Nick Carter - Istanbul

He could not find a fresh scar. One possible spot remained.

"Raise your breasts," he told her.

The girl's long brown eyes flew open. "What?"

"Raise your breasts with your hands so I can see under to the ribcage. Come on, now, Mija! It's almost over."

She closed her eyes again. She took one solid breast in each hand and lifted it. No scars. Nick turned away. "Fine. You can get dressed now."

"You will turn the light away, please?. I can dress in the dark." Nick did so. He heard a rustle and slide of clothing. Then she stopped dressing. "You trust me now?"

"Not exactly," he said. "But it's a big point in your favor. Ready for the light?"

"Yes, please." There was a subtle change in her tone of voice. Softer? Certainly no longer the tones of anger or outrage. He clicked on the flash and faced her. "I'm sorry I had to do that, Mija. But you of all people should understand! You know what we're up against, what we must do. We've got to destroy those people — I couldn't take a chance that you were a plant for them!"

There was a look of curious tenderness in the eyes of Mija Gialellis as she looked at Nick. Moisture sparkled on her lashes. "I do know," she said softly. "And I thank you — Nick! For being with me so gentle. B… But you say you still do not trust me?"

If there was any softness about him she could not find it. Nick regarded her levelly for a moment, then said, "That will have to wait, Mija. Trust — and perhaps other things. Come on, now. I've got to get Mousy made up to something reasonably like a woman. At least in a dark alley. You can help."

But for a moment neither moved. Their eyes clung, his somber and hard, hers softened now even in the harsh light.

N3 knew then that there was going to be something between them. Inshallah! As Mousy would say.

"Come on," he commanded. "It's getting late."

Mija smiled at him. She knew.

They both knew.

Le Cinema Bleu made no bones about its existence on a mean street in the Egyptian Bazaar sector, near the Galata bridge. In fact the Cinema Bleu advertised — a squiggle of neon tubing on either side of a plain door of blue painted wood advised the public that within might be found food, drink, and entertainment. Said entertainment consisting of a poodle act, a snake dancer, and Rafe Burke's Jazz Combo straight from the United States. That was all that was promised.

Yet within Le Cinema, as the hour approached midnight, there was an air of expectancy. Patrons, all couples of various sorts and sexes, kept glancing at the Pernod clock over the bar and consulting their watches. One couple, however, seemed very much intent on their own affairs to the exclusion of everything else.

Mustafa Bey of the Istanbul police, plain clothes, could not quite figure this particular couple. He did not try very hard. This was all very old hat to him by now — he and Memet had been sitting around Le Cinema for three months now, with orders to protect the Standish woman — and Mustafa Bey was a little bored with it all. Still — that couple at the tiny table in the dark corner? It gave one to think that such freakish matters could occur, that such oddly matched couples should ever get together! One so small and skinny and — Mustafa Bey shuddered — ugly! The man was not bad, he supposed, if you liked big men in ill fitting suits. Mustafa Bey sipped at his Pernod, which he much preferred to raki, and considered the couple again. He grimaced. Allah only knew what they could see in each other, but then love was a crazy thing. It probably was love — they spent so much time whispering to each other. But then — and Mustafa Bey took another drink and sighed — in this place and all like it a great many strange things passed for love. He glanced at the clock over the bar. Five minutes to midnight. Then those who held cards would go upstairs to see the dirty pictures.

Mustafa Bey shrugged. He had seen the pictures. Not very good. Like everything else out of Syria. The film was coarse and grainy, the focus always bad, the photography amateurish. Even the actors and actresses — Mustafa Bey left his bar stool and went to check on the Standish woman. He went off at twelve. Let Memet worry about things from now on.

The couple at the tiny table in the dark corner watched him go. The man pulled at his collar again, trying to breathe. The horror of a saffron shirt, besides being dirty, was at least two sizes too small. He loosened his tie, sighed in relief, and spoke to the small woman beside him.

"This will be his last check on Standish, right?"

The woman wore a scarf over stiff looking brown hair, a pair of horn rimmed glasses that gave her the appearance — as Nick had said earlier — of a pregnant owl, and a rather expensive looking blue frock that would have gone well with the proper figure. Now she lit a cigarette with nicotine stained fingers which trembled slightly.

"Yeah. He goes off in a couple of minutes. Another guy, Memet, I think, comes on then. The first thing he'll do is make another quick check on Standish, then duck upstairs to see the show." She laughed in a squeaky voice that suddenly slid down into the upper male register.

"He's younger than the other one. Dirty movies still give him a charge! Of course that's a break for us. And I've got a crazy feeling, Nick, that we're going to need a break on this one!"

The man kicked under the table. The woman said, "Ouch, damn it!"

"Stay in character," the man said. "And keep that squeaky voice up! And down! I'll admit you're not much of a date, but you're all I've got." He glanced at his wrist. "One minute. Just what exactly happens then?"

"They click the lights off and on — three times. That means that the feelthy peectures will be starting in fifteen minutes. Those with cards go up those iron stairs over there in the corner. Upstairs there's a long room with regular chairs — and couches and sofas for those who want them. There's a screen and a projector. That's all."

The man lit a Turkish cigarette and coughed bitterly. "Damn these things! How do you get one of those cards?"

"From the boss lady herself, Leslie Standish. She has to pass on you. From what I hear she's not very strict — if you've got ten Turkish pounds."

"Ummm…" the man picked brown specks of tobacco from his tongue. "Does the Standish woman ever go up to watch the show?"

"Not usually. She stays in her office most of the time." The big man, whose muscles seemed about to tear his jacket apart even in repose, smoked for a moment in silence. Then, "One thing about this setup bothers me — they don't seem to worry about the back! Must be a good reason for that?"

"There is. Nothing back there but a little court for junk and garbage and a wall ten feet high with glass set in it."

"People can get over walls."

"If you went over this one," the woman said, "you'd go down into a hell of a mess! A slough runs in from the Horn — and a sewer empties into it! You can't even get a boat through the stuff."

"It still worries me," said the big man. "I wish we'd had more time to case this thing."

"Inshallah! I thought I was the worrier in this outfit!"

The big man frowned and tried to adjust himself again to the instrument of torture Le Cinema called a chair. He also tried to ease his constricted waist. It was a slim waist, slim and hard and muscular, but these pants defeated it. The 9mm Luger in the waistband did nothing to help.

The lights flicked off and on. Three times. Beyond a momentary stoppage in the flow and buzz of conversation no one appeared to pay much attention. Glasses tinkled and clouds of gray-blue smoke drifted through the murky, breathless, hot little cave as usual. An occasional spate of laughter pierced the endless, surf-like hum of talk. Then, as if some demon magician were at work, people began to vanish.