Billy Hayes - Midnight Express

Also by Billy Hayes:

The Midnight Express Letters:
From a Turkish Prison 1970-1975

Midnight Return: Escaping Midnight Express

Midnight Express

By Billy Hayes with William Hoffer

Copyright 1977, new edition copyright 2013 byBilly Hayes

All rights reserved. No part of this publication maybe reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in anyform or by any means without written permission from the publisher,except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages inconnection with a review written for inclusion in a broadcast,magazine, newspaper, or other media.

The people in this book are real. However, in somecases characters have been combined and names and other identifyingcharacteristics have been changed.

Published by Curly Brains Press at Smashwords

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.

To my father, whos moved on down the tracks

but is always with me.

.

I want to thank my family and relatives, old friends,new friends, and friends Ive never met. Names that come mostreadily to mind are: James and Rita Archambault, Barbara Belmont,Senator James Buckley, Marc Derish, Bulent Ecevit, Bob Greene,Michael Griffith, Harriet James, Howard Mace, William Macomber,Nick Mann, Robert McBee, Irene Moore, Dr. Bernard Schwartz, NormanShaw, John Sutter, Gene Zajac, and Michael Gilligan. Special thanksto Dr. Ronald Rosen.

.

Some twelve miles west of Istanbul, beyond theoutskirts of the city in the flat farm country near the coast, isYesilkoy International Airport. Every day at noon Pan AmericanFlight No. 1 arrives from Teheran. It sorts out its incoming andoutgoing passengers, then takes off again at one to continue itsjourney to Frankfort, London, and New York. On October 6, 1970,feeling like an Ian Fleming character, with dark aviator sunglassesover my eyes and my trenchcoat collar pulled up to my ears, Iwatched Flight No. 1, a Boeing 707, land on the concrete runway. Ipulled the brim of my lucky hat low over my eyes and eased upagainst the wall near the passenger check-in counter.

A short pudgy man in his mid-thirties pushed past meand heaved his suitcase onto the scale. A good-looking dark-hairedgirl behind the counter tagged his bag, stamped his ticket, andwaved him through to the security checkpoint. From where I stood Icould see the balding spot on his head flush with effort as hewalked down the long corridor. There, at the end, a bored Turkishofficer in a rumpled uniform halfheartedly looked into the carry-onbag and glanced at the mans passport. Coughing on his cigarette,the guard waved the passenger on his way. I watched the pudgy mandisappear into the Pan Am passenger lounge.

Yes, yes, I assured myself. Thats the way. Itlooks easy.

I stepped up to the counter and with the last of mymoney bought a ticket to New York for the following day.

Id planned to watch the flight actually depart, butwhat more was there to see? Did I really need to be that thorough?Security here seemed to be a joke, almost an afterthought. If Ihurried into a cab I could make it back to the Pudding Shoppe intime for my date with that English girl Id met at breakfast. Shesaid she was in Istanbul studying belly dancing. I really didntcare if her story was true; all I wanted was some company before myadventure. That afternoon, that night, tomorrow, all seemed likescenes from a movie. And Ia little jittery but trying my best tostay calmwas the leading man.

I scrapped the last half hour of my careful plansand jumped into a cab. Pan Am Flight No. 1 could see itself offthat day.

The Pudding Shoppe had almost become my home duringthose ten days in Istanbul. Id heard about it all over Europe,this wild Turkish hangout where hippie travelers gathered. Iwouldnt have called myself a hippie and my short hair wasntexactly in style there, but the Pudding Shoppe seemed like a placewhere I could mix in quietly with the other foreigners.

At a small outdoor table I sipped sweet Turkish teaand waited for the girl. Everywhere around me people talked andlaughed and shouted. Hawkers and beggars and street peddlers weavedtheir way through the brightly dressed crowds. Street vendorscooked shish kebab. The aroma of the meat mingled with the smell ofhorse manure in the gutter. A small gypsy-eyed boy came around thecorner, leading a huge muzzled bear on a leash. And there I sat.Anxious but excited, I awaited tomorrows danger.

The belly dancing English girl never showed. PerhapsI should have taken it as an omen.

I was early. I went into the airport restroom,locked myself into a stall. I lifted my bulky turtleneck sweater.Everything was in place. I tucked the sweater back underneath mycorduroy sports jacket, then looked at my watch. The moment wasapproaching.

It was time now. It would be easy. Id checked itall out yesterday.

I closed my eyes and relaxed. Then I drew a deepbreath. The tightness of the tape around my chest made me wince.Trying to look casual, I walked out of the bathroom. There was noturning back now.

The same smiling dark-haired girl was at the ticketcounter. Good afternoon, Mr. Hayes, she said in accented Englishas she looked at my ticket. Have a nice trip. This way,please.

She pointed down the same corridor I had watchedyesterday. The bored, olive-skinned guard waited at his checkpoint.I tried not to stare at the gun in his holster as I approached.

Passport, he demanded.

I pulled it from my jacket pocket and handed itover. He glanced at it for a moment and shoved it back into myhands. Bag, he said.

I opened my shoulder bag for him to see. He pushedaside the books and grabbed a white plastic dish. Nebu? hesaid, using a Turkish expression Id heard before. It meant,Whats this?

Its a frisbee.

Nebu?

A frisbee. A frisbee. You throw it and catch it.Its a game.

Aaaah! He shoved the frisbee back into the bag andpicked up a small yellow ball. Juggling ball, I explained.

He scowled. Then he took a puff on his cigarette,coughed and narrowed his eyes for an instant. Aaaaah! He waved methrough.