Operation Flashpoint Read online

“I could say yes,” Erikson said finally, “but it might not mean anything. This man has one thing going for him that I can’t touch. As a UN member, he has diplomatic immunity. He has only to invoke it to any official, even as lowly as a police officer on the street, and we can’t lay a finger on him even though we’ve caught him in the act of hijacking the truck.”

  “Let me worry about the diplomatic immunity,” I suggested. “I want that seventy-five thousand back.”

  “I’ll go for it,” Erikson said.

  “Then put it in writing. I found out when I was with you in Cuba that you straight arrows take the shortsighted attitude that all recovered cash in an operation is government money.”

  Erikson sat down at his desk and began to write. “Minus the ten thousand Bayak just paid you for the envelope we gave you to return to him,” he said, looking up at me.

  “Man, you drive a hard bargain,” I complained. “Where the hell do you think you got that envelope in the first place?”

  It didn’t faze him a bit. I read over his shoulder as he resumed writing. “This—ah—promissory note isn’t worth a thing if we don’t short-circuit Bayak,” he said as he signed his name. “And not then either, if we can’t get into the safe.”

  “Don’t worry about getting into the safe.” I looked at McLaren. “If I ever ask you on the phone to bring a tool kit, I’ll mean the one you had here earlier tonight.”

  Erikson was rereading what he had written. “What are you going to do with this?”

  “Mail it. To Hazel.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “To Hazel?”

  “Correct. You might stand me off afterward, but you’ll pay hell trying to stand her off.”

  Erikson found an envelope in his desk and gave it to me. McLaren handed me a stamp. “You can drop it in the mail chute down the hall before we get going,” McLaren suggested.

  “I’ll find my own mailbox, thanks. You boys can pull entirely too many strings. And where is it that we’re going?”

  “To find you a nice comfortable jail.”

  We all left the office together after McLaren put in a busy half hour on the telephone, packaging a deal. It included a detention cell for me plus a phony yellow sheet with a background that added up to exactly what the Turk should be looking for in me: mobster, heist artist, and suspected killer.

  So I found myself listening to a sound I’d sworn thirteen years before never to listen to again, the clanging shut of a steel door behind me. I’d been in prison once in the interim, but more dead than alive after the automobile gas-tank explosion which necessitated rebuilding my face. And once I had the new face, I hadn’t lingered in the prison hospital. There were still a few people around who would never forget the manner of my going.

  I called Talia at her apartment before Erikson and McLaren put me into the cell. “Say, I’m at the Fifty-seventh-street precinct,” I began. “It’s just a harrassment; they got nothing on me, but I need bail money. Call your boss and get me out of here, will you?”

  I had wakened her from sleep but Talia seemed alert enough. “What’s the charge?”

  “Suspicion of being near the scene of a crime. The equivalent of spitting on the sidewalk.”

  “Why don’t you call your lawyer? Or make bond from the money you were paid tonight?”

  “I don’t spend money when I can use someone else’s, sweetheart. I’m testing to see if your boss was serious about that job offer.”

  “I see. I’ll call him.”

  “You do that.” I hung up the phone.

  “Very good,” Erikson said. “That should draw him into our orbit if he’s as tightly pressed for time as I think. I’ll stay outside here and play detective for Talia when she shows up. That way I can feed her a few gory details about your fictional past while I give her the old what’s-a-nice-girl-like-you-doing-springing-a-hood-like-this routine.”

  The march of progress had overlooked detention cells. They still contained an iron cot surrounded by steel bars and a cotton blanket. I took off my shoes and stretched out on the cot. It reminded me a little too strongly of my first such experience at the age of seventeen. I’d been picked up by a small-town cop. I had nothing to do with what they were questioning me about, but the cop had an ego to feed. He came into the cell to roust me, and I wound up slamming him on the nose with the heel of my removed shoe. They hospitalized me after he finished with me. It took me six months to get the bastard afterward. They couldn’t pin it on me, but my family got so much static from the police that I left town. I’d never been back. Sure, I was a hardheaded kid, used to doing things my way, not someone else’s, but it didn’t have to happen that way.

  Iron cot notwithstanding, I dozed off. The clinking of the turnkey’s brass ring on the metal of the cell door awakened me. “Someone to see you at the desk,” he informed me.

  Talia was waiting. The formalities had been complied with, and my money, watch, ring, and wallet were handed over to me. “We’ll be watching you, Drake,” the desk sergeant said in a sneering tone as Talia and I prepared to leave. I gave him the finger, and he started to rise from behind his desk, then sank back as if he’d thought better of it.

  “It’s not clever to antagonize the police,” Talia said disapprovingly as we went outside to a car parked at the curb. Abdel was at the wheel. Two slugs in his ugly carcass seemed to be all in the day’s work to him. It certainly hadn’t slowed him from his appointed rounds.

  “They antagonize me, don’t they?” I replied to Talia’s remark.

  “In my country you would be bastinadoed for such insolence,” she continued as the car pulled away from the curb. “You wouldn’t be able to walk for ten days whether you were guilty of the charge or not.”

  “Forget it. Where are we going?”

  “To Iskir’s.”

  There was no further conversation the rest of the way. Abdel parked the car in a garage under the apartment building and accompanied us to the elevator that carried us to the penthouse. Nothing seemed changed despite the lapse of time except that Iskir Bayak met us at the elevator doors floridly attired in a maroon silk dressing gown and gold-colored slippers with turned-up toes. “Come in, come in,” he said in his high, squeaky voice. His grossly obese bulk jiggled obscenely beneath the dressing gown as he led the way down the steps into the sunken living room. Despite this being the twentieth century, his obesity and his voice made me wonder if he hadn’t been eunuchized early in his career.

  “Drinks for our guest, Talia,” Bayak commanded as we seated ourselves. “What will you have, Mr. Drake?”

  “Bourbon on the rocks.”

  “A barbarian’s drink,” Bayak observed complacently. “No offense, of course.”

  I watched Talia serve the fat man a Scotch-and-water. She took nothing herself after handing me my drink. Bayak and I sipped in silence. He appeared to be waiting for something. Abdel had placed himself near the telephone, and when it rang I was sure I knew why.

  Abdel carried the phone to Bayak, its long white extension cord trailing across the floor. “Yes,” Bayak said, cutting his eyes toward me involuntarily so that I knew he was talking about me. He listened for a good two minutes. “No question about it?” he asked finally. “I see. You guarantee it? Then thank you, friend. The money will be left at the usual place.”

  He handed the phone back to the hovering Abdel while he considered me. “The call confirmed your—ah—unorthodox mode of living,” Bayak said. “And since the response was what I expected, I see no reason for further delay. I assume you wouldn’t have had Talia call me if you hadn’t decided to join me?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then we have no need for further words at this time. Go to Talia’s apartment with her now, and I’ll call you tomorrow—” He glanced at his watch “—or today, I should say, for a briefing session. In the meantime Talia will look after you.” His moon face was a caricature of a leering smile.

  I knew that Erikson would be waiting impatiently to hear something c
oncrete from me about the location of the truck hijacking, but it wasn’t my timetable.

  “Abdel will drive you,” the fat man continued, rising to his feet.

  “We haven’t talked money,” I countered.

  “There will be no need for haggling,” he promised. “It can be negotiated when you understand the scope of the operation.”

  He escorted us to the elevator. Talia looked tired, or possibly the effect of her last shot was wearing off. Abdel eyed me impassively as we descended to the underground garage. Bayak really kept the giant on a short leash. I wouldn’t have been riding so casually in the same elevator with a man who’d put two bullet holes in me so recently, no matter what my recuperative powers.

  Abdel chauffeured us to Talia’s apartment. He said something to the girl in the foreign tongue I assumed was Turkish as she and I left the car. She made no reply, but I thought her features looked drawn. She looked her age.

  She fixed me a drink as soon as we entered her apartment. Her hand was shaking slightly as she handed me the glass, and she disappeared into the bedroom. I still had half my drink when she emerged ten minutes later. She had on a chiffon robe which disclosed a great deal more than the fact that her eyes were now clear, her step firm, and her appearance once more youthful. I wondered where she kept the hypodermic.

  A master switch had turned on all the lights when we entered the apartment. Talia went around turning them out until only a single lamp glowed in one corner. Then she slipped out of the robe, removed the drink from my hand, and sat down in my lap.

  Beneath the robe she had on only a bed jacket which reached her rib cage. The sleeves of the jacket were opaque, while the rest of it was see-through. Tip-tilted dark nipples and downy black pubic hair winked at me in the instant before the girl fused her lips against mine.

  I’m not an imaginative man sexually, but Talia had enough imagination for a roomful. We graduated shortly from the armchair to her bedroom, but it was quite some time before we reached the bed itself. She had several hassocks arranged on the floor in cunning patterns, and the use she made of them presented surprising areas of perfumed bare flesh for various methods of penetration.

  We reached the bed finally, but I had to call a halt. I captured Talia’s busy hands, pushed her onto her back, and held her there with a palm on her rounded belly. Her black eyes stared up at me inscrutably. Despite our activity, her powdered flesh remained cool to the touch with no hint of perspiration.

  I felt drained. This girl could really suck the juices from a man. I didn’t flatter myself that it was my beauty or engaging personality that provoked her devoted attention. I was sure that her skilled exhibition was in fact a command performance.

  She wriggled from beneath my pinioning palm, sat up on the edge of the bed, and lit two long, dark cigarettes she took from the night-table drawer. The tobacco taste was bitter when she gave me one, but there was no scent of marijuana. “How is it that you call Bayak your boss when you work at the UN and he’s in the rug importing business?” I asked.

  She considered her answer before giving it. “I do little things for him,” she said finally. “My parents and Bayak came from the same small town in Turkey. My father was a politician who died with Menderes in 1961. Before my mother died, Bayak told her that he would keep an eye on me.”

  “It doesn’t bother you that the things you do for him might get you killed, like what happened in the tavern?”

  “That was the first time anything went wrong.”

  “Is Bayak any good in bed?” I asked with more curiosity than I usually have about such subjects.

  “He likes young boys,” she said matter-of-factly. “Very young.” She took a thoughtful drag on her cigarette. “Iskir seems preoccupied these days. There must be something important—”She didn’t finish it.

  “What’s in it for you, Talia?”

  She turned her head to look into my face, the blue-black sheen of her glossy hair shaped closely to her small head. “For me?”

  “These things you do for Bayak. Does he pay you?”

  “No.” Liquid-dark eyes stared at me absently as her left hand unconsciously massaged the inside of her right arm where I had seen the needle marks. “I do it because I must.”

  It was probably the most truthful thing she’d said to me since the moment I first saw her walk into the Fifty-seventh-Street tavern.

  9

  THE sound of the telephone woke me.

  I had fallen asleep in an awkward position and I had no feeling in my right arm. Talia picked up the bedside extension and gave several short answers in the foreign-language-mixture of harsh consonants and soft vowels I was beginning to recognize if not understand. Then she hung up the phone.

  She slipped from the bed and walked, nude, to her dressing table. She removed a pair of panty hose from a drawer and began working her legs, thighs, and hips into their semi-transparent snugness. I watched with drowsy regret as the brilliant-hued butterfly on her hip disappeared from view. When the material fit her like a second skin, Talia did a momentary hula as she plucked its tautness from her crotch, picked up a bra, hooked it together in front of her before rotating the clasped portion to the rear, and encased her full breasts in the cups.

  “Going someplace?” I asked lazily. The taste in my mouth made me wonder if I had any American cigarettes left in my clothes.

  She didn’t look in my direction. “Go back to sleep. It was a call from the UN to appear in native costume for some publicity photos. I won’t be gone long.”

  Still clad only in the bra and panty hose, she disappeared into a closet and reemerged with a piece of airplane luggage. She placed it on a chair and began packing it with brightly colored items of clothing. I yawned, stretched, and felt the tug of previously unused muscles.

  I realized that the rustling sound of clothing being packed had continued for some time. I raised my head, about to ask her a question, then changed my mind. Talia was at the dresser, and the angle of her head indicated to me that she was watching me in its mirror. “Got any food in the place?” I inquired.

  “There’s a delicatessen around the corner that will deliver,” she replied. “The phone number is in the telephone index.”

  “Okay.” I sat up on the edge of the bed and picked up the index. From the corner of my eye, I saw Talia swiftly remove something from the dresser and drop it into her opened handbag. It was the size and shape of a passport case, and a number of pieces began to fit together. There was no activity at the UN requiring Talia to appear in native costume. The Turk’s deadline must be getting close. He was moving the girl out of the operation.

  I pretended to look for the deli phone number while Talia went into the bathroom. She came out again in an electric-blue dress which managed to appear both Turkish and American by virtue of its fabric and design. Talia picked up her bag, then paused. “We will try something different when I return,” she said.,

  “You mean there’s something different left? It’s going to take me a month to get over the something different you’ve already shown me.”

  She was smiling. “A steady horse for a long race,” she said. “You qualify.”

  “You have yourself to thank. Hurry back.”

  “I will.” She left the bedroom, and I listened for the solid click of the apartment-door lock. Then I dashed to her closet. Some clothing remained in it, but not much. The underwear drawers in her dresser were empty. The only cosmetic items left were almost-empty tubes and jars.

  I didn’t bother with underwear or socks. I slid into shirt, pants, and jacket, shoved my.38 into the holster I had recovered from Talia’s bathroom, jammed my feet into my shoes, and started for the door. If I could follow Talia, it might be a shortcut to information we lacked. But I had to hurry.

  I stepped out into the corridor and started down the hall. There was a whirr of movement behind me and the back of my head seemed to explode. I caught one quick whiff of a musky, lemon-essenced cologne as I started falling face-forwar
d, and then I plunged into blackness.

  The first thing I felt when consciousness returned was a sharp, stabbing pain in my head. Fiery, throbbing lances pulsed through my skull with each heartbeat. When I opened my eyes cautiously and the walls stopped swirling, I was prone on Talia’s white carpet. Someone had dragged me inside from the corridor, and I knew who the someone was.

  Automatically I reached for the.38 in my shoulder holster. It was gone. This job was sure hell on guns. I swallowed hard to subdue incipient nausea, then fingered a Ping-Pong-ball lump under my ear. I pushed myself up to hands and knees, hung on until the dizziness subsided, and made it to my feet. Sweat drenched my face as I grabbed the back of a chair to retain my uncertain balance, but the unsteadiness dissipated.

  Feet wide apart, I shuffled to the apartment door. It was locked, and from the outside. My celluloid pick was no help. Second thought convinced me that if Abdel was still patrolling the corridor outside, I didn’t want to see him now. Not without my.38.

  But I had to let Erikson know about Talia’s being manipulated out of the action by the Turk. The elephant-clock told me that she already had a half hour’s head start. I headed for the telephone. I had dialed the first three numbers of Erikson’s office phone before my scrambled brain began to function properly. If Erikson could bug Talia’s phone, so could Iskir Bayak, and with his suspicious nature, he was a damn sight more likely to have bugged it. If I called Erikson from here and Bayak was able to listen to the conversation, the whole operation would be blown.

  I replaced the receiver.

  But I had to let Erikson know somehow.

  I had to get to a safe phone.

  I went to the balcony’s french double-doors and opened them. A reviving damp breeze flowed over me. It was raining again, and the street below glistened with reflected light from its rain-wet surface. There was another balcony above my head. I leaned over the guard rail and looked downward with the rain blowing in my face. A duplicate balcony extended outward from the apartment below.