Sea of Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  ‘A journalist, eh?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘An Irish journalist, I see… where exactly is Ireland?’

  ‘In Europe, sir.’

  ‘I know it’s in Europe, but where?’

  ‘Near Britain, sir. He lives in the United States though and works for an American travel magazine.’

  More appreciative nodding. ‘You don’t get many journalists staying at your place, do you?’

  ‘Not any longer, sir, they tend to congregate at the Park Hotel these days. I guess because it’s so near the German consulate. That’s why I thought you’d be interested.’

  Inspector Uzun shrugged, making an effort to avoid looking too interested – too interested came at a price. But at the same time his interest had certainly been piqued. He was becoming desperate for a break and this could be what he’d been hoping for. Uzun held up the sheet of paper he’d been given. ‘And these are all his details?’

  The other man nodded.

  ‘And what’s he like?’

  ‘Rather pleasant. Doesn’t know much about Istanbul, seems rather excited to be here. He’s very grateful for all the information I’ve been able to give him.’

  ‘Anything to make you suspicious?’

  ‘No, not really. I checked his room when he went out this morning and there’s nothing unusual there, nothing to be suspicious about. There is one thing you may be interested in though.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘He was going to the Grand Post Office this morning to wire an article.’

  ‘He’s written one already?’

  ‘Yes, sir, he must have done so last night. He’d requested a typewriter for his room.’

  Inspector Uzun looked impressed. ‘Hard working, eh? A journalist writing rather than drinking! Well, thank you and keep me informed.’

  The inspector stood up and gestured to the door. The concierge also stood up but hesitated to leave the room.

  ‘I hope this information has been… useful, sir?’

  ‘Yes, but not yet useful enough for any payment, Ismet.’

  * * *

  Michael Eugene Doyle was so transfixed by the sights and sounds on the journey from the station to the hotel he’d made some of the mistakes he’d been warned about.

  ‘You’re a spy – an observer – not a tourist. It’s essential you remember that. Never be starry-eyed about a place or allow yourself to become seduced by it. Maintain a degree of detachment.’

  And then of course there was Gilbey’s instruction not to fall in love with the bloody place, which had seemed quite an unnecessary thing to say at the time but even on this short journey he had begun to see what he meant.

  He’d followed the porter from Haydarpasa station down to the ferry port and then onto the ferry which would take him across the Bosphorus, from Asia to Europe. During the short crossing he was mesmerised by the choppy black water – more like a sea than a river – and by the animated conversation and the smell of aromatic tobacco around him. At Karaköy pier on the European side he’d made two possible errors: he’d allowed the first porter who offered to take his case to do so and then followed him to a taxi, which he was assured was the best one in Istanbul if not in the whole of Turkey. At first glance the European side seemed more established, the buildings bigger but the noise was as intense as before. He was in the back of the taxi before it dawned on him he’d not bothered to check whether he was being followed and hadn’t made a note of the car’s registration number, all such basic procedures. He imagined Christine Wright asking him now to describe the people who’d sat around him on the ferry. He’d struggle to do so.

  He passed the taxi driver a slip of paper on which he’d written the name and address of the hotel and the driver asked him in passable English where he was from. He hesitated for a moment and noticed the driver’s deep black eyes move to fix their gaze on him in the rear-view mirror.

  Had he spotted the pause?

  Would he suspect anything?

  Michael Doyle explained he was Irish but lived in the United States and he—

  ‘…ah! So you’re American! My cousin lives in Chicago and—’

  Michael Doyle interrupted to explain that although he lived in America he wasn’t there very much, he travelled a lot and really he was Irish – from Dublin. There was a period of silence, Michael Doyle hoping the taxi driver didn’t have cousins in Dublin.

  He tried to make a mental note of their route but even if he’d been following it on a detailed street map he’d have lost his way after a couple of minutes. The driver headed up steep narrow cobbled streets, turned sharp corners into what amounted to little more than alleyways seemingly not wide enough for the car, slammed on his brakes when a lorry stopped in front of them and shouted angrily at the driver before reversing at hair-raising speed back down the alley and straight into a wider road.

  At one stage Michael Doyle worried they were going in a different direction but then spotted a sign for Beyoğlu, and soon after that the taxi turned into a road called Meşrutiyet before coming to a noisy halt outside a handsome turn-of-the-century building with tall Grecian-style pillars framing the entrance.

  Richard Prince had arrived at the Hotel Bristol.

  Except of course, Richard Prince was now Michael Doyle.

  * * *

  The hotel was somewhat grander than he’d expected. With its magnificent decor and refined air, the quietness about the place compared to the cacophony outside; it struck him this was a much smarter hotel than one would expect a journalist to be staying at. He recalled Gilbey mentioning something about the place.

  ‘You’ve been booked into somewhere quite decent in Istanbul, there’s no need to slum it.’

  And then Christine Wright had interrupted him. This wasn’t a treat, she said, and certainly not a holiday. ‘But a hotel of this class offers a degree of discretion and security you won’t find at lesser hotels, and in any case Travelling and Travellers is a wealthy publication with a decent expense account. If you stay at a hotel like the Park, which tends to be frequented by journalists, you could be drawing attention to yourself. Journalists are always suspicious of other journalists – I can’t say I blame them.’

  He was shown to his room on the fifth of the hotel’s six floors, its tall but narrow windows overlooking the front of the hotel, over Meşrutiyet. The hotel was on an elevated part of the city with sweeping views to the west, the waters of the Golden Horn glinting in the distance. Turkish flags – large ones – flew from the rooftops of many of the buildings, which along with the minarets – seemingly hundreds of them – adorned the skyline with a festive appearance.

  The room itself was on the small side, but very comfortable, and there was an en-suite bathroom which struck him as being the height of luxury and a writing desk with a typewriter already on it – the concierge had assured him it was the best typewriter in the hotel. A neat pile of foolscap paper was waiting by it.

  Michael Doyle tipped the bellboy who’d carried his case to the room and declined his offer to help him unpack. The handle on his suitcase was intact, the camera safe. He ran a bath and remained in it until the water was no longer hot and then lay on the bed, exhaustion setting in. It was Sunday afternoon now, the last Sunday of August. He’d left England the previous Saturday and it had been a gruelling journey, one he felt was unnecessarily long though he’d have been hard pressed to say how it could have been shorter. He just prayed he’d made no mistakes along the way. Baghdad still worried him.

  He must have dozed off because he awoke with a start, still wrapped in the bath towel, still slightly damp. His watch showed it was a shade before four o’clock. He needed to get to work.

  He placed the article Martin Mason had written to cover his journey on the Taurus Express from Baghdad to Istanbul on the desk and threaded two sheets of paper into the typewriter.

  DOYLE/ISTANBUL/29AUG

  ARRIVAL

  The slug began with a vowel so they’d know there was
no message in the article and therefore that he’d arrived safely; there was nothing to worry about. He laboriously typed it out exactly as Mason had written it: a detailed account of the journey, some historical background on the places they’d passed through and stopped at, various references to the train and plenty of what Mason called ‘colour’, which he’d described as painting pictures around the words to bring the article to life for the reader. He noted Mason’s use of colour, resolving to make more of an effort to use it himself. It wasn’t easy, the very opposite of how he’d write a police report.

  Once he’d finished he took Mason’s original article into the bathroom, tearing it up before setting it alight in the sink then gathering the ash and charred paper and flushing it down the toilet.

  The next article would be one he’d write himself.

  He’d thought about getting changed and going out to find somewhere to eat but the typing had taken longer than he’d expected and he was desperate to sleep. He wasn’t in the mood to explore Istanbul now.

  He walked down to the reception where the concierge, a tall man with thick slicked-back hair and the strong scent of cologne was eager to help. He introduced himself as Ismet and beckoned Prince over to his desk. He was glad, he insisted, of the opportunity to welcome such a distinguished and honoured guest to his hotel.

  ‘You must not hesitate, Mr Doyle, to call upon me whenever you require assistance. I can assure you,’ he leaned towards him, indicating his guest should do likewise and lowered his voice, ‘that no one knows Istanbul better than I do. If there is anything you require – anything, Mr Doyle – you must ask me first. Do you understand?’ On both occasions when he’d used the word ‘anything’ he’d winked.

  ‘There are customs and practices in this country and in Istanbul in particular they are quite unlike those you’ll be used to in the United States or in Europe, Mr Doyle. I would strongly urge you to seek my advice and assistance. You can be assured of my utter discretion. A concierge is defined by his ability to be discreet and his capacity for maintaining confidences. I must apologise, Mr Doyle, for my poor English. I worry that as a journalist you’ll have a poor opinion of me.’

  Prince assured Ismet that his English was in fact excellent.

  ‘That is very generous of you, Mr Doyle. I pride myself on having a smattering – is that the correct word? – of a number of languages.’

  He paused and Prince understood this was a cue for him to ask a question.

  ‘How many languages, Ismet?’

  Ismet shrugged modestly, nonetheless managing to convey the impression this was the question he was expecting. He held his left hand in front of Prince’s face and used his right hand to count the fingers. ‘French – of course – Arabic, some German, English, Russian – I used that more when I started working here but very rarely now – Italian…’ he’d switched hands now, ‘and Greek.’ He muttered ‘Greek’ in a dismissive way, as if it wasn’t really a language as such. ‘So with Turkish that is what… eight?’

  Martin Doyle said how impressed he was and from a drawer Ismet produced Doyle’s Irish passport: green and somewhat faded, the gold harp on the cover devoid of its sheen. His name was written in heavy black ink in a panel under the harp and the passport looked well used.

  ‘I see you have travelled widely, Mr Doyle – so many countries! And now you live in the United States. I have many relatives in the United States, maybe one day we can talk about that wonderful country.’

  Prince nodded, hoping that day wouldn’t be too soon.

  ‘And I understand you are a journalist with Travelling and Travellers? If you visit our library, Mr Doyle, you will see we have the magazine there. It is very popular with our guests. Tell me, what stories are you planning to write about Istanbul?’

  ‘Well, I was rather to hoping to get your advice. Oh – and by the way – can you tell me where I can find the Grand Post Office? I need to visit it tomorrow.’

  * * *

  ‘Before you’ve unpacked, a half-decent concierge will know everything about you. Be friendly by all means, Prince, and certainly use them as a source of information. But concierges in these foreign places are in the pay of everyone. Don’t be indiscreet and certainly don’t trust them, but do use them as a source of local knowledge.’

  Michael Eugene Doyle had therefore been most circumspect when he met with Ismet for coffee the following morning. The concierge had said he’d advise his new Irish friend where to go in Istanbul. They sat in an alcove in the bar behind reception and Ismet began by telling Doyle he looked good for a man of thirty-five.

  ‘You look even younger – for a man who has travelled so much! And tell me, what was Morocco like?’

  It was Ismet’s way of letting him know he’d studied his passport. Prince wondered who else had done so. But it was a pleasant chat and Ismet’s advice was helpful. They were drinking Turkish coffee, served in small cups with no milk; it was thick and grainy, slightly sweet and considerably stronger than any coffee he’d tasted before. As soon as he’d finished his first cup Ismet clicked his fingers and moments later a waiter appeared with two more cups on a copper tray, along with two glasses of cold water.

  ‘I see you like our coffee, Mr Doyle? It is an important part of our culture and it is good you are respecting it. We invented coffee as a drink, you know. We were the first people to roast the beans and then finely grind them. We add sugar before it is boiled and it is also traditional to add some cardamom. It is so strong we advise you drink it with water.’

  ‘It is wonderful – maybe I could write an article about Turkish coffee?’

  ‘A good idea! You are going to the Grand Post Office, correct? Well, I have a plan for you. Let me have your notebook.’

  At which point Prince was grateful he’d been instructed his notebook should be reserved for his writing and for nothing more suspicious than that. Ismet had picked it up and flicked through it, apparently looking for a blank page. It could well have been as innocent as that and when he found a new page he sketched a diagram.

  ‘You’ll be going over the Golden Horn to Eminönü. My advice would to walk from here and cross the bridge at Galata. The Grand Post Office is here, in Fatih. Nearby is the Egyptian Bazaar, which is a wonderful place to visit and write about, and the Yeni Mosque is there too – it’s sometimes called the New Mosque. And then you can go here – to Tahmis Sokagi, where you’ll find Kurukahveci Mehmet Efendi, the most wonderful makers of Turkish coffee.’

  * * *

  He’d taken Ismet’s advice. It was a pleasant half-hour meander through Beyoğlu to the pontoon bridge over the Golden Horn at Galata and from there another twenty minutes’ walk to the Grand Post Office.

  The process of wiring his first article to his magazine’s bureau in Zurich took the best part of an hour: he was required to fill in various forms, go to a separate counter to pay the fee, return with a receipt to show it had been paid, hand in the article and the forms, show his passport and then wait while the article was wired to Switzerland.

  He spent the rest of the day doing as Ismet had suggested: visiting the Egyptian Bazaar and the New Mosque before joining a long queue outside the Mehmet Efendi coffee shop on Tahmis Sokagi. He was constantly making notes, drinking in the atmosphere and seeking out the colour as Martin Mason had implored him to do.

  He continued like this for the next few days, taking Ismet’s advice on where to visit and immersing himself in the city, walking where and when he could. He took ferries up and down the Bosphorus, visited the Blue Mosque and the Hagia Sophia in Sultanahmet and the Topkapi Palace.

  He realised he was being more of a tourist than anything else and was aware of the need to get a move on with his mission and start looking for the chromium trail. But he was confident he could justify what he was doing: he’d entered another world, one he was quite unfamiliar with and was convinced needed time to get some sense of it and develop a feel for the city and its geography and of how it worked.

  But the
n of course there was Gilbey’s instruction: he was there on business; he wasn’t to fall in love with the bloody place.

  Except that was exactly what was happening and went a long way to explaining why at times he took his eye off the ball. This didn’t happen too often and when it did it wasn’t for very long. When he realised what had happened, he checked himself, looked around anxiously and would be relieved no one appeared to be watching or following him.

  He’d hurry on, alert now and mindful of his surroundings and quite unaware that when he’d dropped his guard and acted like a tourist, this was when he had been observed.

  Chapter 13

  Reading, England

  September 1943

  ‘You’re gabbling, dear. Why don’t you take a deep breath and then tell me what on earth’s happened?’

  She slammed the kitchen door shut and leaned against the side, arms folded tightly as she stared at him, her eyes furious and all the while breathing heavily, clutching a handkerchief which she used occasionally to dab at her eyes.

  ‘You look like you’ve been crying, dear.’

  ‘Of course I’ve been crying, you bloody fool!’

  Colin Summers was shocked and gingerly sat down at the kitchen table. In the nine years he’d known Jean, eight of them married, he had never heard her utter a profanity other than on one occasion when he’d overheard her swear because she’d pricked her thumb while darning his sock. He’d been brought up to understand that to swear was a sin.

  ‘You need to keep your voice down, Jean, you’ll wake the boy.’

  ‘The boy has a name, not that you care.’

  ‘Of course I care, dear, but I hardly see Neville during the week unless he wakes up and—’

  ‘Well, after what happened today you may never see him again – and you’re to blame!’