I will not die!
Nick rolled out of the bed. The floor came up and slapped at him. It was like landing on a misty cloud. Soft. He fought to his knees, then upright, clinging to the chair in which Dr. Six had been sitting. Watch, he thought, watch me, you sonofabitch! / will not die!
The window! It was a single pane of glass, large, a sort of picture window overlooking the Bosphorus. What was beneath it? Who cared! A ledge, a balcony, rocks and bricks — who cared? If he could make it — could crash out that window before the watchers could get into the room and stop him — he might, just might, have a chance. But first the bathroom. He must make himself vomit!
It was such a tiny bathroom, so dimly lit, and so many light years away. He fell, staggered up, fell and stageered up. The good Dr. Six will be getting his jollies out of this, Nick thought fuzzily. He'll like this! Probably remind him of the days when he was killing those poor helpless bastards in the camps.
He fell again. He got up again. He was at last in the bathroom. Brutally he jammed his fingers down his throat and tried to vomit. Nothing! He tried again, willing himself to vomit. A thin trickle of vile tasting slime welled in his throat. Not enough. Not good enough. And he was falling away into darkness again, spinning down into the sleek dark vortex, the black glassy walls closing in.
Nick fell against the basin. He clung to it, his knees trembling, like cotton stalks under him. He fumbled in the medicine cabinet — might be something he could drink to make him vomit!
Bath salts! A bottle of bath salts! And a single rusty razor blade!
Hurry now! The little bathroom was swinging around, swaying, spinning from light into darkness. Not much time left.
/ will not die!
N3 dumped the bath salts into the basin and ran water. He scooped up the mixture, thick and perfumed, and swallowed it. Nasty! He put his head in the basin and sucked up the mixture greedily, like a man dying of thirst. Vile. Filthy. But he was getting sick! Hope moved in him.
Nick spewed violently into the basin. He vomited and went on vomiting. Then he put his head in the basin again and drank his own vomit!
He got sick again. Terribly, unbearably sick, but he must bear it. He must live. He slashed the razor blade across his chest, feeling just a hint of pain. He slashed himself again, feeling the blade cut deep, seeing the blood well red. He vomited again, tearing his throat out, heaving and retching. He fell from weakness and nearly brained himself on the commode. Finally he could stand erect, or nearly erect. He was cramping badly now, his guts pulled into painful knots. But he was over the hump. Now the window!
It would have to be fast. Sneaky. They were watching. Dr. Six was watching. They had not bothered him yet. Probably amused by his antics, his fight against Death. The doctor had probably enjoyed watching the interior of the gas chambers!
But if they saw him making for the window they would guess his intent and stop him. He was too weak to fight. It would have to be fast and smart.
N3 staggered back into the room and fell flat on his face. He lay thus for a moment, shielding his face, gathering his strength. When he got up he would pretend to stagger toward the bed, then reel and fall sideways toward the window. That would be it. That would be GO!
He didn't give a damn what was down there. It was better than staying here to die like a guinea pig for that Nazi sonofabitch. He might impale himself on a fence, or bash his brains out on a rock, or merely land on an awning or another roof. But go he would!
Painfully, not acting now, he got up and staggered toward the bed. He fell, got up, swayed toward the window. Now!
With a rush he went through the plate glass, bursting through with his head and shoulders, not even trying to protect himself. Glass tinkled and showered about him.
He was falling, turning, falling and turning — the world spun twice and he struck water.
Water! He was in the Bosphorus!
He took a deep breath and water rushed into his lungs and the blackness came back.
Chapter 14
Prime Catch
Someone was trying to pull his tongue out by the roots. Nick gagged and spewed. He was deathly ill. Someone else was astride his back, obviously trying to kill him by poking out his lungs with powerful strokes of giant steel hands. Push-pull-push-pull-in and out, in and out! Nick gagged some more and kept on spewing.
Dimly, faintly, the night swam into focus and he heard someone shout: "Kus— Kus— he vomits like a sick baby! But he was breathing. Hakki! You do well! Continue to deliver the resuscitation!"
Another voice, that of the man who was sitting astride him pumping out his lungs, said, "Peki— Peki— be so kind, Ahmed, as to pull his tongue more and use yours less! Hurry! If we save the effendim there will be backsheesh for all!"
Nick hunched his back and rolled the man off of him. He felt surprisingly strong. He must have swallowed half the Bosphorus, greasy dirty salt water, and the effect had been to cleanse his guts thoroughly. He was lying on a crude wooden platform in a welter of freshly dead fish. Two men, one old and one young, were staring down at him in surprise. A flashlight, propped on a pile of fish, was the sole illumination. Nick realized that he was on a daghlian, a platform from which Turkish fishermen cast their nets. He saw that he was about a hundred yards from shore.
The elder of the fishermen, a bent man with a grizzled stubble and wearing coarse baggy trousers and a heavy sweater, showed his few broken teeth in a smile. "You live, Effendim! Allah is good! We found you in our net, you understand? We were hauling in the catch — " here he made pulling motions — "and there you were, Effendim! The biggest fish of all!"
The young man laughed. "We were of a sureness that you were dead, Effendim. But I, Hakki, I gave to you the resuscitation which I have learned of the Red Cross while Ahmed here pulled on your tongue. And, as the old one says, at first we thought you were dead! Allah is indeed good!"
Nick got to his feet. "I also thought I was dead," he told them. He stared across the hundred yards separating him from the shore. A tall building of towers and turrets and ramparts overhung the Bosphorus. That, he thought, must be the sanitarium of the good Dr. Six! They would be searching for him, no doubt, but not with too much zeal. Dr. Six probably imagined him dead by now, being swept along the narrow throat of the Bosphorus to the Sea of Marmara.
Nick pointed to the tall building looming on the shore. Behind it he could see a busy arterial road, a constant passing flash of car lights.
"Lazim?"
The old man nodded. "Evet. A hospital. A clinic for the poor. Very fine man, the Effendim who runs it. Much for the poor!"
Sure, thought Nick grimly. Sure — Dr. Florence Nightingale Six!
He became aware that the two fishermen were regarding him strangely. They probably thought he was some kind of a nut! Escaped from the sanitarium. A psycho or an addict of some sort, or an alcoholic. Nick grinned tightly. Time to go. Back to the attack. Now would be a splendid time to catch Dr. Six and his staff off guard!
"Cok tesekkur ederim," he told the men. "I will return and give you much backsheesh. That is a promise. Allaha ismarladik!"
Nick went off the daghlian in a racing dive, landing flat and going into a superb crawl. The water was black and cold. He churned toward the lights of the sanitarium.