The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [222]
“Where to?”
“The boatyard at Istinye—or what’s left of it. There’s a Russian freighter. The Leonid Brezhnev. A big bastard. Anyway, that’s where she is. She never did reach the Kazahns so you can bet your ass that soon they will be looking for her too.”
“She is on board the vessel?”
The Turk nodded and said with a grin, “There are soldiers on the decks and guarding the gangways. It would take an armored attack to get her off that boat, Mr. Steel. My guess is the captain will wait for nightfall and slip away under cover of darkness. Head back to Russia—it’s an easy trip.” He glanced curiously at his employer. He was staring silently into space, his foot still swinging its nervous rhythm.
“Looks like they’ve got you beat,” the Turk offered, tossing back his third raki. But the German still stared silently ahead.
“I have found out something else that will interest you,” he added, “something important. More important than the price you paid me.”
Arnhaldt’s eyes were murderous as they met the Turk’s, and the man felt a prickle of danger up his scalp. The German’s hand slid inside his jacket as if reaching for a gun, but it was a fistful of Deutschmarks he took out and thrust across the table.
“That should be enough for any man’s greed,” Arnhaldt said coldly. “But I warn you, it had better be worth it.”
Pocketing the money, the Turk leaned closer and whispered, “The Kazahn connection you mentioned. I looked into it. There is only one daughter, Ahmet Kazahn’s girl, Leyla. The other cousins are all older and married and live in Turkey. But there was another girl that old Tariq Kazahn always used to call his daughter—a young American girl who lived most of the year in Los Angeles and spent every summer with them. Her name was Anna Adair.”
The name meant nothing and Arnhaldt stared at him impatiently.
“I called a contact in L. A. and had him do some research. He called me back an hour ago. Anna Adair is the step-granddaughter of the old-time movie tycoon C. Z. Abrams. Her mother was the actress Ava Adair. She works as a television reporter in Washington, D. C. He faxed a photo of her—and one of Ava Adair.”
He put the faxes on the tablecloth and Arnhaldt stared at them.
“She changed her name,” the Turk said. “Now she’s called—”
“Genie Reese.”
“Got it in one, as the Americans say.” The Turk grinned. “What next, Mr. Steel?”
Arnhaldt’s mind clicked everything into place as smoothly as the bolts of a safe into their electronic locks. His only hope lay in the Kazahns. They were a proud, loyal family, and once they knew she had been abducted and was in danger, they would act. “Keep watch on the freighter,” he told the Turk quickly, “and double the watch on the Kazahns. Contact me here immediately if there is any action. And I mean immediately—not an hour later.”
“Yes, sir!” He stood up. “You know it’ll cost you,” he said cockily.
Arnhaldt eyed him coldly. “And it will cost you—dearly—if you let me down.”
The Turk eyed him uneasily as he left. There was something unpredictable about the German, a brooding violence that he suspected could erupt at any moment.
Arnhaldt watched him go and then he went to his room and looked up the telephone number of Michael Kazahn. He wrote it down on a slip of paper, then walked fifty yards from the hotel to the café square in front of the Blue Mosque.
As usual it was crowded with touts selling carpets and leather jackets to the tourists and small dark-eyed urchins trying to make a quick profit selling postcards no one wanted. After ordering a glass of cai, Arnhaldt inspected the scene, searching the crowd until his glance fastened on a young boy, maybe eight years old, a string of postcards dangling from his hand and an anxious look on his face. Raising his hand, he called him over and bought the cards for the six hundred lire the boy asked, even though he knew he would have taken less.
“You like leather jacket?” the kid asked eagerly.