by Alex Gerlis
* * *
‘Come in, Buchan, rare of you to grace us with your presence at the consulate. To what do we owe the pleasure?’
Buchan helped himself to a single malt from the sideboard in Bryant and Stone’s office and sat down in the most comfortable chair, gesturing for the two men whose office it was to do likewise.
‘An Irishman who I’m not totally convinced is an Irishman.’
‘That’s all? Doesn’t sound like one for us, does it, Stone?’
‘Turned up in the bar at the Park at lunchtime. Works for an American magazine called Travelling and Travellers. Says he’s an Irishman called Michael Doyle, born in Dublin, lived in England as a child, then ended up in the States. Reasonable enough chap, I suppose, said he was here to do a series of features, but the more he talked the less Irish he sounded, if that makes any sense. He started off sounding Irish then sounded more English. Top this up, will you please, Stone, there’s a good chap.’
‘That in itself doesn’t sound like something that ought to concern us unduly, eh Buchan?’
‘Then he steered the conversation on to Turkish trade, said his magazine wanted him to do something on it which slightly alerted me – doesn’t sound like their bag at all. Then he asked what we knew about Turkish exports to Germany and became rather specific, wanted to know what any of us knew about coal and chrome and if they were being exported to Germany, where they may being shipped from.’
Bryant and Stone looked at each other.
‘Do you chaps know anything about him?’
‘Not a thing, Buchan. Who were the other journalists with you?’
‘Silver from the Los Angeles Times, chap from the Globe and Mail in Toronto and Rochat from Geneva.’
‘All trustworthy?’
Buchan gave them an amused look. ‘None of them are German spies, if that’s what you mean. Well,’ said Buchan, hauling himself out of the chair, ‘I’ll leave it with you chaps. I daresay you may want to have a word with London, eh?’
* * *
Michael Doyle returned to the Hotel Bristol after spending the whole afternoon in the fifth-floor bar at the Park Hotel. It had been convivial enough, perhaps too convivial given how light-headed and unsteady he now felt. But the purpose of the visit had been to discover some evidence of the chromium trail and in that respect it had been a failure. Looking back on it, he recognised his attempts to raise the subject may have come across as being somewhat heavy-handed. The presence there of the taciturn Buchan from The Times had been disconcerting. He didn’t like the way he looked at him through his cigar smoke, as if he were suspicious of him.
He was nowhere near accomplishing his mission and was beginning to wonder how much longer he could carry on. He wasn’t someone who was familiar with failure; he’d done well at school where he was popular, clever and good at sport. As soon as he’d joined the police he’d been marked out as a high-flyer and had more than exceeded expectations. His first mission as a British agent had been at a cost, though had been regarded as a great success. Now he was contemplating failure and it had a distinctly bitter taste to it.
The one morsel he had was the Canadian journalist saying cargo like chrome was more likely to be shipped from a dock on the Asian side of the river. But that was not a lot to go on and as morsels went, it was a pretty feeble one to feed to London but he felt obliged to do so in his latest article which he’d file tomorrow, Thursday.
He spent an hour composing the message and then a further hour rewriting his article on the Bosphorus walk, ensuring it was worked in as the third word in every third sentence: promising progress chromium hunt evidence to follow soon ends.
* * *
‘I wondered if you could perhaps recommend an agreeable bar or somewhere for me to visit this evening, Ismet?’
It was early on the Thursday evening and Michael Doyle was at the concierge’s desk in the lobby of the Hotel Bristol. He’d filed his third article from the Grand Post Office that morning. A telegram had been waiting for him poste restante from Traveller Zurich. Accompanied by an impressive array of stamps was a simple message:
BAZAAR STOP LOOK FORWARD TO MORE ARTICLES SOONEST STOP
* * *
From the Grand Post Office he caught a ferry from the quay at Eminönü. The ferry was to head north up the Bosphorus as far as the Rumeli fortress, sailing closer to the European shore and then returning south, keeping closer to the Asian side. Prince hoped this would give him a good opportunity to study the Asian side for likely docks before returning there on foot the next day.
But it didn’t work out. The prevailing current in the Bosphorus was north–south, and with a strong wind coming in from the Black Sea the southwards journey was choppy and too fast. A squall had broken out and before long a mist descended on the river. There was very little Prince could see and what he could didn’t seem very promising.
When he returned to the hotel he had a bath and decided on his next course of action. He’d visit the Asian side and see what he could find there; he’d give himself to the middle of the following week and if he’d made no progress he’d have to tell London, suggesting he return home.
But before that he had one more place to visit.
* * *
‘There’s a place in Istanbul which it would be… remiss of me not to mention to you, Prince. I’m not suggesting you visit it, in fact you may well wish to steer well clear of it, but at least you need to be… aware of it.’
It was one of the warm summer nights when Tom Gilbey dropped into the safe house in Holland Park apparently for a friendly chat and to see how his agent was getting on. Before Prince realised it Gilbey was briefing him on an important aspect of his mission.
‘It’s a bar in an area called Unkapani, which is just south of the Golden Horn, I’m told. In truth the bar – the Kayseri – acts as a front for a brothel, quite an upmarket one if that doesn’t sound too paradoxical. The place is run by a Bulgarian chap called Vasil and there’s a man called Ulrich who has connections with it – we think he may be Swiss German, though it’s quite possible he’s German. Are you following me?’
Prince said he was, though he was waiting for Gilbey to come to the point.
‘I don’t propose to go into much detail, Richard, not least because we’re not very clear ourselves, but suffice it to say we have reason to believe the place may have a link to the chromium trail. I’m telling you this so you know about it – your investigations may draw you there, Richard. If you do find yourself visiting the Kayseri you need to be very careful – approach with caution.’
Now he was asking Ismet to recommend a bar and it wasn’t going terribly well.
‘We have an excellent bar here, Mr Doyle, sir, and it would be an honour for us to have you as our guest there this evening…’
‘That’s very kind of you, Ismet, it really is, but I was hoping to get out and about in the city, if you know what I mean.’
The concierge looked at him quizzically. ‘This is not a night to go out and about, Mr Doyle, sir. I’m afraid our Istanbul rain can be most unremitting, is that the correct word?’
‘It is Ismet, but as a good Irishman I’m well used to rain. I was hoping to visit some part of your wonderful city I’d not been to yet. You never know, I may find a good subject for an article – less well-known parts of Istanbul, more traditional perhaps. What about this area…’ he pointed to a spot on his map ‘…Unkapani?’
Ismet shrugged, unimpressed. ‘I cannot imagine what you’d find interesting there to write about.’
‘Are there any bars or clubs there maybe?’
Ismet shrugged again. ‘None that come to mind.’
‘A colleague in the United States told me he’d been to a bar there called the Kayseri. Have you heard of it?’
Ismet said nothing for a moment, seemingly waiting for his guest to say something else. ‘Really, Mr Doyle, sir? I think the material you may find there would not be suitable for an article in your esteemed magazine. It is no
t a place guests from the Hotel Bristol would normally visit. However,’ he dropped his voice and leaned towards Prince, ‘should you wish to have some female company tonight I can arrange something…’
‘…if you could arrange a taxi to take me there I’d be most grateful, Ismet.’
* * *
Buildings leaning unfeasibly close to each other across winding narrow streets; the usual climbs, drops and sharp turns; dogs barking; cables threaded out of windows and across roads; incessant rain; pavements suddenly disappearing; the ubiquitous cry of the muezzin; minarets and of course the national flag filling the few gaps between buildings.
Michael Doyle’s first impression of the area was not an altogether favourable one. He could see what Ismet meant: on the face of it there was little in Unkapani that would be of interest to the readers of Travelling and Travellers. He indicated to the taxi driver he should drive past the Kayseri and drop him further down the road. The driver gave him the same quizzical look as Ismet had. It was a look which asked whether you’re sure – or maybe mad.
This didn’t look like an area where many taxis passed by and he wished he’d asked Ismet to tell the driver he should wait for him, however long it was. He’d have assured him he’d be properly rewarded. But neither he nor the driver had enough common language to make that arrangement. Prince just had to hope that an establishment like the Kayseri would be up to ordering him a taxi when he needed it.
The driver had turned into an even narrower street a block past the bar. It seemed to be a dead end, the dark shadow of a high building looming at the end of it. But in the headlights Prince could make out the shape of two or three modern cars ahead of him. They seemed out of place there and when he got out he noticed one was a Mercedes. He didn’t know whether to be reassured or otherwise.
The bar wasn’t hard to find, a whitewashed building with the name ‘Kayseri’ picked out in wrought iron above an open arched entranceway which Prince walked through. At the end was the silhouetted figure of a doorman who looked him up and down and nodded when Prince said, ‘Good evening.’ The doorman unlocked an iron gate which led into a small courtyard and pointed across it to an open door, through which spilled a pool of orange light and the sound of a woman laughing.
Prince was used to bars and pubs falling silent when he entered them. As a police officer he was more or less certain he could reduce a bar to silence as he walked in, even when not in uniform. He’d come to expect one or two people to slide out as he entered. So it was as he entered the Kayseri. The door led into a narrow but apparently quite long room, with what appeared to be the kind of velvet wallpaper his grandmother had and a series of banquettes along the side. The noise level in the room dropped as he entered it, all eyes on him. A man with an elaborate moustache and a shiny suit appeared in front of him, his eyebrows raised: ‘Can I help you?’
‘Ah, good evening… I was wondering if I’d be able to get a drink?’ Prince was unimpressed by his own response. He wasn’t even sure he’d used an Irish accent.
‘With pleasure, sir.’ The man bowed slightly and smiled. ‘And where are you from… what brings you to Unkapani?’
This man had more of an Eastern European accent than a Turkish one. ‘The place is run by a Bulgarian chap called Vasil.’
He replied he was an Irish journalist, had heard this was an interesting bar and thought he’d try it. This wasn’t going well: he shouldn’t have said he was a journalist and he regretted using the word ‘interesting’.
The man he took to be Vasil said it was a pleasure and an honour and he was most welcome. He moved aside to show him to the bar and as he did so leaned close to him. ‘If you have come here, sir, for a woman we have a very beautiful Italian lady who will be waiting for you… and we also have a girl from Africa who arrived just this week… very young.’
Prince coughed. ‘Quite possibly, but perhaps if I could have a drink first?’
At the bar he ordered a large whisky which came in a glass full of ice which he hadn’t asked for and regarded as an anathema. Leaning against the bar he looked around the room. He thought the clientele in the fifth-floor bar at the Park Hotel had been interesting, like the cast from a detective novel. But in here it was so diverse it made the Park Hotel look like a gathering of the Rotary Club. The guests were all men, mostly sitting on their own, nursing drinks and casting suspicious looks around the room. One banquette housed a group of four men; they looked similar, and he could have sworn he caught drifts of Spanish when they spoke. They’d briefly stopped speaking when he came in and one of them had smiled pleasantly at him. Two men at another banquette looked distinctly Germanic. There was a smattering, as Ismet would call it, of women in the room, all elaborately made up, with low-cut dresses and intense interest in the nervous men they were talking to.
He moved along the bar towards the end of the room which was well lit and quieter. In the rear wall was a door covered in a padded, velvet-like material with a doorman in front of it. Every so often one of the men from the bar would approach it, usually with a female companion. Next to the door was a large mirror.
Prince caught half a dozen languages: Turkish and Arabic certainly, the Spanish he’d heard from the four men, possibly some German and almost certainly some French and a couple of others he couldn’t place. A woman walked past him, her shoulder brushing his as she did so. She paused and he held her gaze for a moment or two. She looked frightened and barely out of her teens.
The barman tapped him on the shoulder and was holding the bottle of whisky close to his glass. Prince shook his head. The barman didn’t seem the type it would be worth chatting to. He looked for someone sitting on their own he could join and strike up conversation with, but no one in the room looked like they were seeking male company.
As he leaned against the bar, toying with his whisky, he recalled Gilbey’s warning: ‘If you do find yourself visiting the Kayseri you need to be very careful.’ He wasn’t getting terribly far, but at least the place didn’t seem to be that dangerous.
* * *
In a windowless room at the end of the bar there was a knock on the door. It was a specific knock: two knocks followed by a pause then three rapid knocks, another pause and one more knock. There was a delay until a muffled voice from within the room said to wait. When the door opened it was done so by a tall man perhaps in his late forties with a shaven head and an annoyed expression on his flushed face. The man who’d knocked on the door was Vasil, the Bulgarian, the man in the shiny suit who’d greeted Prince.
The man who opened the door was still doing up his trousers and behind him a girl was sprawled on a couch, her naked body only very partially covered by a dress thrown on top of her.
‘What is it?’
‘I’m sorry to bother you but there’s a newcomer you may want to have a look at. He’s at this end of the bar, on his own – green tie, thirties. He told me he’s Irish.’
The shaven-headed man was still buckling his belt. ‘Very well,’ he said and closed the door with the Bulgarian on the other side of it. He turned to the girl who’d begun to get dressed and told her to wait; they weren’t finished yet. He turned off the one light in the room and pulled back a curtain, which revealed a large two-way mirror into the bar. He looked up and down the room, a silent opera performing in front of him. He settled his gaze on the man Vasil had told him about: a tall, smart-looking type leaning perhaps too casually on the bar, his back to it and clearly sizing up the room. There was something about him which sparked his attention. He told the girl to bring him a cigarette and waited until he’d smoked it before picking up a phone, not once averting his gaze from the Irishman at the bar.
‘Get Manfred for me now.’
Another pause while he finished his cigarette, all the while watching the man in the green tie. ‘I’m still at the Kayseri. There’s a man here I’m wondering about. You remember we had that alert from Baghdad about the Englishman who was seen with their Martindale – the one we somehow managed to l
ose when he got here? Can you recall the description of him?’
Talking from the other end of the telephone.
‘Uh-huh… you’re sure? In that case it’s him. No, don’t bother… I can sort this myself. And make sure you tell Scholz that Ulrich called, I’m not having you taking the credit for this.’
* * *
As Ulrich’s phone call ended Prince noticed that the group of four men at the banquette near the entrance were breaking up. This was the group who seemed to be speaking Spanish, one of whom had smiled pleasantly at him. The smiling man was now alone and he decided to join him. He slid into the seat and beckoned a waiter over and asked for another whisky, but no ice this time, and asked the smiling man what he’d like.
Events moved rather fast after that. Prince recalled the man shaking his hand and giving his name – Prince had already introduced himself as Michael, not Mike – but he couldn’t catch what the man had said. He’d spoken to the waiter in Turkish.
Then a man appeared at the table, a tall man with a shaven head and an angry expression. Behind him was the Bulgarian, wringing his hands as if he wanted no trouble.
‘Who are you?’ He spoke English with a distinctly Germanic accent. Gilbey had warned him about the Swiss German called Ulrich, the one who may be German. The shaven-headed man with an angry expression looked like an Ulrich.
Prince replied in German, explaining he was an Irish journalist who’d stopped by for a drink and maybe… for some company.
