The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [231]
The American air force C21A, a six-seater twin-turbo fan jet, dropped from an attitude of 41, 000 feet through the clouds clustered over Turkey and landed at a small airfield north of Istanbul. It had been a long flight from Washington’s Andrews Air Base with only half an hour on the ground for refueling at Gander, Newfoundland, and again at Upper Heyford in England. The pilot turned and grinned at Cal. “Feel any better?”
“Sure. Now we’re on the ground.” He unbuckled his seat belt, sighing with relief as they taxied toward a concrete apron to the left of the runway. “I feel like I left my breakfast back in Washington just a couple of hours ago.”
“You’ll wish you did when you get a loada that Turkish food,” the pilot commented. “Tripe soup. Yuk. Watch out for the eyeballs.”
“I thought they only served that stuff in Arabia.” Cal laughed as he shook hands.
“Y’never know.” The pilot gave him the thumbs-up sign, grinning.
“Thanks for the ride,” Cal called as he turned away.
Men in greenish uniforms were running toward him waving guns and he decided he’d better stay where he was.
“Identification?” The officer in charge held out his hand while his sidekick covered Cal with a rifle.
He handed over his diplomatic passport and a copy of his special briefing from the White House, waiting quietly while the officer inspected them.
“Very good, Mr. Warrender,” the Turk said in perfect English. “We have a helicopter waiting to take you to Istanbul.”
He could see the C21A refueling for his return trip to Washington as he walked across to the helicopter. It was a small camouflage-green bubble with open sides and Cal groaned. The aerobatic rapid-transit flight in the air force jet had been more than enough for his vertigo. Somebody should have told them he hated heights.
The baby-faced pilot saluted and he groaned again, closing his eyes as the rotors began to whine: The Turks had kids flying these things, for God’s sake….
He didn’t open them again until fifteen minutes later when the pilot said, “Sir, we are coming in to land.” Istanbul lay below him, lighted by a full moon and strung with a million sparkling lights, and he heaved a sigh of relief; getting to grips with the KGB would be nothing compared with this trip.
A long black Mercedes limo was waiting on the tarmac and inside it were the American consul, the Turkish foreign minister, and Ahmet Kazahn.
“It’s not looking good, Cal,” Jim Herbert said after the introductions were completed. “The chief of police searched the freighter and found only half a dozen Russian troops. Of course that is a grave offense—foreign soldiers on a cargo ship in Turkish waters—but it didn’t further our cause any.”
Cal’s heart sank; he had been sure she was on the ship.
“But we know she was on there,” he said angrily.
The foreign minister nodded. “Pretty sure. The captain claims he knew nothing, just that they were to expect an important visitor—maybe an admiral—hence the troops.” He sighed. “I ask you, a Russian admiral visiting a rusting old freighter, what excuse will they think of next? But the police did find some pieces of rope in a small cabin in the hold. They had obviously been used to tie someone up and then cut off.”
“Then how did they get her off the ship?”
He shrugged. “We had a flotilla of powerful speedboats surrounding Istinye, so it could not have been by sea. The police were delayed by a bus that got stuck trying to turn a tight corner, blocking the only through road. They must have arrived just minutes too late.”
The telephone buzzed and he picked it up. “Guisen,” he said, nodding as he listened. “You are sure?” he asked in Turkish. “There was identification? I understand. Thank you.”
He turned to the others and said quietly, “The police have fished a man’s body from the water near Istinye. He was wearing