The conversation lasted nearly five minutes; then he hung up and shouted something, and the door was opened by the man in the white suit. The big man gave him an order and he withdrew; he turned now to the others.
‘My car will be here in a couple of minutes. And I have arranged for your new driver to be paid off.’ He smiled. ‘There is at least one way in which I am civilized. I believe in organization. My organization is probably the best in Istanbul. It is certainly superior to the Government’s. Now, if you will excuse me for a moment, I will dress.’
He reappeared a few minutes later, from behind one of the damask curtains, wearing cavalry-twill jodhpurs, soft black calf leather boots and a tunic buttoned to the neck. He looked like a cross between an ageing bandit and a high-class chauffeur.
The others followed him back down the dark stairs, through the chemist’s shop and out into the street, where a large old-fashioned American car stood, shining black, with a shark-mouthed radiator grill, high chromium fins and smoked windows. They all three got into the back. The man in the white suit was driving.
They headed north, out of the narrow shanty town and across the bridge into Galata, stopping at last outside a big neon-lit cafe with steel-framed chairs and plastic-topped tables at which groups of men sat playing dominoes, backgammon and noisy card games. The walls were decorated with Pirelli calendars and posters for the latest American films. There were no women. Hawn wondered whether the men in Turkey worked at all.
The driver stayed outside with the car. The big man led the way in, to a far corner where two men were playing rummy. They were both elderly — one with a mass of white hair and a great white moustache, the other balding, and of a dark hooked Semitic aspect. Unlike most Turks whom Hawn had seen, he was closely shaven, and again unlike most Turks, he wore a collar and tie under a tight-fitting business suit. His black shoes shone like mirrors, and he wore a pair of gold-rimmed bifocals behind which his eyes were two opaque marbles.
The big man drew up chairs and made the introductions. For the first time he disclosed his own name to Hawn and Anna: ‘I am Selim Pasha Esquire. And this is Effendi Mustafa Gebel.’ He did not introduce, and totally ignored, the white-haired man.
‘Mustafa is my lawyer,’ Selim Pasha explained. ‘He looks after my business interests and advises me on matters of delicacy. You may talk freely — he speaks English.’
The man called Mustafa Gebel inclined his head and kissed Anna’s hand. ‘Delighted. You are enjoying your stay in Istanbul?’
‘It’s certainly been eventful,’ Hawn said; he stared between the two men, at the poster behind them from which Julie Andrews pranced joyously out at them, followed by her band of happy children. He wondered how long the way to Imin Salak was — if indeed there was a way — or whether these introductions were merely part of an elaborate oriental ritual of prevarication.
The man with white hair got up, grunted something, and walked away. Mustafa Gebel began stacking the cards. Hawn noticed that although he was a small man next to Selim Pasha, he had surprisingly large shoulders and hands, and that he wore a spectacular diamond ring.
He looked at Hawn from under his bifocals. ‘Selim tells me that you are interested in meeting a certain important man in Istanbul? That you wish to interview him in connection with his memoirs? I must tell you at once that it will depend much on what you want him to tell you.’
‘How do you mean — depends?’
‘The gentleman in question knows many secrets. Secrets that have never been revealed. He will expect to be paid for his services.’
Hawn looked, frowning, at Selim Pasha. He had decided that a little innocent bluffing would not be wasted at this point. ‘But you said he’d be delighted to have his exploits written up. You said nothing about money.’
The big man shrugged and said nothing. Mustafa Gebel folded his thick brown fingers together and gazed between Hawn and Anna.
‘It is I who talk about money,’ he said softly. ‘No secret is free — not even after more than thirty years.’
‘Are you negotiating for him?’
‘No. I am simply preparing the way for negotiations. I would not like you to be disappointed.’
‘I prefer to negotiate directly with the seller. I’ll put the questions to him, he can name his price, then we can argue.’
Mustafa Gebel inclined his vulpine face across the table and pursed his thin, moist lips. ‘You would save us all much trouble and inconvenience, Mr Hawn, if you told me now the kind of questions you want to ask.’
Anna, who had so far been completely ignored by both Turks, said, ‘What’s so special about this man that he has to be protected like this? We’ve heard he’s important. He’s presumably also intelligent. So why can’t he do his own negotiating?’
Mustafa gave a peevish smile. ‘Miss Admiral, you are right — the gentleman is most intelligent. But he does not have experience of journalists. And journalists, as we all know, not only make news, they make scandal.’
‘What scandal does this man have to hide?’ she asked.
Mustafa Gebel smiled again, a patient smile this time. ‘All great men have scandals to hide. During the war the gentleman was in a very difficult and delicate situation. You know that, or you would not be here trying to interview him.’
At this point Hawn broke in: ‘All right. What do you want? A broad resumé of what we’re after, or a detailed list of questions we’re going to ask him?’
Selim Pasha had sat all this time huge and rigid in his chair, watching the three of them with small sly eyes. He had spoken not one word.
‘A resumé would be sufficient,’ Mustafa said.
‘And if you’re satisfied, when do we meet him?’
‘It can be arranged for this evening. At least, the preliminary meeting.’
Hawn said, ‘I need a drink.’
Without turning, Mustafa snapped his fingers, and immediately a waiter appeared beside them. ‘You would like whisky? Do not be afraid, it is not the usual stuff you find in Istanbul — contraband stuff. I shall make sure that you receive the best.’
The waiter brought two glasses, with ice and water. Neither of the Turks seemed to be drinking.
Hawn drank half of his neat; then said: ‘Miss Admiral and I are following up a theory about the last war. To be brief, we think the Germans were being supplied with fuel by Western oil companies. We think that some of that fuel passed through Istanbul. A very good and reliable contact of mine in London recommended that your gentleman friend might provide us with some useful information about this.’ Mustafa Gebel began to speak, quietly, rapidly in Turkish. When he had finished, Selim Pasha shrugged and nodded. Hawn drank the rest of his whisky and waited.
The lawyer had pressed his fingertips together and spoke, without looking at Hawn, ‘You have a tape recorder?’
‘No.’
‘Do not all journalists have tape recorders?’
‘Not all. I’m old-fashioned. I believe in taking notes. Besides, if your friend has to be so protected, he won’t want all his secrets committed to tape.’
‘Instead, he will have to trust to your memory and your discretion?’
‘Mr Gebel, I consider myself an experienced and reputable journalist. Remember that I will also have to trust your friend, and accept that he is not just telling me fantasies and lies.’
‘Our friend does not lie.’ Mustafa Gebel glanced across at the great ravaged face of Selim Pasha. He said something, and again Selim nodded. Mustafa turned back to Hawn. ‘I agree in principle that you may meet our friend. But I must warn you. If you in any manner attempt to trick or deceive him, your body will be found in the Bosporus. Also that of your charming friend here, Miss Admiral. I know it is a melodramatic threat, but remember, Istanbul is not London. We are trusting your honour, and in Turkey, if a man abuses that honour, he pays the ultimate price.’
‘You make yourself admirably clear. So when is the meeting?’
‘You will be collected at your h
otel at eight o’clock. In the meantime you are to communicate with no one. We have reliable contacts at the Pera Palace, and if you disobey, we shall know.’
He stood up, and each man ceremoniously took their leave of them, while Mustafa Gebel explained that he and Selim Pasha were staying behind, as they had business to discuss. The car would drive Hawn and Anna back to the hotel. Selim Pasha gave him a bone-cracking handshake.
‘You will accept my apologies for this afternoon. But you must also keep it as a confidence. I don’t want tiresome inquiries from the British Consulate.’
‘They’re the last people I’d go to,’ Hawn said, and they parted with more handshakes but no smiles.
CHAPTER 20
At precisely 7.49 p.m. by Hawn’s watch, the man in the oyster-white suit appeared in the lobby of the Pera Palace. Hawn and Anna followed him out to the same American limousine. Hawn asked him where they were going, but he did not answer. Since he spoke some English, they decided it was wiser not to discuss matters further — they had worked out their strategy for the evening while waiting at the hotel — and for most of the next hour they rode in silence.
Hawn guessed that they were driving north, since the darkness on their right indicated that they were following the coast of the Bosporus. The city lights began to fade, the traffic thinned, and they were soon speeding along a wide highway into the black night. Hawn watched the speedometer needle, which was touching the 120 kmph mark, and saw that they had driven nearly 50 miles, when a cluster of lights came towards them and the driver slowed into a gravel siding.
He gestured his two passengers to get out.
They seemed to be in a small fishing village, with a fresh tang of salt in the air. There were a couple of open-air cafes and a huddle of small white houses. On their right, moored at the end of a wooden jetty, was a handsome sixty-foot motor yacht, ablaze with light. The driver began to lead them down the jetty.
They were a few feet from the gangplank, when the sleek black-suited figure of the lawyer, Mustafa Gebel, appeared on deck. He had a welcoming, proprietorial air: he was proud of his vessel, as he had good reason to be. It was painted gleaming white and every inch of metal had been polished until it gave off a dazzling glint under the lights. Hawn noticed that he was wearing blue rubber-soled plimsolls.
After greeting them both, he added apologetically, ‘I must ask you to remove your shoes. I will give you others to wear. The deck, you understand.’
As soon as they stepped aboard, Hawn understood. The deck was of teak planking scrubbed almost white, like scraped bone. They ducked down into a saloon that was like a long narrow drawing-room, all dark mahogany and shining brass: velvet curtains across the portholes, a well-stocked cocktail cabinet in the shape of a glass-fronted bookcase, and banquettes along the walls of button-backed suede.
On one of these sat the huge figure of Selim Pasha. Even in the comparative spaciousness of the yacht he looked quite out of proportion. And he was alone.
The driver had disappeared. Mustafa Gebel closed the door and moved to the cocktail cabinet. ‘You choose — we have it. Whisky, gin, champagne on ice, martinis?’
He fixed the drinks himself. There seemed to be no one else on board. As a seasoned member of the Fleet Street round, Hawn always felt a faint mistrust of people who did not drink. Again, Selim Pasha and Mustafa Gebel were not drinking.
By now they were all seated — Hawn and Anna wearing plastic flipflops, and Selim Pasha in outsize bedroom slippers. The two Turks sat opposite them, at far ends of the banquette.
Hawn took a sip of his whisky. ‘All right, the polite charade is over. I’ve come all this way and I want results. Where is Imin Salak?’
Selim Pasha’s face broke into its ugly grin. ‘I am Imin Salak. Welcome aboard.’
Hawn asked for another whisky; Mustafa fetched it. ‘How did the British recruit you?’
‘In those days they recruited anyone. Anyone who spoke English and knew his way around. I had then, as now, special contacts, special sources. I knew many people. Even as a young man,’ he added immodestly, ‘I had much influence.’
‘And you worked solely for the British?’
Imin Salak laughed, and Mustafa Gebel responded with a dutiful smile. ‘Don’t take me for a fool, Mr Hawn. As a young man I made mistakes, but I was never stupid. Or perhaps you know little about Istanbul during the war?’
‘I was still having my nappies changed. Enlighten me.’
Salak paused. Now that the interview had begun, he seemed to be enjoying himself. ‘In Turkey during the war we had no loyalties, no special interests. In 1917, in the First War, we offered to join you British in exchange for money. Your Foreign Office refused. They considered such a transaction immoral. In the Second War we found ourselves being wooed by every side — we were like the most beautiful girl at a party who arrives without an escort.’
‘So you worked for the Germans too?’
‘When they paid me. And I made sure they paid me well. I also made sure that I didn’t make the same mistakes as that valet to your idiot ambassador in Ankara. Ah, that was a joke! The fellow stole every British secret — even the minutes of the Tehran Conference — and sold them to the Germans. Except that the Germans didn’t believe the stuff. They also paid him in forged pound notes. I was paid in gold.’
‘Did you find it easy to operate?’
‘Easy? What’s easy? Playing with children, maybe? No, it was not easy. It was not too difficult. It was all a matter of tact and judgement, and above all of knowing the right people.’
‘What about your Security Police? Neutral countries in a war tend to be very touchy about espionage, in case they tip the scales too far to one side.’
‘Security?’ Salak laughed again. ‘What sort of security do you think there was when Bay Faik Oztrak, who was Minister of the Interior, was dining with the Germans twice a week? Even Ismet Inonu, who was President of the Republic, had a German mistress. And she wasn’t just a tourist or a whore.’
‘Let me ask you a direct and simple question, Mr Salak. Do you believe that my theory about the illicit oil trade is true?’
‘I not only believe it. I know it.’
‘Was it generally known?’
‘Generally — that is a vague word. No, it was a dead secret. But a secret shared by many people in high places.’
‘When did it begin?’
‘Oh, the first arrangements were made as early as 1938. But it was not until 1942 that the real work began. And by 1944 Istanbul had virtually become a German supply-base.’
‘How was it worked?’
‘It was simple. Your oil tankers came from Arabia through Suez, and sometimes — when the port of Alexandria was too full to take them — they came up to Istanbul to take on supplies, and sometimes change crews. It was not unknown for them to change cargoes too. But the bulk of the oil came up in small tankers on private charter — usually to a Swiss or Swedish concern — carrying fuel which was supposed to be intended for Turkish internal consumption. The amounts were excessive, and your Government constantly complained to ours. But Faik Oztrak and his friends — they were our Government at the time — were able to play games with the British, knowing how keen you were that Turkey should join the war on the Allies’ side.’
‘We must have been pretty naive!’
‘Some of you were naive. Some not. It wasn’t just Oztrak and certain other members of the Turkish Government who were privy to the secret. There were British officials involved as well.’
‘Do you know who these officials were?’
‘Ah. Now, Mr Hawn, everything I have just said is merely the meat of good cafe gossip. But do not presume too much of me. The real information will cost you money. What exactly do you want?’
‘Everything you know. Names, dates, facts, and proof — above all, proof to back it up.’
Salak took out his pipe, but made no effort to light it; then spoke, in the refined English accent which jarred so grotesquely with
his appearance: ‘The information will cost you a quarter of a million Turkish lire. I would prefer a harder currency, but I am rather low in funds at the moment, and the money will come in very useful.’
Hawn made a rapid calculation: at the current rate of exchange, the man was asking for nearly five thousand pounds. It was not the sum that troubled Hawn, since it was not his money — it was Pol’s. On the other hand, he did not know how high the Frenchman was prepared to bid — presumably happy to leave that to Hawn’s judgement and discretion.
He decided to play for time. ‘Mr Salak, I’d like to make one thing quite clear. Miss Admiral here and I have done a great deal of work on this story, and have already gathered a great deal of information — including names. If the stuff you sell us turns out to be trivial or inaccurate, we shall know.’
If Salak took this to be some kind of clumsy, ineffectual threat, he showed no sign of it. ‘I shall expect the money before the banks close the day after tomorrow.’
Hawn decided to fall back on what initiative was left him. ‘Before we finish this discussion, I want to be sure that you know what you’re talking about. I mean no offence, but I only know you by reputation — and very long-distance at that. Let’s have some more of your cafe gossip, and see if it ties in with what I already know.’
To his surprise, Salak nodded vigorously. ‘I agree. I do so as a gesture of trust. There is no point in doing business together unless we trust each other.’
Hawn thought of remarking that the British had trusted Salak in the war — trusted him as their exclusive agent, while the Germans had also trusted him, to more advantage. But Salak gave the impression not only of being a man with whom it would be unwise to argue: it would be doubly unwise to dispute his good faith. He left Salak to continue.
‘If you know anything about shipping, you will understand that the process was really remarkably simple. For every ten tankers that docked in Istanbul, there was usually one captain who could be bribed. The crews would be changed, the flag changed, even the name of the ship painted out during the night. After that it was a matter of supplying the captain with false papers and new Bills of Lading. The Germans, as you know, were expert forgers. In Istanbul they had one of their best teams on the job.
Dead Secret Page 17
