad faith and have the same consequences. I would strongly advise you to be successful. That is all, I think, unless you have any questions.”
“No. No questions.”
With a nod, he turned away and walked up the ramp to the street. I put my bag in the back of the car again. Ten minutes later I was clear of Edirne and on the Istanbul road.
After a few miles I identified the surveillance car as a sand-colored Peugeot two or three hundred yards behind me. It kept that distance, more or less, even when trucks or other cars got between us, or going through towns. It never closed up enough for me to see the driver clearly. When I stopped at Corlu for lunch he did not overtake me. I did not see the Peugeot while I was there.
The restaurant was a cafe with a few shaky tables under a small vine-covered terrace outside. I had a glass or two of raki and some stuffed peppers. My stomach began to feel a bit better. I sat there for over an hour. I would have liked to stay longer. There were moments like that at school, too; when one bad time has ended and the next has not yet begun. There can be days of it also, the days when one is on remand awaiting trial-not innocent, not guilty, not responsible, out of the game. I often wish that I could have an operation-not a painful or serious one, of course-just so as to be convalescent for a while after it.
The Peugeot picked me up again three minutes after I left Corlu. I stopped again only once, for petrol. I reached Istanbul soon after four.
I put the Lincoln in a garage just off Taxim Square and walked to the hotel carrying my bag.
The Park Hotel is built against the side of a hill overlooking the Bosphorus. It is the only hotel that I know of which has the foyer at the top, so that the lift takes you down to your room instead of up. My room was quite a long way down and on a corner overlooking a street with a cafe in it. The cafe had a gramophone and an inexhaustible supply of Turkish caz records. Almost level with the window and about fifty yards away was the top of a minaret belonging to a mosque lower down the hill. It had loudspeakers in it to amplify the voice of the muezzin, and his call to prayer was deafening. When Harper had made the reservation, he had obviously asked for the cheapest room in the hotel.
I changed into a clean shirt and sat down to wait.
At six o’clock the telephone rang.
“Monsieur Simpson?” It was a man’s voice with a condescending lilt to it and an unidentifiable accent. He wasn’t an Englishman or an American.
“This is Simpson,” I answered.
“Miss Lipp’s car is all right? You have had no accidents or trouble on the journey from Athens?”
“No. The car is fine.”
“Good. Miss Lipp has a pressing engagement. This is what you are to do. You know the Hilton Hotel?”
“Yes.”
“Drive the car to the Hilton at once and put it in the car park opposite the entrance to the hotel and behind the Kervansaray night club. Leave the carnet and insurance papers in the glove compartment and the ignition key beside the driver’s seat on the floor. Is it understood?”
“It is understood, yes. But who is that speaking?”
“A friend of Miss Lipp. The car should be there in ten minutes.” He rang off abruptly as if my question had been impertinent.
I sat there wondering what I ought to do. I was certainly not going to do as he had told me. The only hope I had of my making any sort of contact with the people Tufan was interested in was through the car. If I just let it go like that I would be helpless. Even without Tufan’s orders to carry out I would have refused. Harper had said that I would be paid and get my letter back when the job was done. He, or someone in his behalf, would have to fulfill those conditions before I surrendered control of the car. He must have known that, too. After what had happened in Athens he could scarcely have expected me to trust to his good nature. And what had happened to all that talk of driving for Miss Lipp while she was in Turkey?