Having left Anna in the hotel, Hawn walked the short distance from the Pera Palace to the Intercontinental.
After waiting in a queue for ten minutes, he presented his passport at the bureau de change desk. It was received with instant reverence, even awe: a fussy little man in a black suit came out of the back and dealt with the transaction himself. It was not every day that an English tourist drew out a quarter of a million Turkish lire. By evening the news would be all round the Istanbul business community; Robak would know without having to leave his hotel suite.
Hawn returned again on foot, down the crowded street, without hurrying, pausing every few minutes to glance into some shop window. By a quarter to five he was back at the Pera Palace. Anna was asleep. There had been no calls, no messages.
He let her sleep, and ordered a whisky. He drank it slowly, almost neat. He had a bath, put on a clean shirt, but deliberately wore the same trousers and jacket as before. It was out of idleness, rather than caution, or even cowardice, that at six o’clock he rang down to reception, asked for another whisky and for the times of the next planes out to London or Paris. The last flight to London had already left, but there was one at eight to Paris, via Rome.
He was just asking the clerk to make a provisional booking for two seats, when the floor waiter arrived with his whisky. There was also an envelope, addressed to MISTER HAWN, in typed capitals. Inside, a sheet of plain buff paper, without heading or date. On it was typed: ‘1730 hours. Ferry Bogaz Iskelesi — Salacak Iskelesi.’
It took him a moment of studying the city map before he understood. He lifted the phone, cancelled his airline booking, woke Anna, and showed her the note, together with the map. Bogaz Iskelesi was the crossing point, at the end of the Galata Bridge, across the Bosporus to Usküdar.
‘There’s no bloody way of warning Salak that Robak’s on our tail. I’ve given them God knows how much opportunity to show themselves today, but I wasn’t able to spot anyone — unless it was that hippy at lunch, or the African across the road, but they somehow didn’t look as though they were on ABCO’s payroll. But I still don’t believe that at this stage Robak would be using team work. And Dietrich’s blown his cover for a start.’
Anna yawned, still sleepy. ‘I don’t see what you’re getting at.’
‘Just that it’s not far across the Bosporus and I don’t suppose the ferry is much more than a step-on step-off job. There’ll be no cover there for anyone following us.’
‘Perhaps that’s why he’s chosen it?’
‘Perhaps. If Salak knew about Robak. But how could he?’
‘He seems to know quite a lot about what goes on in Istanbul.’ She got up, wearing only her loose French knickers, and picked up her dress.
Hawn stared absently at the shape of her breasts as she leant down. ‘If his idea is to meet us on the ferry and Robak is still tailing us, we’re going to be in the shit. Salak could probably fix something for us — if only he knew.’
‘Isn’t there some way we can get a message to him?’ She stood buttoning up her dress without putting on a bra. ‘We could try going down to Kumkapi and finding that chemist shop.’
‘There’s not time. It takes nearly an hour to get there, and he’ll have certainly left. Anyway, what about Robak? If he’s still having us tailed, Salak’s hardly going to thank us for leading them straight to his doorstep. That’s no doubt why he’s not made the rendezvous at his shop.’
‘Which means you think he does know about Robak? Tom, you must make up your mind.’
‘I’m trying to.’ Hawn remembered the whisky which had come up with Salak’s note, and took a grateful gulp of it. ‘All I do know is that if we go through with this deal with Salak, we’ve got to play it by his rules. Otherwise, there’s a plane at eight to Paris. We could still make it, if we hurried.’
‘No. We talked this all over at lunch. We go on the ferry.’
A tepid rain was falling, and it was fast getting dark when the hotel car dropped them at the far end of the Galata Bridge, under the vaulted mass of the Yeni Camii Mosque. In the heavy stream of evening traffic, it was impossible to know whether they had been followed or not.
There was a small crowd at the landing stage — local people, nearly all men, grubby-jowled, in shabby Western clothes, carrying bundles of luggage. Hawn and Anna were the only foreigners to buy tickets. The ferry itself was less decrepit than Hawn had expected: it was painted almost white, with a covered promenade deck and sundecks fore and aft, lined with sodden deckchairs. There was also an upholstered saloon and a bar.
They left punctually at 7.30. The Bosporus was flat and calm under the asphalt sky. Hawn and Anna stood for a time on the promenade deck, watching the necklace of lights sliding away behind them; then the rain began to come down hard, splashing off the deckboards and seeping into their shoes. They went inside to the bar, where a row of men were lined up drinking thimbles of black coffee.
Hawn ordered two rakis and carried them over to a table by the wall. On a bench opposite, a big man in an astrakhan hat and knee-high boots lay sprawled out with his face covered with a
