The Emerald Tablet

by Meaghan Wilson Anastasios

  ‘Too tight?’ she asked beneath her breath.

  ‘No. I’m fine.’

  ‘Right!’ she yelled forcefully, winking at Ben as she stood upright. ‘You watch yourself, OK? I’m going back up to the cockpit – we’ll be taking off to Jerusalem in a minute. After that, I’ll be using you as bargaining chips back in Turkey!’

  ‘You’d be lucky to find anyone willing to exchange even a stale simit for my life,’ Ben responded. It wasn’t an exaggeration.

  THE TIMES

  2 November 1956

  BRITISH, FRENCH COMMENCE BOMBARDMENT OF SUEZ

  LONDON, Friday (Reuters)

  Silence from Westminster, but Paris Press declares: ‘We have landed.’

  Unconfirmed reports say British and French forces have landed in the Suez Canal Zone. Although there is an official news blackout in force until the British Prime Minister, Sir Anthony Eden, speaks, it was reported in the French evening newspaper, France Soir, that the landing operation began at dawn.

  Although no official confirmation has been issued by the British Government, in tacit acknowledgement of the report, the Foreign Secretary, Mr Selwyn Lloyd, has said: ‘There comes a time when men and government have to decide to act, and not to talk.’ Such action is justified by Britain as promoting the cause of peace in the region.

  If troops have entered the Canal Zone, it’s expected they will storm ashore over the next twenty-four hours to secure the cities of Port Suez, Ismailia and Port Said. French reports state that three thousand paratroopers have been dropped into Egyptian territory in advance of a full-scale amphibious landing.

  These airborne troops were met with fierce Egyptian resistance from tank, mortar and machine-gun fire. Cairo Radio claimed, ‘The entire population is taking part in the national resistance.’ Despite this, the Anglo-French forces were reportedly able to seize control of the Port Said airport and two strategically important bridges spanning the backwaters of the canal.

  In advance of the attacks, Colonel Anwar el-Sadat, managing editor of the semi-official Egyptian newspaper Al Gomhuryia, had warned Britain and France that the consequences of landing troops in the Suez Canal Zone would mean ‘there will be war to the last drop of our blood’.

  Retaliation from the Moslem nations has been swift. Saudi Arabia has cut all ties with Britain and France, and has ceased the supply of oil to their tankers. In Syria, army units demolished British oil pipelines. The British Government has declared that it holds the Syrian Government directly responsible for ‘these acts of sabotage and for causing the flow of oil to cease’.

  Britain’s allies quickly jumped to her defence. From Australia, the Minister for External Affairs, Mr Casey, branded Egypt as the true aggressor and said that Israel was the instigator ‘only in a technical sense’ and that the current Israeli attack on Egypt was a ‘completely understandable kickback’ by Israel after many years of provocation.

  It’s been claimed that British and French action in Suez will stop the inevitable march of war across the region and unmask Soviet military penetration into the Middle East. From Moscow, Russia cautioned Britain and France that the conflict would lead to World War III, saying she fully intended to ‘crush aggression’ and to re-establish Middle East peace. A Russian spokesman declared the government would not hesitate to use military force if necessary. The Soviet Premier, Marshal Bulganin, wrote to President Eisenhower, calling upon the U.S.A. to join the U.S.S.R. in a united military intervention to keep the peace.

  This occurs as the United Nations (U.N.) struggles to resolve the conflict. Despite nearly one hundred U.N. Security Council meetings to solve disputes between Israel and her Arab neighbours, there has been no lasting solution.

  This situation deteriorated further when, the British and French claim, Russia began sending arms to Egypt. ‘The plain fact is that the Middle East was becoming a forward base for the Soviet Union,’ said one source in the British Foreign Office.

  Egypt’s response to the U.N.’s inaction has been to threaten to leave the organisation because of what it describes as ‘its clear failure when confronted with the ambitions of the big imperialistic Powers’.

  Meanwhile, it is clear that the United States will not bail out Britain and France. It is widely acknowledged that relations between the U.S. and its chief European allies have fallen into a parlous state of disunity and conflict. This echoes global sentiment, which asserts that the Anglo-French move in the Sinai is completely illegal.

  The U.S., which has been attempting to establish stronger ties with the government of Colonel Nasser, objects to any action that will disrupt the delicate balance of power in the region. The U.S. has warned Britain and France in no uncertain terms that the military path they have taken could ignite a major war.

  President Eisenhower and John Foster Dulles, Secretary of State, are reported to be deeply angered at reports of the Allied move on the Canal Zone. They fear the action will galvanise the Moslem world and inflame a ‘holy war’ against Britain and France stretching from the shores of the Atlantic to the Persian Gulf.

  46

  Istanbul

  Ben’s instructions to the cab driver after they’d passed through customs at Atatürk airport had been unambiguous. ‘Police headquarters – quickly!’

  Seated at the opposite end of the bench seat in the back of the car, Essie’s brow was furrowed with concern as she toyed with her hands in her lap, her knuckles white as she flexed and intertwined her fingers. ‘Will we get there in time?’

  ‘I don’t know. I hope so. Hasan said he was going to follow him from the airport after he landed. But there’s no way of knowing whether or not things went to plan.’

  ‘If Garvé’s already met with them –’

  ‘Yes,’ Ben snapped. ‘Then the Israelis have the tablet. And there’s nothing we can do about it.’

  The flight from Jerusalem to Istanbul had been fraught and they’d landed in Turkey with their nerves in tatters. Not only was time running out if they were to intercept Garvé before he made the exchange, but as Ben had anticipated, Ilhan had succumbed to a raging fever as infection took hold. With only the most rudimentary medications and basic first aid equipment, there had been little Ben could do but watch his friend writhe in pain while poison flooded his veins and sweat ran off his body in sheets. He’d nursed Ilhan’s head in his lap and mopped his fevered brow while offering up prayers using whatever flimsy remnants of belief in a higher power he still retained.

  The pilot of the small plane Essie had arranged in Jerusalem radioed ahead and an ambulance was waiting for them as they taxied into Atatürk airport. Ben had felt a surge of relief when the doctor who’d examined his friend voiced no concerns about his prospects for recovery and promised that after an operation to repair the damage to his leg all he’d need was bed rest, fluids and an industrial-strength course of antibiotics. The peace of mind that came with knowing Ilhan would recover meant Ben could turn his attention to the next stage of their operation.

  Golden light streamed in through the cab’s window. The monumental double arches of the Valens Aqueduct framed the hills of Beyoğlu as they approached the steep descent to the bridge across the Golden Horn, its waters glittering in the morning sunlight.

  Despite his anxiety, it was comforting to see the peaked silhouette of the Galata Tower standing proud against the gentle mauve horizon. Home, he thought. He caught sight of Essie’s profile backlit against the sky and forced himself to look away.

  ‘So,’ he said in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘We need to work out what to do next. Now, you’re not the most popular person with the Istanbul police force.’

  She smiled ruefully. ‘No kidding.’

  ‘So when we get to the station, you won’t be able to come in with me,’ he said.

  ‘You’re not planning to go there with them, are you – to get the tablet back from him?’

  ‘Sure. I want to look that bastard in the eye when I take it.’

  Essie locked eyes with hi
m. ‘Do you really think that’s a good idea? Isn’t it best to let the police do it? Do you really want him knowing you’re involved in this?’

  ‘Yes. I do,’ he replied. Ben’s heart pounded with ferocious joy at the thought of confronting Josef Garvé and stealing something that meant so much to him, as the Frenchman had done to him so many times before. ‘But you can’t come with me. There’s a lokanta opposite police headquarters. You can wait for me there. Understand?’

  She nodded silently in agreement.

  The hint of crispness in the autumn air warned of the approach of winter, but the humidity that settled on their skin was still warm and cloying. Essie had rolled the sleeves of her linen shirt above her elbows, and her hands were linked in her lap. Although she and Ben had been studiously avoiding any physical contact, as the cab jolted its way down Atatürk Boulevard, the motion of the vehicle made them sway from side to side. The car swerved to avoid a pothole, sending Essie sliding along the bench seat until her hip pressed hard against Ben’s and her bare skin grazed his forearm.

  ‘Sorry,’ Essie mumbled, blushing, as she shifted herself back to the opposite end of the seat.

  Ben said nothing. Fighting the most primal of urges, he clenched his hands into fists and tried to distract himself from the burning hunger that was eroding his will.

  The cab passed beneath the broad arches of the aqueduct that the Byzantine Emperor Valens had built in the sixth century to carry water for the populace from the mountains to the immense cisterns beneath the city’s streets. The ancient metropolis embraced the curves of the steep hills that were rent in three by the two bodies of water intersecting Istanbul – the Golden Horn that split the European half of the city in two, and the Bosphorus, which ran from the Black Sea to the Sea of Marmara and divided Istanbul between the continents of Europe and Asia. With the potent magnetism of the woman seated at his side making his senses short-circuit, Ben wished there was the equivalent of a Bosphorus between them.

  Not long now, he assured himself. Almost done, and then you can send her on her way.

  Ben wished he had any certainty that he’d find the resolve to do just that when the time came to farewell her.

  ‘Garvé has his yacht here. It’s anchored just off Tophane. He went straight there after he landed. Sugar?’ Superintendent Hasan Demir offered Ben a small silver bowl and a teaspoon.

  Ben tapped his foot impatiently. ‘If he’s here already, Hasan . . . with all due respect, shouldn’t we be arresting him rather than sitting here drinking tea?’

  ‘Benedict Hitchens, you’ve been in this country long enough to know the importance of these rituals,’ Hasan said as he considered his guest critically. ‘Besides. I have men watching the yacht. They’ll radio as soon as they see any movement. Almond?’ The police officer indicated a dish of chilled almonds on the tray.

  ‘I don’t want any bloody nuts, Hasan! I want to stop Garvé! How do you know the trade hasn’t already been done?’

  ‘I don’t,’ Hasan said patiently. ‘But what I do know is that he took a launch out to his yacht after his arrival. And loaded into the back of that launch was a metal case that looked a little like a large suitcase. Neither Josef Garvé nor the case has been seen leaving the boat. So I think it’s safe to assume they’re both still on board.’

  ‘What if they’re sailing somewhere – maybe they’re going to do the deal somewhere else?’

  ‘If they weigh anchor, I’ll call on the assistance of the navy to follow him.’ Hasan sighed and placed his gilt-edged glass of tea down in its saucer, interlinking his hands on the desk before him. ‘Ben – believe it or not, I do know how to do my job. This is out of your control now. Please. Trust me.’

  The radio set on the bench behind Hasan’s desk crackled to life. Eyes cool, he spun in his chair and grabbed the handset.

  ‘What is it?’ As he listened, Hasan’s mouth set into a grim line. ‘Yes . . . yes. I see . . . Fine.’

  He ended the call. ‘He’s moving. Came ashore five minutes ago. Looks like he’s headed for Sultanahmet.’

  Ben leapt to his feet. ‘Come on, then!’

  ‘No,’ Hasan said sternly. ‘I think it’s best that you stay here.’

  ‘And miss the chance to let him know I’m the one who’s done this to him?’ Ben shook his head. ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘If you come, you must stay out of sight. This is a major police operation. We can’t be seen to be pursuing a personal agenda.’

  ‘I’ll be on my best behaviour. I promise.’

  Even as he said it, Ben knew it was a lie. The chances of him being able to control himself when he laid eyes on Garvé weren’t great.

  47

  Istanbul

  ‘Have a guess which of these gentlemen he’s meeting?’ Hasan asked. It was a rhetorical question.

  Three men in unseasonably heavy suits were perched self-consciously in a row on a park bench in the shadow of the Blue Mosque’s ethereal dome. All three were wearing dark sunglasses. By the kerb, a black sedan idled, its driver’s eyes darting from side to side as he scrutinised the people passing by in the heavily populated square.

  ‘Where is he?’ Ben fidgeted in the passenger seat of Hasan’s car.

  ‘Close . . .’ Hasan sat forward in his seat, squinting. ‘Wait . . . black Chrysler Crown Imperial. This is him.’ He opened the glove box and selected two of the weapons stored in there – one he slipped into a holster on his ankle, the other in one on his shoulder. He reached for the door handle and stepped out onto the pavement, straightening his jacket over the bulge of the gun hidden beneath it. ‘You . . .’ Hasan bent to address Ben through the open window. ‘Remember what you promised? Stay here.’

  Ben nodded tightly.

  His insides were churning as he watched the gleaming car pull up behind the second vehicle. A chauffeur wearing a peaked cap leapt out and opened the rear door. Out stepped a heavily built man in a black suit who moved as if his limbs were made of jointed steel. Behind him Ben could see the slight frame and distinctive orange hair of the man he would quite happily see dead. A second man as physically intimidating as the first stepped out of the vehicle and stood beside his companion, creating a wall of impenetrable hired flesh at Josef Garvé’s back.

  Fury at the mere sight of him made Ben’s blood curdle. His ears were ringing as he tried to still his breathing and resist leaping out of the car to pound Garvé’s face into the pavement. More times than he could count over the years, he’d awoken at night, sweating and with an animal’s scream caught in his throat from a dream in which his hands were wrapped about the Frenchman’s throat as he crushed his larynx and watched the light drain from his eyes. But this was neither the time nor the place. Fantasies had to wait. Hasan was right, and Ben knew it.

  Ben watched as Hasan’s officers, who’d fanned out and positioned themselves on the perimeter of the large square leading to the Blue Mosque’s northern flank, began to tighten the noose on the gathering of men at its centre.

  Looking for all the world like a successful middle-aged businessman, Hasan sauntered casually towards where Garvé was introducing himself to the three Israeli agents.

  Once he was within ten feet of the group, Hasan gave a rapid hand movement. The massing police broke into a run and drew their weapons, surrounding the six men.

  Garvé’s two bodyguards noticed first. Even before the police were in position, they’d drawn handguns from their holsters and were shielding their ward with their not insubstantial bulk.

  ‘Police!’ Hasan shouted, his own weapon at the ready. ‘Put your guns down, and lie down on the ground!’

  The three Israelis raised their hands and dropped to their knees. Ben could see Garvé’s lips moving. His two bodyguards glanced at each other and then opened fire at the advancing phalanx of police.

  As they did, Garvé bolted, just as his two escorts were felled by bullets from Hasan’s gun.

  Responding to the shots, the Turkish police converged on the fallen men.
Taking advantage of the confusion, Garvé was gone, disappearing into a crowd of shocked onlookers.

  Fuck that! Ben reached for the glove box and grabbed one of Hasan’s handguns.

  ‘Get out of the way! Out of the way!’ Ben screamed in Turkish as he tried to push through the crowd of bystanders.

  ‘Ben! No!’ Hasan shouted as the American ran towards the expansive plaza that had, in millennia past, hosted chariot races.

  The paving stones rang beneath his leather-soled boots as Ben pounded towards the fleeing figure of Josef Garvé. Christ! he thought. Pretty fast for an old man.

  What Garvé might have lacked in physical strength, he made up for in mobility. Slippery, like the fucking rat he is, Ben cursed as he struggled to keep pace with the nimble figure ahead of him, the tails of the Frenchman’s dark linen suit flapping behind him like bat wings.

  He heard the sound of footsteps behind him. Hasan. Got to keep away from him. Ben had no intention of letting Garvé escape, and if Hasan caught up with him, he knew he’d force him to give up the chase. No way he gets away with this, Ben thought grimly. No way.

  Ahead, a series of narrow alleys branched off the hippodrome, passing between teetering three-storeyed wooden homes with garlands of washing hanging from the windows. Ben knew the streets beyond were a maze. If the bastard gets in there, I’ll lose him.

  He arrived at the intersection just in time to see Garvé take a left and quick right. Divan Yolu. That’s where you’re headed, isn’t it?

  Ben kept up the pursuit. Sure enough, he saw Garvé bolt across the wide boulevard, leaping over the metal tram tracks intersecting the road. Legs burning, Ben chased him past the creeping shadow of Çemberlitaş – Constantine’s Burnt Column – towards the dome of the Nuruosmaniye Mosque. Really? You fucking idiot. The bazaar . . . You’ve picked the one place I’m damned sure I know a whole lot better than you do.