by J M Bannon
“Really?”
"Yes, try it,” replied the Captain. Rose dropped into the chair and put her hands on the wheel noticing it would not budge.
“Put your feet on the pedals and hold the wheel. Your feet and the steering wheel control how the ship turns. If you push the column forward or backward, it directs the nose of the ship up and down. On your right that brass handle is the inclinator it controls the amount of air in the ballonets. I am going to release this lever and the controls will unlock, be prepared.”
Reidun released the control lock and simultaneously, Rose felt the power of the airship. She could feel the crosswind trying to push the balloon. “Keep your eye on the compass and hold it on the heading of two hundred southwest.”
“And that’s how I became a pilot. One day while accompanying my father in an airship the Captain let me sit at the controls and fly. My father was the engineer on a Danish freighter, it was just him and me. One afternoon after countless days of hanging about asking questions he let me sit in the Captain’s chair, and just like that I got a taste of flying. Now mind you I wasn't a pilot at that moment I was just a little girl in a chair hoping to not lose control. It took years of training and lots of fighting to convince someone to let me pilot my own ship, but it was that moment I knew this was what I was meant to do. When I feel immersed, floating in this invisible field, mostly in control but other times at the whim of the wind; it is exhilarating,” gushed Falk.
“I know what you mean. It is similar to my work in the metaphysical,” compared Rose.
“And how does one become the White Witch of London?"
“I hate that name,”
“My apologies, I meant it in jest” explained Falk.
"I know it comes with the territory. In many ways, you and I are similar, as a little girl I always wanted to know more about why - I mean the big why of the Universe. I also had dreams that made me feel like I was just one step away from knowing. Chasing that brought me to the Sisterhood then out of that experience, things manifested the way they are, I didn’t choose the path it chose me, I guess..."
“What about Mr. Gilchrist, how did you meet? “asked the Captain.
“At an asylum.”
"That’s not a surprise, were you both patients?"
“No, I was still a Nun doing Gods’ work at the asylum and met Preston who was a patient, his father had him committed. He began talking to me; not him but the cleric he had this connection with. At first, it all seemed to be gibberish of the insane, and I did not make much of it, but later when I had vivid metaphysical experiences his strange ramblings didn't seem so strange anymore. So I went to him, not as a Sister trying to help a lunatic but as someone seeking advice and he was able to provide guidance. Since then we have always been able to count on each other.”
“Fascinating. Now, before I take the controls back, let's have you try a few maneuvers.”
16
Saturday the 9th of June 1860
1:55 p.m. Streets of Constantinople
It took all of Rose’s concentration to tail Preston in the busy streets. She laughed to herself as she walked. Back at the hotel, she was sure it would be easy to spot him in the crowd, His baggy salvar pants, yemeni slippers, and embroidered caftan fashioned over a tunic were quite the fetching costume. Oh, then there was that fez. Out in the markets around the Eyeb Mosque the crowds were thick with Turks dressed in a similar manner with the same slight build that Preston carried.
To infiltrate the Ottoman city, they had rented a room under the names of Mr. and Mrs. Solomon Angel. After settling in Preston shopped for clothes in the local market, returning with his Turkish ensemble and an outfit for Rose. Her new clothing also included a caftan and salvar pants as was common for middle class women in the city; but she would have to get used to the veiled headdress.
The two left the hotel at different times. Rose first, then Preston who took a pre-planned path that would cross where Rose would wait and tail him from a distance to the meeting location. The closer they got to the mosque the harder it became to keep an eye on him. Crowds were growing and thickening. The unfamiliar streets added to the confusion while the exotic sights and sounds distracted her from the primary task of watching Preston's back.
Rose stayed near the stalls and shops in the plaza outside the mosque walls pretending to browse. It was an awkward situation given there was no specific location or signal they knew of, only to be at this mosque at two p.m.
Preston strolled around the plaza, then entered into the courtyard of the mosque and mausoleum. He loitered by fountains; browsed vendor stalls, but no one approached him. By the time it was three o'clock and nothing had happened he signaled Rose that he was done for the day by taking out a newspaper and reading it.
Rose left him and zig-zagged her way to Balaban Yolu street and there she waited by the food stalls.
“Maybe I figured this out wrong?” queried Preston even before she could acknowledge him.
“I am no expert on puzzles and languages, that is why I hang around with you. Does your companion think you have made a mistake?” asked Rose.
“He agrees that we got it right,” confirmed Preston as they moved along the street past other vendors.
“Maybe she was there and wanted to observe or she was spooked by something. We’ll come back tomorrow,” proposed Rose.
“All this kerfuffle for what?” Preston looked back at the mosque as if he should go back.
“Relax, we have no other lead. When we get back to the hotel, I will have a bath and you can rack your brain over the clues one more time.” Rose had nothing to offer but moral support.
Preston browsed a stall in the bazaar and took interest in what one clothier was selling. He and the shop owner spoke to each other.
What is it they speak here? Rose pondered. I really need to work on my language skills.
“I am going to try on this caftan," warned Preston.
“You're kidding me. Where are you going to wear that other than here?”
“I’ll wear it around the manor. feel hmmm, silk, exquisite quality, I could just wear it with nothing underneath. Rose moved the garment between her thumb and forefinger while Preston took off his shoulder bag and caftan. "The fabric is luscious,” said Rose.
The shop keeper exhibited, “Venetian silk” then pointed to other items hanging in his stall, “dress shirts, Egyptian cotton”
“Oh, I like those shirts too, one moment Rose, while I try one on.” Preston said something to the merchant who pointed to a fabric covered archway into the building.
“I’ll be back there where I can undress in privacy and try the shirt.” He disappeared behind the curtain into a room where the shopkeeper lived and kept his inventory.
Rose looked at another caftan. This would be nice to wear around the house to lounge in. The shop keeper unfolded it and tried to persuade Rose to try it on. She was in the midst of removing the one she wore when two men came up to the stall and went in behind the curtain. The shop keeper was yelling at them but they ignored him, before she could react she heard a crackling electrical noise and what appeared to be lightning flashes behind the curtain.
As she moved towards the archway to see what happened she felt a hand close around her upper arm; a strong hand. She glanced down to her bicep and saw a thick leather and metal glove with tubes and mechanical devices connected to it. It was dense and clumsy. She followed the hand up to the face of a dark-complexioned fellow with a black moustache. He was not looking at her but down at the glove. When her eyes returned to the glove, she saw him action a switch sending sparks down the glove and into her arm, an ozone smell filled the air.
She sensed the shock in her chest just before the blue arcs of electricity flew and up and around her body when the capacitor discharged from the glove. Rose fell limp to the ground, paralyzed, unable to move a muscle.
Laying on the ground she watched her assailant throw aside the curtain, Preston suffered the same experience convulsi
ng on the floor as the two men stood over him.
One man picked Preston up and threw him over his shoulder. She knew he was a slight man, but he looked like a tiny rag doll when the big Turk hefted him up and walked out stepping right over her. The other two both wore similar metal - leather gloves, pulling them into the cuffs of the caftans they wore and made haste into the crowded street.
Rose couldn’t even turn her head to see which way they went.
* * *
5:10 p.m. Lobby of the Kayeil Otel
Cool air from the lobby met Rose at the entrance of the hotel, a respite from the hot and humid streets. The doorman gave her a smile and a nod holding the door opened as she plodded in. Hazy as to the time of day or route she took from the mosque to the hotel, Rose was just happy to have found her way back after finally regaining muscle control.
Approaching the lobby desk the clerk met her gaze at him “Mrs. Angel, how was your afternoon?”
“Troubled. Can I please send an International wire?"
“No issue with your stay, or your room, I hope?”
"No, no, just a bit of a personal emergency. The wire, sir," she asked again.
“Sorry, we do not have one in the hotel, you can transcribe it and I will send a bellhop to the local transmittal office," suggested the clerk.
“I need to assure the wire is sent, where is the office … and can I get a glass of water?”
Rose walked from the front desk and sat in a lounge area. The clerk barked orders in Turkish then left the counter returning with a glass of water. “Should I fetch a physician, you may not be used to the heat and humidity this time of year.”
“Just the water, thank you,” Rose answered with a vacant stare.
A servant boy ran to the clerk’s side with a tray carrying a pitcher full of water.
Rose gulped down the water then set it on a side table letting out a gasp of satisfaction.
“More water?” asked the clerk.
“Yes please," replied Rose.
“You fair skinned ladies can have a hard time in the open streets. If you go out again let me arrange a carriage,”
“Could you please write out directions to the wire office? I need to send an urgent message,” Rose realized she was repeating herself but needed to to hold on to the idea.
The clerk refilled the glass and handed it to Rose.
"Thank you," keeping an eye on him as she drank.
“When you are ready, Samir here will take you to the post to place your wire.” The clerk spoke to the boy in Turkish. The boy then bowed and said “post” with a smile.
“Let’s go,” said Rose as she nodded and smiled at the boy, who walked to the door waving her to come “post, post,” he said.
The wire office was just down the block, the boy did not enter but pointed to the open archway with İmparatorluk telgraf ve kablo- istasyon-21 written above the door.
Rose entered. It was busy. Patrons queued up into three lines facing the clerk windows, a bench full of young boys like Samir chatting amongst themselves. Behind the counter, Rose could see there were four wire-type terminals operated by another eight to ten men. Rose queued up in line nearest the bench of boys.
The worse part of standing in the queue was she that couldn’t understand the language, so she had no clue where they were with each customer. Was the sweaty man in front of her just starting? Was he talking to the clerk about some gossip? Not being able to eavesdrop on the translation rendered into clenched teeth, crossed arms and increasing the rapidity of her foot tapping.
Then suddenly, the man stepped from the counter giving Rose a friendly nod and it was her turn for service, stepping up to the counter it hit her she had no money or ability to speak the language.
The clerk asked her something while he organized the work counter.
“Do you or anyone here speak English?” Rose asked.
The Clerk looked at her then looked towards the back of the shop and shouted to the group. A young Turk in a waistcoat with shirtsleeves gartered up at his elbows, turned to the call of the desk clerk “I speak English,” the man set down some papers at the wire-type he was standing near and walked to the counter.
“How may I help?” asked the young man.
“Your English is superb,” replied Rose.
“Thank you, I used to work wire-type for the East India Company before returning home to Istanbul.”
“Well, I am in a bit of a fix. I am staying at the Kayeil Otel and I have not brought my purse, don’t speak Turkish and need to send an urgent wire to London.” Rose explained.
He pursed his lips under his mustache. Then yelled at one of the boys sitting on the bench who jumped up and ran out of the shop "dictate your message. I sent the boy to confirm with the manager at the Hotel. They have an account and we will bill them. What they charge you, I cannot say, that will be between you and them. You may begin."
“Thank you for your understanding and help," she replied.
The man said nothing, he stood looking at her stone-faced.
Rose took the pen from his hand and slid the paper from his side of the blotter to hers and wrote out:
SCOTLAND YARD
DETECTIVE WILLIAMSON
DOLLY,
PRESTON ABDUCTED.
I WAS ATTACKED DO NOT FRET I AM FINE.
AT A LOSS FOR WHAT TO DO NEXT.
RETURNING TO PEREGRINE AT ISTANBUL MEHMED AERODROME.
ROSE
She then passed him the paper “not for the public ears. When can that go?”
The man conversed in Turkish with two of the operators giving him some response, he then turned to Rose “twenty minutes.”
“It’s quite dire,” pleaded Rose.
“I can expedite the transmittal and have it sent next for a ten lire fee. Again, what you will be charged by the hotel, I don’t know.”
“Fine. Expedite the wire I will wait for the confirmation,” added Rose.
17
Saturday the 9th of June 1860
5:30 p.m. Undisclosed location, Istanbul
Preston awoke in a small room, a strange man sitting on a stool at his bedside. It wasn’t a dream, he had been seized and was being held in a city house bedroom. He could hear all the noises near the urban center of Constantinople. The kidnappers had dragged him up and down alleys, through countless courtyards and as much as he tried to keep track of where they took him, it was all too confusing.
The final destination was a house in town where they threw him on this bed. Still unable to move, just as he got feeling back in his face, the fellow with the electro glove returned once more and gave him another shock. Unable to talk, or move, just drooling, he lay on his side watching the man who sat on the stool looking at him.
Maybe out of boredom or all of the day’s activities he had fallen asleep. Now fully awake, the same guard or captor sat there just eye-balling him, Preston was unsure if it had been five minutes or five hours.
With great effort, he tried to move and found that he could, first his mouth then he brought his hand to his face, everything worked. He stretched the muscles in his face and recognized how placid and disconnected he felt. There was no active presence of Azul, no voice in his head. No rambling old man criticizing his work. Where is the book?
“Do you need help getting up?” asked the man on the stool.
“Can I? Or is your mate going to zap me again?”
“Only if you try to leave, but you don’t want to go yet until you connect with Doctor Traube. That is why you are here?” his captor questioned.
“You speak English?”
“I do, as a courtesy, you are a guest.”
Preston sat up inhaling a deep breath. He felt calm, numb, at peace. “I would hate to see how you treated your enemies.”
“I understand your sarcasm. I would be resentful too if treated similarly. Would you like tea?”
Preston sat up on the edge of the bed.
“There are clean clothes over there,” The ma
n offered.
Preston saw there was a pile of clothes on a small table and got up to look closer. He picked them up and went behind the screen. He changed out of his soiled clothing, noting the new ones were simple like those of a lower-class tradesmen or vendor, rough but clean.
Preston heard footsteps then a voice, ordering the man on the stool to step outside in Turkish. “I am Ahmed Pasha, Vizier of the Order of Hermes,” said the new voice. Preston peered over the screen to see a gentleman in European dress wearing a fez, he may have just have been five foot tall.
“Well, Vizier Ahmed Pasha, since this is my first kidnapping I am unsure of the protocol for addressing you but I won’t feign my pleasure.”
“Understood, and my sincere apologies on your treatment. While I am keen to make your acquaintance and to use your talents on our mission, I cannot say I approve of the skullduggery, but I am one of many and was overruled.”
"But you are a Vizier," Preston probed.
"It is a role of advisement and consultation, not dictatorship. I do often find my advice disregarded or countermanded; it requires thick skin my friend, it really does.” Ahmed sat on the bed Preston had laid on. “Many times, it has rung through my head, ‘I told you so’ after the good council given was thrown to the rubbish heap, but to see good advice go unheeded is the cross a Vizier must bear. I hope you don't mind me borrowing that Christian metaphor.”
“Are you Muslim?”
“Yes, by upbringing and culturally but are you familiar with the Order of Hermes?”
Preston came from around the screen and stood over the man. His feet barely touched the ground, “Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, you mean those chaps?”
The slight man chuckled and shook his head “No, no, no, while they are - l let us say a western interpretation, not true direct descendants of the Temple of Thoth and Hermes the Thrice.” Explained Ahmed.
