Istanbul Read Online Free PDF

it out. Its weight and size was reassuring. ‘Bendix?’
    He flicked the torch on. Nothing. The mains power was cut. He swung the torch beam around the room; the kitchen table lay on its side and there was broken cups and plates on the floor. And here he was, standing in the dark, holding twenty thousand pounds sterling, a king’s ransom.
    He felt his heart hammering against his ribs.
    ‘Bendix?’
    He removed the safety from the revolver and moved across the kitchen. He swung the torch through an adjoining doorway into the living room; an upholstered sofa, two low bookcases under the window, a lamp standard. Bendix lived simply; or rather, he had, for the lamp now lay across his prone body.
    He knelt down and felt for a pulse. He was still warm. There was a pool of black blood congealed like jelly around Bendix’s head. He tracked pieces of scalp over the Bokhara rug.
    He heard a noise from the kitchen. In one movement he stood up, turned around and switched off the torch. Voices called to each other in German in the darkness, and he was blinded by two torches shining directly into his face. Instinctively, he threw himself to his right.
    The gunshots were so loud and so close it made his ears ring. He thought he was dead.
     
     

CHAPTER 9
     
    ‘You all right, Monsieur Nick?’ Ionescu said.
    ‘I’m all right.’ Nick got to his feet. He switched the torch back on, The two Germans lay face down on the rug next to Bendix, both shot once in the back. ‘You saved my life.’
    ‘Now too much better we leave.’
    ‘Yes.’ They should be back in Bucharest when the bodies were discovered by Moruzov’s secret police. “I hope you can drive as well as you can shoot.’
     
     
     
    They drove wildly through the night. Nick’s mind was in chaos. They had been betrayed. Someone had informed the Abwehr, their plan had died at the source, someone must have leaked it from inside the Legation.
    Someone he must know had nearly had him killed.
     
     
     
    He undressed in the dark and slipped into bed. Jennifer murmured in her sleep and rolled away. ‘You’re cold.’
    He had nearly died tonight and she would never know. He had been comfortable inside his secrets for so long. Tonight he just felt alone and afraid.
    An hour earlier Abrams had met him at the door of his apartment on Bratianu in his dressing gown and slippers. Even woken from sleep in the middle of the night he looked unruffled. His hair parting was still precise, undisturbed by his pillow. ‘Davis? What happened?’
    ‘Problem, sir. Have to talk to you.’
    ‘You’d better come in.’
    They had sat in armchairs in his living room, drunk tea; perfect English gentlemen, except one of them had blood on his shirt. Abrams listened to Nick’s account of what had happened in cool silence.
    ‘You’re very lucky to be alive,’ Abrams said when he had finished. ‘The two men Ionescu shot were probably Wehrmacht special forces.’
    ‘They knew I was coming.’
    ‘So it would appear.’
    ‘Who else knew about this?’
    ‘About Bendix? Clive Allen recruited him originally.’
    Allen was the Bucharest correspondent for the London Times . He had been working for SIS for six years and his job at the Times – which was absolutely legitimate – provided perfect cover for his activities.
    ‘Anyone else?’
    He shook his head. ‘Just you and I.’
    ‘So it was Clive. Why?’
    ‘You never ask why, Davis. No-one ever understands these things. There’s a hundred reasons.’ He looked up at the ormolu clock on the sideboard. ‘It’s late, you should go home and try to get some sleep. We’ll talk about this again in the morning.’
    And so now he lay in his own bed, exhausted but a long way from sleep, his mind churning over the night’s events. His eyes felt gritty and sore.
    If I had died tonight, he thought, would I be satisfied with how I have lived my life? Was any of it worth anything? Are there regrets?
    Yes, there are regrets. I would like, before I