The Light of the Day - Eric Ambler [41]
“You may sit down and you may smoke,” the lieutenant said; “but please be careful if you smoke to put out your cigarettes in the fireplace.”
The janitor left, shutting the door behind him. The lieutenant sat down at the desk and began to use the telephone.
The paintings in the room were, with one exception, of the kind I had seen in the corridors, only bigger. On one wall was a Dutch fishing boat in a storm; facing it, alongside a most un-Turkish group of nymphs bathing in a woodland stream, was a Russian cavalry charge. The painting over the fireplace, however, was undoubtedly Turkish. It showed a bearded man in a frock coat and fez facing three other bearded men who were looking at him as if he had B.O. or had said something disgusting. Two of the group wore glittering uniforms.
When the lieutenant had finished telephoning, I asked him what the painting was about.
“That is the leaders of the nation demanding the abdication of Sultan Abdul Hamid the Second.”
“Isn’t that rather a strange picture to have in a Sultan’s palace?”
“Not in this palace. A greater man than any of the Sultans died here, greater even than Suleiman.” He gave me a hard, challenging look, daring me to deny it.
I agreed hastily. He went into a long rambling account of the iniquities of the Bayar-Menderes government and of the reasons why it had been necessary for the army to clean out that rats’ nest and form the Committee of National Union. Over the need to shoot down without mercy all who were trying to wreck the Committee’s work, especially those members of the Democratic party who had escaped justice at the army’s hands, he became so vehement that he was still haranguing me when Major Tufan walked into the room.
I felt almost sorry for the lieutenant. He snapped to attention, mumbling apologies like a litany. Tufan had been impressive enough in civilian clothes; in uniform and with a pistol on his belt he looked as if he were on his way to take charge of a firing squad—and looking forward keenly to the job. He listened to the lieutenant for about five seconds, then dismissed him with a flick of a hand.
As the door closed on the lieutenant, Tufan appeared to notice me. “Do you know that President Kemal Atatürk died in this palace?” he asked.
“I gathered so from the lieutenant.”
“It was in 1938. The Director was much with him before the end and the President talked freely. One thing he said the Director has always remembered. ‘If I can live another fifteen years, I can made Turkey a democracy. If I die sooner, it will take three generations.’ That young officer probably represents the type of difficulty he had in mind.” He put his briefcase on the desk and sat down. “Now, as to your difficulties. We have both had time to think. What do you propose?”
“Until I know what it’s going to be like at the villa, I don’t see how I can propose anything.”
“As you are their chauffeur, it will obviously be necessary for you to attend to the fueling of the car. There is a garage outside Sariyer that you could go to. It has a telephone.”
“I had thought of that, but it may not be reliable. It depends on how much the car is used. For example, if I only drive into Istanbul and back, I can’t pretend to need petrol immediately. That car takes over a hundred liters. If I were always going to the garage at a fixed time to fill up no matter what mileage I had driven, they would become suspicious.”
“We can dispense with the fixed time. I have arranged for a twenty-four-hour watch. And even if you foresee future difficulties, you should be able to make one single call to report on them. After that, if necessary, we will use a different method. It will entail more risk for you, but that cannot be avoided. You will have to write your reports. Then you will put the report inside an empty cigarette packet. The person following you at the time—I have arranged to have the car changed every day—will then pick the reports up.”
“You mean you expect me to throw them out of the window and hope they won’t notice?”
“Of