Nick Carter - Istanbul

"Thank you," Nick told her. "You have saved my life. Anyway my liberty. You are truly a daughter of Fatima. Goodbye."

Nick began to climb out the window. It was probably a long drop down to the slough but it wouldn't hurt him. It would be — soft.

The daughter of Fatima gazed after this crazy Effendim in puzzlement.

The Effendim let go and fell twenty feet into what the French call merde. It sounds a little like murder — and it is!

From certain suites in the Hotel Hilton in Istanbul it is possible to look south through the gardens to Taxim Square. The view is fine and clear, especially if the trees in the gardens are not yet in full leaf — and if one has a pair of powerful glasses.

Mr. Grover Stout of Indianapolis, Indiana, had such a pair of glasses. German made binoculars, the best and most powerful in the world. Mr. Stout sat on his sun balcony now and used them to sweep the vista to the south. Mr. Stout evinced no interest in the Taxim Gardens or the pretty shop-girls and secretaries who were strolling there on their lunch hour. Mr. Stout was watching the Divan Annex, a brand new apartment house which stood very close indeed to the Divan Hotel which had been a landmark in Istanbul for many years.

He was thinking, a little petulantly, that they might have built the damned Annex a little lower than the hotel itself, instead of a good ten feet higher! It was going to present problems. He had already ascertained that it was going to be next to impossible to get into the offices of the Defarge Exporting Co., Ltd., in the normal manner. Without being noticed too much, which he certainly did not want. He did not want to be noticed at all! But Defarge, Ltd., was security minded. A little too much so, perhaps. The firm employed the services of a private detective agency which furnished armed guards. Passes were required for all personnel. The excuse was that a great deal of money was kept on the premises at all times.

Perhaps, thought Mr. Stout now as he scanned the upper façade of the Divan Annex. And perhaps there were other reasons.

Mr. Stout noted, with an odd expression of pleasure on his round ruddy features, that the security guard had been doubled today at Defarge, Ltd. His powerful glasses looked right into the main corridor on the top floor and he could see that there were two uniformed guards on duty today. Normally, or so he had been informed, there was only one. Mr. Stout smiled placidly, very much in his role. Had the cat been after the goldfish, perhaps?

Mr. Stout smiled again, benignly, as befitted a man of his age, background and amplitude. He had news for Defarge, Ltd.! The water was going to get a lot muddier! Mr. Stout switched his gaze from the Annex to the Divan Hotel next door. The two buildings, old and new, were separated by a gap of only about fifteen feet. Not insurmountable, thought Mr. Stout with a sigh. He had, in his younger days, been known to leap almost that far. It would be a lead pipe cinch — downward going! But that bastard of an architect, whoever he was Allah curse him, had built the Annex half a floor higher! It was going to present problems.

Mr. Stout sighed again and lit a cigar, a round fat oily Corona that cost a dollar and a half at the stand in the lobby. He hated round fat cigars — but Mr. Grover Stout of Indianapolis smoked them. He lit up, made a face, and put the glasses to his slightly myopic eyes. A few drops now and then did that trick — and the heavy glasses he wore completed the illusion.

They were building something atop the old Divan Hotel. A penthouse, maybe? They wouldn't have much room for it. There was already a children's play ground and pool on the roof. Mr. Stout smoked and watched the busy scene — workmen hammering and sawing and carrying planks about, while anxious mothers and nannies kept the kids out of the way, continually chasing them back to the pool and the swings and the trampoline.

One kid got a resounding smack on the fanny from his nurse. Mr. Stout grinned. Kids like to live dangerously, he thought. But then who doesn't! At that moment there was something very un-Stoutesque about Mr. Stout! A casual observer might have remembered Byron's famous mot: In every fat man there is a lean man striving to get out!

Somewhere in the suite a door opened and closed. Mr. Stout listened to the spate of Turkish within, heard her giving directions for the disposal of packages. Then there was the business of handing out backsheesh. Mr. Stout waited patiently until he heard the other door close.

Then he called, "Mija, baby?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Bring your poor old fat Daddy a drink, uh? A scotch and water?"

"Coming right over, Daddykins. One moment."

Mr. Stout appeared to wince for a moment, then his pudgy features regained their placid look. It occurred to him that he was not the only person in Istanbul who possessed a pair of field glasses; he did not think they were being watched, not yet anyway, but Mr. Stout had not made a fortune in real estate by being careless.

The fact that Mr. Stout had never really made a fortune in real estate, and was not even really Mr. Stout, did not signify at the moment. When Nick Carter played a part he played it to the hilt. The trick was to live the part, to convince yourself that you were the character you were portraying. This technique had both its advantages and its disadvantages.

Some of the latter became apparent now as Mija Gialellis came onto the balcony with a tall tinkling glass in her hand. This was a new Mija, a tall and toothsome dish of Turkish delight wearing a pale green knit that loved every beautiful curve of the athletic body. High heels arched the line of her magnificent legs. A less than nothing bra supported the splendid bosom. The dark hair glistened in the sun like burnished obsidian, the soft red mouth was skillfully brushed to enhance its sensuality, the long oval brown eyes were smoky with tender invitation.

Mija handed him the drink and perched on the arm of the chair. She leaned to kiss his bald spot and said, "Ug… that wig does not taste fine, I think. How long we do this foolishness, Nick?" She kept her voice low; nearly a whisper.

"As long as necessary," he said. "And I told you — stay in character! Even now. Even when we're alone. Because we don't really know that we are alone."

"Yes. I am sorry. I forget. But you have look everywhere for the bugs and not find any, so I think…"

"Never mind what you think, Mija. Just do as you're told." Mr. Stout's voice was hard. "This isn't just a silly game, you know! Anytime you think it is just remember Mousy!"

A shadow crossed her lovely face. "Poor little Mousy. I am so sorry — he keep me away from them and save my life and now he…"

Mr. Stout patted her knee. "Forget Mousy. He's dead. I want to keep you alive. It's not going to be easy as it is — so don't make it any tougher."

N3 had already, to a certain extent and in a certain manner, forgotten Charles "Mousy" Morgan. When a soldier is killed by your side in battle you do not linger to mourn the corpse!

Mr. Stout allowed his lecherous nature to take over. He fingered the girl's shiny nylon leg above the knee. The flesh beneath the stocking was wonderfully soft-firm. Mija's skirt was very short, in the current mode, and Mr. Stout's hand had free play. Mija leaned against him, her firm breasts pressed against his cheek. Suddenly she shivered and clamped her knees together on his hand. "You are a nasty old man! You get me excite and then you can do nothings!"

Mr. Stout grinned. "I might surprise you, baby doll! For all you know I might have a harem back in Indianapolis."

Mija giggled. She disengaged herself from his hand and stood up, smoothing down her skirt. "You will not need a harem, old fat one! I am all the harem you will need — if ever we have a chance!"