Peachy-pink light seeped into the room through floor-to-ceiling windows as the sun set behind the arched domes and needle-thin minarets dotted along Istanbul’s ancient skyline. Scarlet-red flags emblazoned with Turkey’s white crescent moon fluttered in the warm dusk breeze. She half shut her eyes and gazed at the sunset through thick lashes, letting the soothing buzz of anonymous voices speaking in tongues from every corner of the globe wash over her. Essie lifted her drink to her lips and took a sip. Despite a churlish desire to prove him wrong, she couldn’t disagree with Adam Penney’s assessment; the şerbet was delicious. And the vodka was just what she needed to take the edge off the anxiety that had been building in her gut all day.
Outside, the haunting and melodic call to prayer rang out along Beyoğlu’s tangled laneways, summoning the faithful to worship. Each muezzin’s song was distinctive and dissonant. Just as Rome had its church bells, London had Big Ben and New York had its traffic, for Essie this would always be the sound of Istanbul.
‘Bloody heathens with their caterwauling,’ Penney lamented. ‘About as musical as a flock of tomcats on the job, if you ask me.’
No one did, thought Essie.
The Englishman continued. ‘Damned pity we had to traipse all the way to this goddamned outpost just to preserve the appearance of impartiality. Waste of time and money. Much rather we’d met up somewhere civilised. Paris. Rome. Anywhere but here.’
‘I like it,’ Essie countered.
‘Well, I suppose the city itself does have its charms. Shame about all the Turks, though.’
Garvé changed the subject. ‘And you, Essie? If what Adam tells us is right, then the countdown has begun. Have you everything we need?’
‘Almost. I’m visiting the archives at Topkapı tomorrow. The document’s there.’
‘So you’re going to leave me alone and defenceless, at the mercy of all my deathly dull colleagues?’ Penney made like a petulant child, lower lip protruding and arms crossed at his chest. ‘Who will I have to play with if you’re not with me?’
‘I’m sure you’ll be fine, Mr Penney. It’s the only chance I have to get the information we need. Without it, all this is a complete waste of time.’ She smoothed her skirt down over her hips. ‘On that note, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I need a good night’s rest.’
Penney reached out and took Essie’s wrist. Beneath the table his other hand brushed her thigh. It wasn’t accidental. ‘You won’t join me for dinner, then? There’s a market nearby with wonderful fish restaurants . . .’
‘No.’ She reclaimed her arm and stood. ‘But thank you.’
‘Well, remember what I said. Anytime you need a shoulder to cry on . . .’
‘Thank you. But I find tissues do the trick nicely.’
‘Fine.’ Penney shrugged. ‘“Yarın görüşürüz!” . . . Turkish for “See you tomorrow!” I’ve quite the gift for languages. Doesn’t take me long to pick up the lingo. Even this gibberish.’
Checking his watch, Garvé also took to his feet. ‘I’ll escort you out, Mrs Peters. I have another appointment to get to.’
‘So, you’re both leaving me?’ Penney signalled the waiter. ‘Well, I can’t be held responsible for my behaviour if I’m left without a chaperone . . .’
Garvé paused. ‘I’d recommend you keep your wits about you, Adam. This plan has been years in the making. You have an important part to play. Don’t do anything foolish.’
His voice was measured and changed little in pitch or tone. Yet it still managed to chill Essie to the bone.
‘What is he hiding from me?’
The domed ceiling soared above their heads as bellhops moved with muffled steps across the polished marble floors of the Pera Palace Hotel’s grand foyer.
‘Nothing,’ Essie replied. ‘He’s too arrogant for that. And too stupid. He doesn’t think he has anything to hide. Not from you, anyway.’
Garvé glanced into the bar where Penney had struck up a conversation with a group at an adjoining table. ‘Can we trust him to keep quiet?’
She paused. ‘From what I’ve seen, the only person he’s genuinely concerned about displeasing is his uncle. Although he’d never admit it, Penney owes him his job in the Foreign Office. He’d be a joke without family backing, and he knows it. That’s what will stop him talking. Besides, there’s a limit to the damage he can do.’
‘What’s your reading of the meeting today?’
‘The Americans are applying a great deal of pressure and it’s having an impact. There are dents in the resolve of some of the people we need onside to push the British agenda.’
‘The fuss the Yanks are making about backing Nasser – it’s all just hot air, of course.’ Garvé spoke below his breath. ‘They’re not interested in Arab emancipation. They just want to keep the British out so they can search for the tablet unimpeded. And British Intelligence informed me we’ve now got the Russians to worry about as well. They were privy to the same information all the Allies acquired after the fall of Berlin. I’ve spoken with associates in Moscow and Washington, and they confirmed that both nations have teams working to find it.’
‘What’s to say they haven’t already beaten us to it?’
‘Because they don’t have you, Essie my dear. They may not know it themselves, but you’re the real reason the British approached me for my help. An Englishman asking a Frenchman for assistance.’ He laughed. ‘Who would have imagined such a thing? But they need me. Such pride in the wealth of their museums, yet no idea how to furnish the cabinets that line their galleries. Their board members and curators have always known I can find them the impossible, not that they want to know the truth about what we’re forced to do to get the treasures they seek. And in my hunt for ancient relics, you’re my secret weapon.’
She smiled tightly. ‘Well, there’s no way anyone else is as close as we are to unearthing it. Once I’ve transcribed the document tomorrow, we’ll be ready to go. The others may have some vague idea about where to start looking, but we’ll have the exact location. If Adam manages to keep his colleagues on track, everything should go to plan.’
Garvé glanced once again at Penney holding court in the bar. ‘And how are you handling the . . . personal . . . aspects of your relationship with him?’
‘You’ve nothing to worry about. I’m more than capable of looking after myself.’
‘Nonetheless, be careful. He’s a man. Rumour is that he’s not one to be trusted around beautiful women. Can’t control himself. And despite your valiant efforts to project a respectable façade, he can smell your carnal soul.’
‘What a charming way of putting it. I’ll be fine.’
‘Just the same. Handle him carefully. We need him. For the time being, anyway.’
‘Was there anything else, Josef? Because if not, I really must . . .’
‘No. That’s all.’ He took her hand and raised it primly to his lips, a strangely old-fashioned gesture. ‘Please let me know as soon as you’ve returned from Topkapı tomorrow. A great deal depends upon what you find.’
‘Good evening, Mrs Peters.’ The lift attendant held open the wrought-iron gate and Essie stepped out into a lushly carpeted hallway.
Mrs Peters. Mrs Estelle ‘Essie’ Peters. Essie Peters. It had been an easy transition from the name by which Benedict Hitchens knew her – Eris Patras. She always ensured that her new name resembled the old when she adopted a fresh identity. It had been more than a year and she now wore her new persona like a close-fitting sheath. But answering to a name that resembled her former reduced the chance of slipping up as she transformed from one character to another.
She’d booked herself into one of the hotel’s grandest suites overlooking the Golden Horn. Adam Penney had been rather taken aback when they’d booked in and he’d found that his secretary was staying in a better room than his own. Essie justified it by saying that she was paying the difference so she could stay in the same suite she and her husband had preferred when staying in the city. None of th
at was true, of course. But Essie could easily afford the astronomical price of the larger room, and had decided to make the most of her visit. The one personal failing she could not seem to shake despite an otherwise disciplined existence was a sybaritic appreciation of luxury. When required she could sleep anywhere, eat anything, and tolerate physical discomforts that would have broken most. But given the choice between a single bed in a pension and a down mattress with Irish linen sheets . . . well, there was no choice.
She kicked off her shoes and stepped out of her clothes, leaving on her stockings and slipping a silk gown over her shoulders, loosely tying the belt at her waist. A bottle of Spanish vermouth stood on the dresser – she poured herself a generous slug and turned the light out in the room. Crossing to the window, she took a seat in a high-backed armchair facing the world outside but invisible to anyone other than someone on the far side of the Golden Horn with a high- resolution telescope. If she was being watched by such a well-equipped pervert, she didn’t care.
Framed by the heavy brocade curtains, the monolithic rose-madder buttresses of Hagia Sophia dominated the ancient district of Sultanahmet on the opposite shore. Corpulent clouds of smoke billowed from the chimneys of ferries idling by the Galata Bridge, awaiting commuters seeking passage across the Bosphorus to the Asian side of the city.
Benedict. As the reflection of sulphurous night lights sparkled on the velvety waters below, she thought of him treading the city’s cobblestoned streets. She sipped her drink. He was out there – she could feel his presence. Her throat constricted with desire.
She slipped her hand between her legs and her knees dropped apart as she recalled the feeling of his lips against hers. Stroking herself, she played with him in her mind – her full breasts pressed against his broad chest as her back arched and she slid her groin along his body, his legs clamped between hers. She was wet and swollen beneath her fingertips as she remembered him, strong and pulsing, sliding inside her. A warm breeze blew into her room and teased her naked body, exposed as the silk gown fell open. Fingers moving faster, she reached climax as she imagined him bucking and groaning above her, his head dropping forward onto her shoulder and his teeth digging into her flesh.
Taking a deep swig from the vermouth sitting on the table beside her, she exhaled deeply, relieved yet bereft. When Eris had become Essie, a woman whose husband had been tragically lost in an automobile accident, she had imagined Benedict Hitchens. It allowed her to mourn the loss of their relationship publicly and hold on to the feelings she had for him.
Returning to Istanbul had been a risk. But now that she was in the city, the hot rush of excitement at his proximity was tempered by a deathly wash of fear that he would somehow unmask her. It was unlikely – her appearance had changed so dramatically that he would scarcely recognise her – but the consequences of being discovered were grave.
She’d toyed with the idea of excusing herself from the trip. Although there was no denying that it was best that she visited the archives in person, there were many valid reasons Essie could have used for not wanting to leave London. If she’d briefed Garvé fully about what it was she was looking for, he could have gone in her place. But the thought that she would once again be near Ben scratched at her insides with hungry claws. She couldn’t stay away.
Like a bee to honey, or a moth to a flame, she thought to herself. Let’s just hope it’s not like a lemming to a cliff.
THE TIMES
25 October 1956
INCREASED BRITISH AND FRENCH NAVAL ACTIVITY IN THE MEDITERRANEAN
LONDON, Thursday (Reuters)
Attempts to negotiate a peaceful resolution to the dispute with Egypt appear headed for failure today. Britain and France remain committed to military action in Suez, a Reuters correspondent reports.
In recent speeches to the House of Commons, the British Prime Minister, Sir Anthony Eden, stated the government’s intentions and defined the issues with regards to the Suez Crisis. Declaring that the world’s commerce depends upon the Suez Canal, he stated that: ‘it carries goods of all kinds for Europe and America, for Australia and New Zealand, and for Eastern countries like Pakistan, India and Ceylon. It is, in fact, the greatest international waterway in the world.’
The Prime Minister’s condemnation of President Nasser’s actions was unequivocal. ‘This is how fascist governments behave; the world knows what it costs to give way to fascism. With dictators you always have to pay a higher price later on – their appetite grows with feeding. We have too much at risk not to take precautions. That is the meaning of the movements by land, sea and air of which you have heard.’
The Soviet Communist Party chief, Mr Nikita Khrushchev, was reported to have warned Britain and France about the consequences of becoming involved in a war with Egypt. He said if war were waged against Egypt it would be seen as a ‘just or holy war’ from the Egyptian perspective. If this were the case, Egypt would not stand alone, but would be bolstered by the assistance of volunteers from other Moslem nations elsewhere in the Arab world.
2
Istanbul
‘You’re certain it’s her? It’s not a very clear picture.’ Superintendent Hasan Demir handed over the small black and white photograph.
Benedict Hitchens’ fingertips gripped the sticky corner of the picture, crushing and creasing the paper. His heart was pounding.
‘Yes. No doubt at all.’ Recognise her? Despite his best efforts, he knew he’d never be able to forget her. The scars she’d left were still too raw. Yes, her hair was different – blonde, not the raven tresses he remembered. The light makeup, stockings, kitten-heeled shoes and tailored outfit were unlike anything he’d ever seen her wearing. But still, he knew. There was something in her carriage that was unmistakable – the knowing glint in her eyes and proud tilt of her head. Goose bumps prickled his skin and adrenalin surged through his veins – the Pavlovian response of a fieldmouse passed over by a falcon’s shadow.
The day had started with such promise. As the rising sun had filtered through the gauzy curtains in his first-floor bedroom, the low moan of a passing freighter sounding its horn had woken him from a deep and satisfying slumber. Ben had squinted his sea-green eyes against the encroaching sunlight and stretched his arms above his head until his back cracked. A delicate hand had slipped around his waist and he’d felt the yielding warmth of a body tucked behind his, her breath fluttering on his shoulder.
The news of his discovery of Achilles’ tomb on Mt Ida had galvanised public attention and attracted the interest of the most prominent practitioners in the field. When he’d opened the excavation he’d sought to employ the best professionals available. Fiona Melville was easily the most accomplished archaeological illustrator working in the Middle East, and Ben was relieved to know when she applied for a position on site that they had no personal history he had to worry about. With the emotional battery he’d endured in recent years, he’d sworn off ‘dig’ romances.
That resolution was tested once Fi – as she preferred to be called – made it clear she had other ideas. She was brilliant, fierce and beautiful, and just the type of woman Ben found irresistible. He didn’t stand a chance. Determined pursuit on her part eventually paid off and at the tail end of a long formal reception at the British Embassy to celebrate the conclusion of the excavation season, Ben invited her to his home. That had been three months ago, and Fi had showed no desire to move on. If Ben were honest with himself, when he wasn’t chafing against the unfamiliar cloak of domesticity, he enjoyed her company and was beginning to imagine a future quite different from the one he’d always pictured. Where once he’d imagined himself dying old, decrepit and alone, on the good days, he could now see the appeal of conjugal bliss.
So it had been on this morning before Hasan arrived to stir up the malignant ghosts from Ben’s past. Languid lovemaking was followed by breakfast served at a table set on the cracked and mossy tiles of the terrace overlooking the Bosphorus’ treacly waters. Like Ben himself, his newly acquired
house was a handsome edifice that had seen better days. But it was a significant improvement on the dingy one-bedroom Beyoğlu apartment he used to call home.
When she’d first seen his waterside mansion, Fi hadn’t said a word. She knew, of course, about Ben’s chequered past, because who didn’t? But she hadn’t asked whether or not he’d acquired the house from the proceeds of the illicit trade in antiquities that had caused his downfall and he was happy to avoid explaining his reversal of fortunes. Although Ben was learning that Fi’s enthusiastic embrace of a bohemian lifestyle meant she was open to experiences many frowned upon, he suspected she was unlikely to look too favourably upon his involvement in antiquities fraud on a grand scale.
Beneath a chestnut tree in the hazy autumn air, they were silent as they’d devoured their breakfast: fresh simit – the sesame-crusted bread rings synonymous with Istanbul mornings – crumbly white cheese, pucker-inducing dried olives cured in salt, boiled eggs, slices of fresh cucumber and the last of the season’s tomatoes. As the dappled light fell on Fi’s bare arms and the cries of gulls pierced the air, Ben had felt an unfamiliar but very welcome wave of tranquillity wash over him.
It had been short-lived. Hasan’s arrival was impeccably timed to cast a pall on his day.
‘So that’s her, is it?’ Fi leant over Ben’s shoulder and took the photograph from his grasp. ‘Hard to understand the appeal, really,’ she added. Her response was too quick; too defensive. When they’d first met, Fi had quizzed him about his romantic history, and although Ben knew better than to discuss historical entanglements with new lovers, one evening after a night of drinking and dancing in Galata’s jazz bars she’d caught him off guard. As he told her everything about the woman he’d fallen in love with and who’d twice betrayed him, Fi had comforted and consoled him. But regret for his lack of discretion wasn’t long coming. Her compassion for his failed romance soon waned and anytime Ben shied away from an expression of affection or commitment, she’d bring up ‘that bloody woman’.
The Emerald Tablet Page 2
