by Alan Bardos
Luckily for Johnny this was the closest that he had ever got to an Uhlan. Although Stolz certainly didn't look as fearsome as the reputation of the infamous lancers would suggest. He was clearly not as drunk as everyone else and Johnny realised he would have to watch himself.
‘We all serve in the best way we can, Captain Stolz. My talents are in diplomacy, where I serve the German Reich to the best of my abilities.’ It was a hollow answer to give in such company and Johnny tried to look suitably shame-faced.
‘Being a messenger boy? I am also interested in diplomacy, but have put my ambitions aside to fight for the fatherland – to fight for you.’
Johnny wasn’t sure if Stolz was jealous of him or if he thought that something about him didn’t ring true. Either way, he would keep picking on Johnny until he broke his cover story. If they had been in a British mess, Johnny would have given him a thrashing in the ring to shut him up, but these were Germans and he’d probably have to do something with sabres.
He glanced at the other officers wondering if Stolz had put doubt in their minds, about him. Kurt glared at Stolz. It was the last night of his leave and he would not want to waste it on pointless cross examinations.
‘Come now, Stolz, do you not recognise an old-stagger… a frontline soldier when you see one? Or have you been “fighting” with the Legation here too long, flattering that Prussian dullard, Liman von Sanders?’
‘What the hell do you mean by that, Lieutenant?’ Stolz was the superior officer and he was quite happy to pull rank.
‘Well, Herr Captain,’ Kurt said, trying to adopt a military bearing, ‘Ernst is obviously not ill-bred enough to talk of such things and you would not understand unless you had been there and shed blood.’
Kurt pointed at Johnny’s head. ‘Look at the scar on his forehead – that could only have been made by a Tommy’s hobnailed boot.’
The table exploded into cheering. Dolly stood up calling for quiet, filled his glass with champagne, held it high to propose a toast and then thought better of it.
‘Ernst also knows far more about champagne than you do, Sigmund.’
Dolly paused, looking at the epaulette on his shoulder, indicating that he was also a captain. ‘The champagne he procured for us was of a far superior quality to this swill you ordered!’
Dolly threw his glass at the preening officer. He was so drunk that he missed him by a mile, but managed to spray him and half the table in champagne. Stolz flushed with anger, but faced with the laughter of the other officers, made no response. Picking on a junior official from the Diplomatic Corps was one thing, but trying to impose his authority on a table of drunken veterans was quite another. He bowed and left.
If Johnny hadn’t been so thankful for the danger being over, he might have felt sorry for Stolz. He wondered if he should try and sober up and start his mission.
Dolly and Kurt carried Johnny out of the café and into the fading night life of the European quarter of Constantinople. They staggered up the Grand Rue de Pera and into the bright lights of the Hotel Tokatliyan and started ringing the bell of the reception desk.
‘Yes? Room numbers?’ the desk clerk asked, apparently unimpressed by their drunkenness.
Dolly and Kurt told him and got their keys. Johnny’s mind was a blank. He looked at the rest of the group who shrugged and made their way to bed.
The desk clerk ignored Johnny and busied himself looking through papers. Johnny fell on the desk and addressed the top of the clerk’s head. ‘Look, my name is something, Ernst von Hunter, no, that’s not right…’
‘I believe that the gentleman’s name is Herr Ernst von Jager and his room number is 269.’ Johnny tried to nod his thanks to a doorman in a dark uniform and repeated the number to the desk clerk, who passed him the key. Johnny tried to tip the doorman and stumbled.
‘Please allow me to assist you to your room, Effendi.’ The doorman’s voice was wonderfully soothing.
Johnny slapped the doorman on the back in thanks. The doorman led him to the lift and lent him against the wall as it went up two levels. Then deftly guided him into his room, dropped him on the floor and went to the washstand.
‘I say, that’s no way to treat a guest,’ Johnny said, trying to pull himself up.
The doorman gave him a glass of water. ‘Shut up and drink that.’
Johnny took the glass. ‘Thanks, I am a little thirsty.’
He drank half of it and gagged at the taste of salt. The doorman thrust a porcelain bowl into his hands, and not a moment too soon. Johnny’s face felt like it was bursting as his stomach muscles heaved up a fountain of bile, straining in the effort to split him in two.
Eventually the heaving stopped and the doorman passed him another glass. ‘Don’t worry, it’s just water.’
Johnny gulped it down and began to feel slightly better. ‘Do you normally perform that kind of service for the hotel’s guests?’
‘No, I bloody well don’t.’ The soft Eastern accent had been replaced by the clipped tones of a British Army Officer. ‘And if you were halfway sober, you would realise that I don’t work here and could in fact be anyone.’
‘Go easy, I’m a bit delicate.’ Johnny started to focus on the man. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but a pretty nondescript dinner jacket and could have been any self-important businessman.
‘You’re an absolute bloody disgrace!’ the man said, standing with his hands on his hips.
‘Even if that were true, what’s it to you?’ Johnny replied. The chap was starting to annoy him.
‘I’ve been charging around after you, that’s what bloody business it is of mine!’
‘Oh, you’re my contact. Well, surely they told you when I was arriving, you should have been on time to meet me,’ Johnny said, starting to regain his composure.
‘My God, you are a contrary brute. I was on time and at the right hotel.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Johnny remembered someone had said something about booking him a room at the Pera Palace Hotel, when he was on the steamer. ‘I just fell in with the crowd when I got here. Still, no harm done.’
‘No harm! I’ve been risking my life in every place I’ve been forced to look for you.’
‘Oh well, sorry and all that,’ Johnny said, getting up and pouring himself more water. If the chap had been polite, he might have felt worse about putting him in danger. ‘Aren’t there people shadowing me? I really can’t be held responsible if they don’t keep you apprised of my movements.’
‘How do you think I managed to find you? Have you got any idea how much trouble you’ve put me to? Just because you decided to bunk up with Fritz!’
‘I didn’t want to raise any suspicion,’ Johnny said.
‘Yes, you are quite the perfect little Hun.’ He passed Johnny a letter. ‘Here, you had better take this then.’
‘What is it?’ Johnny took the letter and lay down on the bed.
‘For goodness sake, if that doesn’t just take the biscuit. It’s the letter you were sent here to deliver to the Grand Rabbi, although I don’t know why you bothered.’ The man turned to leave.
Johnny glanced at the envelope, stamped with an Imperial German Eagle, and read the gothic script. It was addressed to an Abraham Nahum, care of the Grand Ottoman bank, on the Grand Rue de Pera. ‘Hang on a minute, is this where the Grand Rabbi lives?’
‘Don’t be stupid. One doesn’t simply turn up to see the Grand Rabbi of Constantinople with something like that. Are you trying to scupper the whole plan?’
‘No, but it’s a good job I took a room at this hotel. I mean it is rather handy, it is on the same street as the bank.’ Johnny felt vindicated enough now to ask questions. ‘Who is Abraham Nahum and why is the letter addressed to him?’
The man tensed. Johnny saw his frustration was increasing with every moment he stayed in the room. ‘He's the Grand Rabbi’s favourite nephew or adopted son, take your pick. Didn’t they tell you any of this?’
‘No,’ Johnny said.
‘
I see, like that, is it? Well, I better not blab too much. Sounds like you’re for the chop, old son and I like to keep my head on my shoulders. Anyway, best of British and all that.’
‘How do I contact you with the reply?’ Johnny asked.
‘The nephew chap will arrange all that. With any luck, we won't see each other again.’
‘Suit yourself, you strike me as a bit of a bore anyway.’ Johnny turned over and was asleep before he’d finished the sentence.
Chapter 16
Johnny waited for a tram to trundle past then edged his way into the tide of people and vehicles. The Grand Street of Pera was a lot narrower and busier than he remembered it being the previous night.
The architecture had a strong Latin resonance. He could have been back in Italy but for the Middle Eastern influence that pervaded the city, from the red fez hats, to the exotic cakes on display. It had probably seen better days, but to Johnny everything seemed vibrant and full of colour.
He got a hundred yards before he realised that he didn’t know where he was going and tried to get his bearings as the crowd nervously pushed past him. Everyone seemed scared and preoccupied. He stepped down an alley and sat at a pavement café with a vine-covered trellis roof.
‘Yes?’ A waiter was gazing down at him curiously. He spoke in broken German. ‘Is there something the matter?’
‘Schnapps, and make it quick,’ Johnny snapped. It was the first phrase that he’d learnt to say in German with a Prussian accent.
‘Alas, we only have raki.’ The waiter said apologetically.
Johnny felt in his pocket. He had a small bottle of schnapps that he’d brought at the hotel, but there wasn’t much left and decided to save it. ‘Very well, bring me raki!’
The waiter nodded matter-of-factly. Johnny was just another soldier from the front, trying to forget seeing his men blown apart… mutilated and screaming, clawing at the wire.
Every time he tried to stand up Williams pulled him down, the corporal was concussed from the 5.9 shell that had torn through the patrol. He was lying in the mud disoriented and wouldn't let go of Johnny’s leg. Johnny couldn't bear it. He grabbed Williams and ran for all he was worth.
Johnny tried to shut out the memories. He had no idea why they'd appeared, he only knew he couldn't make them stop. The waiter came back and poured a glass of clear liquid.
‘Would you like me to leave the bottle?’ the waiter asked, not unsympathetically.
‘I will tell you if I require the bottle,’ Johnny barked, irritated by his tone. The waiter bowed and placed a jug of water on the table, before retreating.
Johnny poured some of the water into the raki, watching as it gently misted over and hoped it would have the same effect on his mind. If he couldn’t forget the screams of his men he could at least dull them.
He picked up the glass with a reassuring tremor. The sweet aroma of aniseed wafted towards him. He suddenly felt nauseous, but forced himself to tilt his head back and pour it down.
Johnny looked at the grey sky through the vines, feeling the raki warm him. It was a god-awful day. He really hated this time of year, but it felt good to be alive. He signalled to the waiter who poured him another healthy measure of joy. Johnny took the letter out of his pocket and read the address again.
‘Where is this bank?’ Johnny showed the waiter the address and knocked back the raki. The waiter cocked his head making a show of thinking, then pointed left. Johnny put a pile of notes on the table and went back onto the boulevard, turning left into the stream of people.
The Grand Ottoman bank was a couple of yards down and looked like a Greek temple. Johnny decided to finish his schnapps. He didn’t think that this was going to be dangerous, but if his past experiences of Sir George were anything to go by, then he could well be walking into some kind of a trap. The angry man last night had certainly implied that Johnny was being played for a fool.
He walked through a pillared portico and went into the crowded lobby. Johnny approached a senior-looking floor walker, strutting about, and handed him the envelope.
‘Can you see that this gets to the person it’s addressed to?’ Johnny said in crisp German and turned to leave.
‘One moment please, sir. Where has this come from and who are you?’ the floor walker asked in competent German and grabbed Johnny’s wrist. An unexplained message was obviously highly irregular.
‘My name is Ernst von Jager and I’m from the German Embassy in Sofia. Not that it is any concern of yours. I was instructed to deliver this message and that’s precisely what I’ve done,’ Johnny said, trying to break the man’s surprisingly strong grip.
‘This message bears the Imperial German crest and should be delivered in person.’ The floor walker handed the letter back.
Johnny glanced at the crest embossed on the envelope. He knew that Fitzmaurice had planned this. To make sure he handed the message over as instructed. He followed the floor walker through the bank, to the top floor and was kept waiting for ten minutes before being shown into an office that matched the neoclassical façade of the building.
‘I am Abraham Nahum, how can I help you?’ A man with a perfectly groomed beard addressed Johnny, from behind a large desk.
‘I have a letter for you. Apparently, it has to be delivered to you personally,’ Johnny said, trying to hide his annoyance.
‘You are from the German Embassy in Sofia?’
‘Yes, I have credentials somewhere,’ Johnny said searching his pockets.
‘That won’t be necessary. I can smell the schnapps from here. Would you care for some refreshment?’ Abraham asked.
‘Schnapps, since you mention it, would be perfect.’
Abraham smiled wryly and signalled to an assistant. ‘Coffee I think.’
He held his hand out to Johnny, who reached across the desk to shake it. ‘That is most courteous of you, but the letter, if I may.’
‘Sorry, beg pardon.’ Johnny felt his cheeks burn as he placed the letter firming into Abraham‘s hand. He glanced at the address and signalled for Johnny to sit.
‘Please, won’t you take coffee?’ Abraham asked. The assistant had silently returned with a tray.
‘Yes, thank you.’
The assistant poured him a thimble of fragrant Turkish coffee from a long-handled copper jug and placed it next to Johnny with a bowl of sugar cubes and a small glass of water, then left.
Nahum broke the seal on the envelope and pulled the letter out. He pointed at the Lion and the Unicorn letterhead. ‘You are perhaps not what you pretend to be. I’m not entirely surprised.’
Johnny couldn't believe he'd been walking around with something so incriminating. If he'd been caught with that, he certainly would have been for the chop. It explained why the angry man last night had been so peeved about having to carry it around Constantinople.
He tried to remain as alert as possible while Abraham read the letter, deciding on the best escape route if things turned nasty. It was either the window or the door. They were four stories up so the window probably wasn’t the best bet, but the door led out through a battery of bank officials who could impede his escape through sheer weight of numbers.
‘So you have come from Mr Whittall, my old friend and employer. How is he?’ Abraham asked at last. Johnny presumed that was the reason why Eady had said Whittall trusted him.
‘Witthall is just as cantankerous as ever, I should imagine, but a jolly nice fellow all the same.’
Abraham appeared amused by Johnny’s attempt at servility. ‘You know what this letter is of course?’ he asked in English.
‘I have a fair idea,’ Johnny replied.
‘It says that your name is Jonathan Swift and that you are to be considered a delegate of the British Government. So I am at something of a loss as to why you wanted to hand a document of this significance over to the door staff and leave?’ Abraham put the letter down and waited for an explanation.
‘Well, you make me sound more important than I really am. I
’m just a glorified postman and I thought the longer I spent here, the more likely I am to draw attention to yourself and the whole operation,’ Johnny said, adopting the professional persona he’d learnt from his year in the Diplomatic Service.
‘That does seem plausible. It may have been better if you had waited until after business hours to approach me. As it is, the bank does a lot of business with the German government, transferring special loans to my government. So your presence can be easily explained.’ Abraham flicked his wrist, unwilling to waste any more time on something so trivial, and got down to business.
‘You wish me to intercede on your country’s behalf to ask the Chief Rabbi to act as your emissary.’ Abraham held up the letter. ‘However, his pro-allied sympathies are well known to the authorities, so we must be careful in how we approach this matter. You will have to be more than a postman and act for the British government.’
‘To attend meetings and such like. To in effect be a figurehead while the negotiations are conducted by the Grand Rabbi,’ Johnny said speculatively. Although if he knew Sir George, the letter he had just delivered would say he could be used to spring any trap Abraham foresaw, in attempting to negotiate with the Young Turk government.
‘Yes, and such like. What an interesting turn of phrase.’ Abraham put the letter down.
‘So you will help?’ Johnny asked. ‘I’m sure that some kind of arrangement can be made before the Royal Navy turns up and starts firing at you.’
Johnny dipped a sugar cube into the thick grainy coffee and placed it in his mouth as he waited for an answer. He was pleased with the subtlety of his carrot and stick approach. Which he felt conveyed everything he’d been told to convey, in as courteous a manner as possible.
‘I see that you are familiar with our style of coffee. I had wondered what sort of man the British had sent here.’
‘I travelled a little before the war. I was in the British Diplomatic Service, doing little jobs not unlike this.’
