Istanbul by Nick Carter

cars within minutes. How many minutes was the question — would he and Mousy have time to get away in the Opel? If they were nabbed the mission would be properly screwed.
Finif Kaput/
Fubar and snafu! They would spend the next month or so in a Turkish prison trying to explain matters.
    Nick thought of all these things before he reached the curtains leading into the bar proper. Then he was nearly knocked down as the curtains swirled and the bartender and a group of curious patrons came surging through. They were all talking at once and nobody paid any attention to Nick. In fifteen seconds he was out in the driving cold rain, hot-footing it along a narrow cobbled lane that crooked away up hill toward the
cul-de-sac
where Mousy was waiting in the Opel.
    Mousy would be wondering. Probably he had heard the shots. This area was quiet and deserted at night except for the comings and goings of such odd-balls as frequented
Le Cinema Bleu
and an occasional
caz
joint. The main red-light district — strictly supervised and licensed by the police — was several blocks to the west.
    The cobbled hill grew steeper. Nick, usually as sure footed as any of Istanbul's million or so cats, slipped and slithered on the round stones made doubly slippery with rain and assorted garbage. This was old Istanbul where, if you wished to get rid of something you simply tossed it into the open gutters.
    He passed beneath a solitary street lamp, a barren globe struggling ineffectually against the gray rain bullets. Just ahead lay the
cul-de-sac.
Still no sign of police, no banshee cry of sirens in the night. Something was holding up matters. Nick shrugged deeper into the now sodden coat. Good. It looked like they would make it after all. Back to the Hole and a couple of good shots of
raki.
Nick Carter felt himself warming at the thought. It would be good to see Mija again, too. To watch her graceful movements and wonder how soon it would happen with them.
    N3 pushed the thought of the woman away. It did not belong here in this miserable dark wetness. Business before pleasure, always. And business was bad!
    Actually, Nick thought as he left the faint halo of the street light and headed for the mouth of the
cul-de-sac
— actually it was back to the old drawing board! They had been balked at every turn so far. Any possible lead that Leslie Standish might have furnished had died with her. Not even KILLMASTER could make a corpse talk!
    Nick was not allowing himself to think about the blonde, Marion Talbot, at the moment. Probably she had been in the ladies' room. Or maybe there
was
another exit that Mousy didn't know about. Certainly the girl, Defarge's secretary, had never come back into the bar. She hadn't been in the office. Or in the little court. Nick doubted she had gone up the rope ladder.
    N3's firm lips hardened just a trifle. He knew who had gone up the rope ladder! They would meet again.
    He went very cautiously as he approached the gaping dark mouth of the dead-end alley where they had parked the Opel. With Mousy's nerves the way they were — well, it would be a hell of a note to get it in the guts from a torn gun wielded by one of your own crew.
    Nick came to a soft-footed halt at the corner of the alley. The darkness here was nearly total. Stygian. The only sounds the soft weep of the rain, the gurgle of water in the filthy gutters. Nick wondered if Mousy had fallen asleep. Probably not. The little guy was too nervous for that.
    Nick put just the brim of his sodden fedora around the corner and called out: "Mousy? Mousy? It's N3! No trouble! N3, Mousy! Okay?"
    Silence. The rain cried a little harder.
    "Mousy!"
    Nothing.
    Nick Carter felt it start then. The superb warning system that was an integral part of him, that had saved his life so many times, began to function. In the back of his brain a little alarm bell began to sound. Danger!
    Long ago Nick had learned his bitter lessons. There was a time to freeze and a time to move. This was a time to