Nick Carter - Istanbul

Nick grabbed Memet's arm and pulled him along toward the office door. He kicked it open and pointed with a trembling finger. "Surada!"

Memet hissed in surprise. He pulled away from Nick' and took an instinctive step into the office, toward the body by the desk. The revolver in his hand dropped.

It was enough. Nick Carter gave the man a violent shove, sent him spinning crazily across the room. Nick slammed the door and turned the old-fashioned key, all in one faster than lightning motion. The key in the office door had been in his mind from the moment he saw the cop.

Nick ducked low, hugging the wall, and ran for the main corridor, knowing what to expect. It came! From the office came a bellow of rage and a nasty fusillade that ripped the door and sprayed murderously down the short hallway. A slug tapped at Nick's padded shoulder as he made the turn into the corridor.

That did it, he thought, as he straightened himself and his tie and brushed at the front of his suit. He had a little: blood on him, not much, and though he looked villainous enough it shouldn't matter in a place like Le Cinema Bleu. If only there were no polls in the immediate vicinity! Memet would be using the phone on Leslie Standish's desk by now — and Le Cinema would be ringed by radio cars within minutes. How many minutes was the question — would he and Mousy have time to get away in the Opel? If they were nabbed the mission would be properly screwed. Finif Kaput/ Fubar and snafu! They would spend the next month or so in a Turkish prison trying to explain matters.

Nick thought of all these things before he reached the curtains leading into the bar proper. Then he was nearly knocked down as the curtains swirled and the bartender and a group of curious patrons came surging through. They were all talking at once and nobody paid any attention to Nick. In fifteen seconds he was out in the driving cold rain, hot-footing it along a narrow cobbled lane that crooked away up hill toward the cul-de-sac where Mousy was waiting in the Opel.

Mousy would be wondering. Probably he had heard the shots. This area was quiet and deserted at night except for the comings and goings of such odd-balls as frequented Le Cinema Bleu and an occasional caz joint. The main red-light district — strictly supervised and licensed by the police — was several blocks to the west.

The cobbled hill grew steeper. Nick, usually as sure footed as any of Istanbul's million or so cats, slipped and slithered on the round stones made doubly slippery with rain and assorted garbage. This was old Istanbul where, if you wished to get rid of something you simply tossed it into the open gutters.

He passed beneath a solitary street lamp, a barren globe struggling ineffectually against the gray rain bullets. Just ahead lay the cul-de-sac. Still no sign of police, no banshee cry of sirens in the night. Something was holding up matters. Nick shrugged deeper into the now sodden coat. Good. It looked like they would make it after all. Back to the Hole and a couple of good shots of raki. Nick Carter felt himself warming at the thought. It would be good to see Mija again, too. To watch her graceful movements and wonder how soon it would happen with them.

N3 pushed the thought of the woman away. It did not belong here in this miserable dark wetness. Business before pleasure, always. And business was bad!

Actually, Nick thought as he left the faint halo of the street light and headed for the mouth of the cul-de-sac — actually it was back to the old drawing board! They had been balked at every turn so far. Any possible lead that Leslie Standish might have furnished had died with her. Not even KILLMASTER could make a corpse talk!

Nick was not allowing himself to think about the blonde, Marion Talbot, at the moment. Probably she had been in the ladies' room. Or maybe there was another exit that Mousy didn't know about. Certainly the girl, Defarge's secretary, had never come back into the bar. She hadn't been in the office. Or in the little court. Nick doubted she had gone up the rope ladder.

N3's firm lips hardened just a trifle. He knew who had gone up the rope ladder! They would meet again.

He went very cautiously as he approached the gaping dark mouth of the dead-end alley where they had parked the Opel. With Mousy's nerves the way they were — well, it would be a hell of a note to get it in the guts from a torn gun wielded by one of your own crew.

Nick came to a soft-footed halt at the corner of the alley. The darkness here was nearly total. Stygian. The only sounds the soft weep of the rain, the gurgle of water in the filthy gutters. Nick wondered if Mousy had fallen asleep. Probably not. The little guy was too nervous for that.

Nick put just the brim of his sodden fedora around the corner and called out: "Mousy? Mousy? It's N3! No trouble! N3, Mousy! Okay?"

Silence. The rain cried a little harder.

"Mousy!"

Nothing.

Nick Carter felt it start then. The superb warning system that was an integral part of him, that had saved his life so many times, began to function. In the back of his brain a little alarm bell began to sound. Danger!

Long ago Nick had learned his bitter lessons. There was a time to freeze and a time to move. This was a time to move. Let the splendid body and the trained mind take over. Act now, think later!

Nick had the Luger cold in his hand as he went around the corner and into the little cul-de-sac. He saw the dull glint of the Opel in the clotting tar shadows, heard the drum of rain on the metal roof, kept moving. Kept on moving — not to the car door, not to where something, or someone, sat hunched at the wheel, but on and beyond to the rear of the car. Now down — down flat in the filth and wet of the dirt alley and under the car and squirming back toward the front. Now stopping, listening, flat and making one with the ground near the door of the driver's seat.

Waiting. Listening. Striving to feel and sense what was out there. Who was out there. Around him.

Nick, his face in the mud, allowed himself a cold inward smile. They were there, all right! He knew it as surely as though they had greeted him with lights and shouts and a brass band. He knew who was out there, and why they were out there. What he didn't know was — how many and where hidden? Mousy and he had arrived in the dark and had parked the car and gone straight to Le Cinema Bleu. There had been no time, nor thought, to case the alley.

So now N3 lay in the mud beneath the car and wondered about doorways and arches and windows and fences and recesses — any one of which might be concealing his death. But there was a remedy for that — draw fire! Anyway he wanted to know about Mousy. He already knew, to be sure, but he must be positive. And it was as good a way as any to draw fire.

They were being remarkably patient. His swift reaction must have confused them a bit. Nick's lips twisted in something that was half snarl, half sneer. Had they really expected him to come sauntering up to the car and ask for a match?

At that moment a siren wailed, a lost soul calling in the rainy night. Nearby its mate answered. Both were converging rapidly on the vicinity of Le Cinema Bleu.

Took them long enough, Nick thought, but this should do it. They don't want the police anymore than I do, so if trouble's coming it will come now. And it was coming.

Nick rolled halfway out from under the Opel, reached up and twisted the knob on the driver's side, thrust clawing fingers until they felt cloth. He jerked hard, sliding back under the car as he did so. Something came tumbling out of the car to fall with a sullen splot into a puddle beside Nick. He reached, explored rapidly with his free hand — poor little Mousy had taken off that silly dress before they killed him!