Nick Carter - Istanbul

Three or four flashlights came on simultaneously. All were beamed from near the entrance of the alley or across the street from it. Two were from doorwavs there. The hard stalks of light slashed at the Opel. Nick had only time to see the great black gaping slash in Mousy's throat. See how the little man's head flopped. Another throat cut nearly to the backbone!

Nick wriggled rapidly backward as the tommy gun let go from a doorway across from the alley entrance. The front of the Opel exploded in a storm of metal and glass.

He reached the rear of the Opel and stood up, hugging the car. The machine gunner let go another burst from across the street. Slugs crawled over the battered car like leaden lice. Deadly biting lice. Nick held his fire, moulding himself to the car. using every inch of cover.

The machine gunner appeared to be doing all the work. The others were handling the lights. Nick leaned out and fired rapidly four times with the Luger, liking the vicious kick of the weapon in his hand. Two of the lights went out. A man yelled in pain. Someone cursed in the dark not far from the alley entrance. Nick fired at the sound. The man screamed.

The tommy gun raved again. He moved to the other side of the car and started firing at the lights again. They were nervous now, the lights, moving in erratic zigs and zags as they tried to spot him.

Wilhelmina went empty. Nick reached into his coat pocket for another clip. He heard the sound of leather in mud behind him and whirled. They had planted a man back there!

Steel glistened as the figure came out of the dark at him. Nick went to his knees, the stiletto already in his hand for the upward disemboweling thrust.

The single remaining light splashed on the running man. He flung up an arm, as though to ward off the light — and the bullets that trailed it. Nick heard someone scream a command, but it was too late. The man was blown backward in the hail of lead — running backward with his hands clutching his belly, he fell, still backward, splayed in the mud.

Sirens again. Much closer now. Nick slipped the new clip into the Luger and began firing at random at the alley mouth. The last light fell and rolled into the streaming gutter, still burning. Nick kept firing. They would be going now, without saying goodbye.

Silence. Then, somewhere down the street, came the nervous rasp of a starter. An engine roared. Tires screamed.

More silence. Nick reloaded the Luger a third time and stepped carefully out from behind the shredded Opel run, do not walk, to the nearest exit!

Too late! Two police cars, one from each direction, squealed to a halt at the entrance to the cul-de-sac. The scene was bathed in garish white light. Nick saw a body lying in a gutter, washed around by dirty foaming water. Good! At least one. And a body would keep the cops occupied for a time. As would the Opel and the other body behind him, the man who had been shot by mistake.

Now all he had to do was get out of this bag he was in. Sooner or later, probably sooner, the cops would stop gabbling among themselves and start searching. Nick darted to a wall of the alley and started working his way back. Farther and farther into the trap that might have an escape hatch — and might not.

The Turkish police acted with speed and efficiency and Nick Carter found himself cursing them for it. They had gotten a blazing high-powered spot light into operation and it opened up the black throat of the alley like a white lancet. N3's luck was in. He had stumbled and fallen over a pile of debris just as the light went on. Now he lay and cursed fervently, pressing his face into some particularly noisome garbage, while the long bright finger poked around him.

For once Nick found himself not damning his suit, which up to now he had considered the work of a demented Turk tailor. It was of a crappy brown color and, when smeared with garbage as it now was, it provided perfect camouflage. He lay unmoving, his face buried in filth, and the light passed over him without any hesitation. When it passed Nick cocked one eye and followed the white beam as it traversed on down the alley. What he saw did not bring any great joy to his heart. It was a dead end, all right. The alley ended in a short flight of shallow wide stairs leading up to houses — at least he counted three or four doors before the light went out.

Nick waited five minutes or so, listening to the shouts and commands as the police worked around the shot up Opel. They would get around to searching the alley, but he had a few minutes grace. What to do with it? He could think of only one way out — so that would have to be it. It would mean laying a fresh trail, perhaps starting the chase all over again, but there was no choice. He would have to go through one of those houses. Whether the residents liked it or not!

N3 carefully began to crawl on his hands and knees up that sewer of an alley, that reeking cloaca of old Istanbul. He plodded on — squish— squash — shaking his hand out of a nasty mess of something, thinking that at least he couldn't get any cruddier than he now was. No man could.

At last he reached the stairs. The very end of the dead end. He judged it safe to stand erect now. The cops were still clustered around the Ope! at the far end.

Nick reached the top of the stairs. Three doors were set into a blank facing brick wall. No windows. He moved lightly, testing and feeling. The first door — locked.

N3 thought of simply kicking it in and barging right on through and out into the street beyond, then thought not. Why raise a fuss until it was necessary? It would be a damned shame to end up in an Istanbul jail after all he'd been through!

Second door — locked.

Third door — it opened just as he was reaching for the knob. A female voice said: "Effendim! You come in, no? You come in, Effendim. Evet? I make nice for you."

"Evet," said Nick Carter, a trifle wearily. "Evet. I will come in. But you will not have to make it nice for me. I will make it nice for you — with many Turkish pounds if you will show me a way out of here."

Nick slipped through the door and closed it behind him. He leaned against it and glanced rapidly around. From long habit, this, for surely there could be no danger here.

Unless you counted his hostess — she might be dangerous in the proper, or improper, circumstances. She was short and fat and very brown. Her hair was thick and greasy. She had a large splayed nose and quite a few warts and moles. Her eyes were bright and shiny black, now fixed on him in happy anticipation. This, Nick thought with an inner shudder, surely must be one of the free-lances! No police department in its right mind would give her a license — not if they cared anything about the reputation of their city.

The woman smiled and Nick saw that she was toothless. She came toward him, holding out her hand. "Backsheesh! Lutjen oturunuz"

Nick handed her a sheaf of pound notes, without letting her see the wad in his pocket. He looked around for another door and saw none. There was a window covered with a heavy drape. He went to it, pulled back the drape and opened the window. A terrible smell came into the room.

Nick Carter, not for the first time that night, was truly disgusted. He swore softly to himself, then turned to the woman. She gave him a toothless smile and started to undress. Nick held up a hand. "Yok!"

She already had her blouse off. Nick regarded the pendulous dugs with something akin to illness. He pointed to the window and asked if it were the only way out.

The woman nodded brightly. She told him the sewer was down there — the big sewer that flowed into the Horn. She seemed puzzled — Why was Effendim so interested in sewers?