High Stakes

by John F. Dobbyn

  Elena seemed to be in no hurry. I was happy to let the conversation drift from one unthreatening subject to another for the better part of an hour. When the chime in the clock tower announced the hour of five, I was brought back to my reason for being there.

  “Elena, I’ve enjoyed this time so much. You’re a most gracious hostess.” I left a slight pause. “I think George mentioned why I asked to meet with you.”

  I expected a cloud of tension to immediately fill the atmosphere between us. Whether for better or worse for my purpose, her gentle smile never wavered. I saw no physical signs of tension whatever.

  “Mr. Calinescu said you wanted to discuss my translation of Doctor Demir’s voyage journal. Have you seen it?”

  “Yes. George Calinescu showed me a copy. He found it in the professional journal where it was published.”

  “And you have a question.”

  I hesitated, partly out of fear of failing in my purpose, and partly out of reluctance to diminish the incipient friendship that had blossomed in only an hour.

  “Michael, let me help you broach your point. I’m sure you found the ship doctor’s telling of the episode with the pirates, and with the dying Turkish soldier somewhat gripping. But that’s not why you’re here, is it? Shall we just put it on the table openly? You want to discuss the soldier’s discovery of Vlad the Impaler’s supposed treasure.” She smiled. “Is that correct? Yes, I’m sure it is. There now. That was not so difficult. Please tell me what you want to know. Then we’ll see if I can help you.”

  The air was clear. The anticipated infusion of tension was dispelled before it ever settled in by her gentle directness. I owed her the same openness.

  “Elena, may I tell you a story?”

  She settled back, coffee in hand. “I’d be delighted.”

  Where to begin. I remembered the simple advice of the king in Alice in Wonderland: “Begin at the beginning, go on till you come to the end, then stop.” I did exactly that. I began with the dinner at the China Pearl Restaurant and gave her a flowing discourse of the events that led finally to the visit I was enjoying with her over coffee and pastry.

  It was truncated, somewhat, but I was sure to include all of the details that would lead her to an understanding of which of the characters were scurrilous villains, and which not. She never interrupted, even with a question. More to the point, her interest never seemed to flag.

  She set her coffee cup down on the table. This time I could see her carefully choosing a starting point.

  “You’ve had quite an adventure. It tells me a number of things. I guess the first is that I find you quite open and honest. I understand why George Calinescu trusts you implicitly. I’d be inclined to do the same.”

  I started to thank her, but she continued. Her smile had faded. I could see lines forming in her forehead. “It also tells me that my intuition years ago was correct. This supposed treasure of Vlad, Dracula. Whether it exists or not, the mere possibility of it is enough to drive certain men to inflict pain, death without discrimination, without limit.”

  It was my turn to listen without interruption.

  “And that’s just to get their bloodied hands on it. What unimaginable evil would they bring about once they have it?”

  She had been looking toward the clock tower across the campus. Now she looked directly at me. “I believe you have a good heart. Can you put yourself in the quandary I faced when I was translating the doctor’s journal? There was the telling of a Turkish soldier who claimed to have actually seen this treasure. He said he knew where it was located. He put a code to that location somewhere in a violin he kept close to him until his death. But I knew the code would be unbreakable without other information—first how to find the code in the violin, and then how to interpret it.”

  She moved her chair closer to mine and spoke more softly, but more intensely. “What would you have done? Suppose that the only way to find the key to the code was actually included in the ship doctor’s journal. Suppose you were the only one who could translate it. Would you put that information out there, publicly, knowing that by doing so you might be unleashing an avalanche of death, pain, untold suffering? And all of that evil just for the enrichment of whoever is strong enough to take that treasure by violence? I repeat—what would you have done?”

  Her eyes were looking for an answer. I could only be truthful. “Under the circumstances, exactly what you did. Leave it out of the translation.”

  She sat back with a deep breath. “I know why you’re here, Michael. You’re going to put me back into that same quandary after all these years. You’re going to make me decide that question all over again. You want me to give you the information I’ve kept hidden since I first translated that journal.”

  Her eyes were looking into mine for some suggestion of an answer. In a way, they were transferring the quandary from her shoulders to mine.

  “Elena, with the exception of George, I’ve been dealing in this business with thugs, gangsters, men with the morals of alley cats. In a way, it’s more difficult explaining my proposal to you. We’ve known each other for maybe an hour. But I have the very highest respect for your integrity. I’m going to make a suggestion. More importantly, I’ll give you the reason for it. Then I’ll leave it completely in your hands. I’ll put complete trust in the rightness of your decision. It will be final. I’ll never put you to that decision again. Is that fair?”

  “I guess I knew it would come back to me someday. At least I thank God that it’s coming from you and not one of the gangsters. I’m ready to listen.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  THIS WAS THE third time I was about to put into words my sketchy plan for ending this episode. I laid it out for Elena with as much optimism as I could legitimately pour into it. I was bolstered by reminding myself that any other resolution I could imagine could bring disaster on a major scale.

  She took in every word in stone silence. The dark cloud in her expression seemed almost to plead for a solution to her personal quandary. The ball, for the moment, was in my court, but the weight of a major decision was still on her shoulders. George had bought into the idea because it provided some slight hope of a positive outcome for his own interests. Mr. Devlin was just faithfully backing the proposal of his junior partner. With Elena, it ran deeper. If she were to tie into the plan, it meant exposing information that she had determined to keep buried from the world for the best of reasons.

  When I finished laying out my idea, Elena sat quietly in her own thoughts. I left her to them. When she looked back at me, I could still see indecision in her eyes.

  “Michael, it’s a bold idea. I’ll ask you this because you’ll be the one on the front line. Tell me from your heart. Can you make it work?”

  I returned her direct eye contact. “I wish I could say it’s a sure thing. I can’t. I can only paraphrase what someone once said about democracy. It’s the worst idea I could possibly imagine—except for every other idea.”

  The cloud remained, but she smiled.

  “I might add one thing. I say this not to persuade you by fear. I just see it coming. The Chinese and Russian gangs are both standing back. They’re letting me take the lead here. If I can’t convince you to give me something to bring back to them, it won’t be me sipping coffee with you next time around. It will quite likely be one or both of them at your door. I don’t want that to happen.”

  She sat quietly for ten more seconds. When she stood up, the cloud of indecision was gone.

  “Will you come with me?”

  “Certainly. Where?”

  “My office.”

  We walked across a courtyard to an adjoining building. Stairs to the second floor and a long corridor led us to a corner office. She led the way in.

  Stacks of books stood like pillars on the floor. Foot-high columns of journals and documents, some new, some yellow and curled with age, were mounded on tables, chairs, and a central desk. The whole scene screamed of intense academic research.
r />   Elena pointed to a chair. It had books on the seat and an academic robe slung over the back.

  “Sit down. Just put those anywhere.”

  Easier said than done. “Where?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Give me a minute.”

  By the time I’d gathered the books from the chair, Elena had cleared herself a path to a small safe in a corner. She was down on her knees, working the combination. The thought occurred that in that hodgepodge, why the safe? You could hide a small elephant in plain view.

  My thought must have been obvious. She said, “It’s not what it seems. There’s an order to this chaos. I can find any document in this room.”

  “Good. Because unless you speak, I can hardly find you.”

  I didn’t say it. I just looked for a place to stack the books from the chair. I wound up saying, to hell with it. I just sat on the books.

  She came back to her desk with an ancient-looking volume bound in yellowed cloth. “This is the ship doctor’s journal. I have to return it to the ancient documents department someday. Meanwhile, no one’ll find it in the safe.”

  “For that matter, no one’ll find the safe.”

  I didn’t say that either.

  She sat at the desk and opened the journal. She turned some pages and looked up. “I’m going to read to you the lines of the journal that I left out of the translation I had published. I’ll translate as I go. Do you want to make notes?”

  She threw me a blank pad. I took out a pen and listened. I could hardly believe what was about to happen at that moment. I was thinking of how many people had already been killed over several centuries just to hear those words.

  Elena found reading glasses under a sheaf of papers on her desk and began. “These are the words written by Doctor Demir in his journal aboard the Turkish ship. This is the part where he’s writing what he heard from the Turkish army captain about the violin. Remember, this goes back to 1699. The captain had been retreating with the Turkish troops ahead of the Christian forces. At this point, he was nearly dead from his wounds. Are you ready?”

  I nodded.

  “Alright. You’ve heard this part. It reads, ‘He put every ounce of the last drop of strength Allah gave him into his final words: The key … to locate the treasure … it’s … the violin.’”

  She looked up. I could see hesitation creeping back into her eyes.

  I said, “It’s still your decision. If you wish, I’ll simply leave.”

  That seemed to make a difference. She smiled. “No. I have to pass this on before it takes more lives. I’ll give it to you. And God help you. Are you ready to take it?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is the part I left out. ‘Luthier … Karasu … Abbas Ataman … He made the code … He knows …’”

  She looked up. “That’s all of it. Did you get it?”

  “Yes and no. I wrote down the words. I’m not sure what they mean.”

  “Let’s start at the top. A luthier is someone who makes or repairs stringed instruments. In particular, violins.”

  “And what does Karasu mean?”

  “It’s the name of a town. Again, this was written in 1699.”

  “Is there still a town by that name?”

  “No.”

  I felt a drop in the pit of my stomach. She went on. “But the town of Karasu was rebuilt by Ottomans in 1856. The new name is Medgidia. It’s about thirty-nine kilometers west of the Black Sea port of Constanta. And it’s still a center for violin makers.”

  “And Abbas Ataman. I take it he was the luthier the soldier meant. He was the one who somehow put the code into the violin. Is that right?”

  “It would seem so.”

  I sat back. “But that was 1699. Where does that leave us?”

  “I was curious about that. I traced the shop of Abbas Ataman to see if it still exists. The fortunate thing is that the violin-making trade is one that’s typically passed down through generations.”

  “And what did you find?”

  “On the western outskirts of Medgidia, there’s a little family luthier shop that advertises that it’s been in existence for over 350 years. I called it. I found that the man who runs it is named Ataman.”

  “Could be a hit.”

  “Could be. But Ataman is not an uncommon Turkish name.”

  “Did you ask them about Abbas Ataman?”

  “No. That was as far as I wanted to go. I didn’t want to stir up curiosity.”

  I finished making a note and sat back. “Then that’s my next stop.”

  “Do you want to phone them?”

  “No. I want to see them in person. I need to judge if they’re telling me the truth. That’s best done eye-to-eye.”

  Elena put the journal back in the safe. “I guess I wish you luck. I’m not sure that finding this treasure is the best thing for you or any of us.”

  “Whatever comes of it, I want you to know that today was well worth the trip. I enjoyed the afternoon.”

  “As did I. Will you let me know what you find?”

  I was about to say, “Of course.” Something kept the words from leaving my mouth. I was halfway to the door. I turned around.

  “Elena. I’m going to ask an absurd question. Just chalk it up to American impetuosity.”

  “What?”

  “Will you come with me?” Before she could answer, I added, “I don’t know your schedule. We could do the whole trip there and back by car in a couple of days. I have a car. You must be curious.”

  She didn’t say “No.”

  “To be honest, I have an ulterior motive. If the original Abbas Ataman left any writing about it, it would be in three-hundred-year-old Turkish or Romanian. In either case, it would be Greek to me.”

  “Probably Turkish. The Ottomans ruled Romania in 1699.”

  “There you go. That’s your specialty.”

  She looked at me with a growing smile, and shook her finger. “Michael, you’re pulling me back into this.”

  I held up my hands. “No. I won’t do that. You’ve given me more help than I could possibly ask. I’ll let you know what I find.”

  I got as far as the door when I heard her voice. “I’ll call you tonight at your hotel. Don’t leave without me.”

  * * *

  I got a five a.m. start the next day. I picked up Elena as she requested at the university. It was an eight-hour drive to Medgidia. I had reserved rooms at the Luxor Hotel on Strada Republicii. We checked in and decided to have dinner and get a fresh start in the morning.

  When the sun came up, we were both hustling through breakfast. The day ahead could produce a dead end that would bring the entire adventure to a dull thud. The opposite possibility had us searching out the address of the luthier shop in Medgidia that bore the name “Ataman.”

  We found it on the outskirts of the city. The ancient wooden building reminded me of the violin shop of Mr. Oresciu where the whole search began.

  My pulse was elevated and rising when we entered the shop to the tinkle of a bell similar to Mr. Oresciu’s.

  The walls and counter were covered with suspended violins that showed violin workmanship that was clearly not mass-produced. A dark, bearded man in his thirties bade us welcome. I introduced myself and Elena. When he said that his name was “Ataman,” my pulse rate shot a degree higher.

  I looked at Elena. She nodded at me, which I took to mean that I should take the reins in stating our reason for being there.

  I began. “Mr. Ataman, I have a very unusual request.”

  Without mentioning the words “Vlad Dracula” or “treasure,” I told him the story of an Ottoman army captain who came to the shop of a luthier named Ataman sometime in 1699. “It was a turbulent time. The captain was retreating from the conquering Christian troops. At his request, a luthier by the name of Abbas Ataman did something special to a violin the captain had with him.”

  From the expression on the man’s face, I could have been reciting a nursery rhyme. The words clearly meant noth
ing to him. I decided to give a bit more.

  “What Abbas Ataman did to the violin was to create some kind of code. A very significant code. Again, this goes back to 1699. Is it possible that there is any written record of that?”

  In just asking the question, the absurdity of expecting any record after three centuries drove my pulse back down to normal.

  There was still no light of recognition in his eyes, but the man gave us a glimmer of hope. “I think you should talk to my grandfather. Give me a minute.”

  He went behind a curtain in the rear of the shop. I don’t know about Elena, but I was holding my breath. In about two minutes, the man was back. He was holding the curtain open. “My grandfather will see you. Will you come back here?”

  We stepped through the curtain into a workroom filled with the scent of freshly worked wood. A portly man with a beard over most of his dark-complected face turned from a well-worn bench. He had Mr. Oresciu’s smile—which made me wonder if it’s inbred in violin makers.

  He held his hands open to us. “Hosgeldiniz.”

  Elena walked past me to accept his handshake. As she passed me, she whispered, “He welcomes us.” As they shook hands, she said, “Cok Tesekkur ederim,” which I assumed meant “thank you”. She followed that with, “Ingilizce konusabiliyor musum?” My guess was that she was asking if he spoke English. He smiled more broadly. “Very badly, I fear.”

  Elena called me over to him. He took the hand I offered in his two hands. Again, I felt the strength of a jockey’s grip. He gestured toward a table in the corner with chairs. We both followed the invitation to be seated.

  I was not surprised when he said something in Turkish to Elena and immediately said to me, “Please, accept coffee. Perhaps tea? You would do an old man honor.”

  Elena gave me a firm nod that said, “Accept it.”

  I said slowly, “That’s very kind. We’d both be delighted. Perhaps coffee.”

  Mr. Ataman seemed very pleased. He called something in Turkish to his grandson in the next room. For the next five minutes, Elena engaged him in conversation in Turkish. He was kind enough to include me by smiling and nodding to me every minute or so.