The Washington Stratagem

by Adam LeBor

“You have heard of him?”

  “Of course. We studied him at school, in Israel. Thousands of people believed in him, gave up everything to follow him. Shabbetai was causing a lot of trouble, disrupting the empire. The sultan summoned him to Istanbul to explain himself. The sultan gave him a choice: Islam or the axe. He converted.”

  Yusuf took out another pistachio nut and held it between two fingers, examining it. “Shabbetai Zevi said he converted to Islam. So did many of his followers. But they didn’t. They still kept Jewish rituals, like the Marranos, the Jews in Spain who pretended to convert to Catholicism. After a while Shabbetai’s followers invented a new kind of religion, mixing Judaism, Islam, Sufism—they called it Sabbateanism. They kept their liturgy secret. Very secret. They had their own mosques, schools, communities across the Balkans and the Ottoman Empire. They only married within their community, but they kept very detailed records of every birth, death, and marriage. They were very careful to keep the bloodlines separate.”

  “Is that what those books and ledgers are, in the basement, records of births and deaths?”

  Yusuf nodded. “That’s about all that’s left, those books, a few dozen families in Istanbul and İzmir, and this cemetery.” He continued to talk, staring ahead. “We helped build this country, modernized it. We brought commerce, education, industry, newspapers. But we were never accepted. The Jews thought we were Muslims. The Muslims thought we were Jews. They called us ‘ships with two rudders’ or Dönme. It means turncoats. We call ourselves Ma’aminim, believers.”

  Yael looked at Yusuf. “What do you believe in, Yusuf?”

  Yusuf was silent for several seconds. “Come,” he said, standing up. “I want to show you something.”

  Yusuf walked with Yael across the small plaza to a large grave, about fifteen feet by fifteen feet. It was two feet high, contained within four gray marble walls. Each wall was topped by a flat marble shelf about a foot wide. The center was filled with earth, from which half a dozen well-tended rosebushes grew. There were nine names on the large, flat, marble headstones, engraved in plain lettering, with a small photograph set into the tombstone next to each. All the names ended in “Çelmiz.”

  “Parents, grandparents. All here,” said Yusuf, a sad smile on his face. He pointed to a circular black-and-white photograph in the center of the headstone. The picture showed a proud, upright man, dressed in an old-fashioned high collar, wearing a fez. Faded letters spelled out “Yakup Çelmiz D: 1920 O: 1997.” “My grandfather. He was three years old when they arrived from Salonika in 1923 in the great population exchanges, when the Turks were expelled from Greece and vice-versa.”

  Yael bent down and touched a photograph of a young woman on the headstone. She was pretty, with long curly hair. The lettering said “Rahel Çelmiz D: 1986 O: 2012.”

  Yael looked at Yusuf. “My wife,” he said, brushing some earth from the marble shelf around the grave. “Killed in a car crash. She was twenty-six.”

  Yusuf’s sadness was almost tangible. “I’m so sorry,” Yael said.

  “So am I. She was three months pregnant,” he replied. Yusuf stared at the grave for several moments, lost in memories, then brought himself back. “I have some more news for you. It’s not good.”

  Yael looked at him, waiting.

  “Your colleagues Quentin Braithwaite and Joe-Don Pabst. They were arrested at JFK airport this morning, just before they boarded their plane to Istanbul.”

  “Put that down and stop admiring yourself,” said Sami as he sat next to Najwa.

  Najwa was staring at her mobile telephone, watching the video of herself reporting from İstiklal Caddesi. She ignored Sami and played the clip again. She shook her head, frowning, as her tinny voice came out of the tiny speaker. “I’m not happy,” said Najwa.

  “Why not? It’s a great story. You were the first one there. You beat CNN and the BBC.”

  The two journalists were sitting on a backless leather couch in a quiet corner of the Osman Convention Center foyer. The center, two hundred yards from the Grand Bazaar, was a brand new addition to the historic quarter of Bayezid. Built in the shape of a crescent, on the grounds of Istanbul University, it overlooked the main faculty building. The hypermodern edifice—a glass-fronted smart building with biometric security and a self-regulating air-conditioning, heating, and humidity system—was completely out of character with its surroundings.

  The foyer was crowded with government officials, diplomats, and journalists rushing hither and thither, their credentials swinging from colored lanyards, and jabbering into their mobile telephones. The security was intense: concrete barricades manned by Turkish police commandos had been erected all around the building to prevent car bombs. Every visitor had to present two forms of photographic identity, pass through a scatter X-ray machine similar to those used at US airports, be frisked, and answer a series of questions from unsmiling security guards supplied by the Prometheus Group and the Turkish police. Tall, well-built men in suits with wires leading from their ears patrolled back and forth, muttering into their lapels.

  The reporters were heading to the state-of-the-art pressroom that had been set up in one wing of the building. Sponsored by the KZX Corporation, it boasted free, superfast Wi-Fi, translating and interpreting services, hundreds of computer terminals and printers, and nonstop complimentary soft drinks, snacks, and meals served by attractive, multilingual young hostesses. Reinhardt Daintner’s plan, approved by the organizers, was to provide everything for the press corps so that there was no need for them to ever leave the building. It seemed to be working. By now, Monday evening, the press center was packed. Journalists had arrived from all over the world in time for the start of the summit on Thursday morning, together with a legion of local Turkish reporters and freelancers, known as stringers, who worked for the major foreign news outlets. Whether full-timers or freelancers, all the journalists were gossiping, trading information, and trying to eavesdrop on each other. Which was why Sami and Najwa, once they had been accredited, had not set foot inside the press center.

  Najwa put her phone down. “I’m not worried about my story.” She turned to Sami, reached for something in her pocket, deftly gathered her thick black hair in her hands, slipped it into a hairband, and made a ponytail. “I think I look better like this than having my hair loose.” She turned her head from side to side, her ponytail swinging. “It’s much more professional, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely,” said Sami, laughing. “It will make all the difference.”

  A pair of thick plastic folders lay on the leather bench next to Najwa, their covers emblazoned with the Turkish flag and the emblem of the United Nations. She handed one to Sami. “I picked up your press pack. Your complete guide to the Istanbul Summit and world peace that will break out by the end of the week.”

  Sami thanked Najwa and flicked through the folder. It was jammed with schedules and timetables, thick background briefing papers on the three crises—Syria, Egypt, and Israel-Palestine—biographies of the presidents and prime ministers in attendance, a list of useful telephone numbers, including local hotels and restaurants offering a 50 percent discount for accredited journalists.

  Sami pulled out a credit card–sized piece of plastic from the folder pocket, which was branded with the logo of the Sultannet mobile telephone network. He snapped out the SIM card at one end and held it between his thumb and forefinger. “Look at that. Eighty-four hours of free unlimited calls, including international, and unlimited data usage. That’s worth hundreds of dollars.”

  Najwa reached for the SIM card and took it from Sami’s fingers. “We could use that. Or we could just post hourly updates on YouTube, saying where we are and who we are talking to.”

  Sami put the folder down. “I just had a coffee with our stringer.”

  “And was he pissed that you are bigfooting him?”

  “She, actually. Her name is Alma. And no. Well, maybe. But she covered it up well.”

  “Wa heya jameela? Is she pretty
?”

  Sami laughed. “Are you asking for me or for you? She’s pretty good at her job.”

  “And Alma told you what?” asked Najwa, serious now.

  “The two men who tried to kidnap Yael this morning, that they found under Galata Bridge, are being held under armed guard at the hospital.”

  Najwa shrugged. “Of course they would be. The authorities say they are Kurdish terrorists. Although the Kurds deny it.”

  “The Kurds are right. There were lots of tourists around. One of them put some footage on YouTube. Our stringer recognized one of the men—he used to be married to her second cousin, until he started beating her.”

  “Is he a Kurd?”

  “No. He works for the Turkish intelligence service.”

  Najwa looked at Sami, her eyes narrowing in concentration. “The MI·T wants Yael out of the way, so they set up a kidnapping and then blame the Kurds.” She thought some more. “That part makes sense. But why do they want her out of the way?” Najwa flipped the SIM card into a nearby trash can.

  “Good question,” said an English voice behind them.

  Najwa and Sami stood up to greet the new arrival. “Jonathan, marhaba, welcome,” she said as the two journalists kissed each other on the cheek, before he shook hands with Sami.

  “May I?” asked Beaufort, sitting down next to them on the leather bench before they had a chance to answer.

  “Be our guest,” said Najwa, smiling, as she wondered how much of her conversation with Sami he had overheard. The competition between journalists at the summit was even more intense than usual, with hundreds of reporters prowling the corridors, hanging around outside conference rooms, lurking in the cafés and restaurants desperately seeking any snippet of insider information upon which they could construct a story.

  Jonathan picked up one of the press packs on the bench and idly leafed through it.

  “Well, isn’t this exciting? Here we all are in Istanbul. And you know what they like to do in Istanbul?”

  “Business?” said Najwa, knowing that Jonathan was not making a social call.

  He put down the press pack. “Precisely. Which is why I have a cast-iron investment opportunity for you, one that will pay dividends within just a few hours and keep your editors happy. With a money-back guarantee if you are not satisfied.”

  Najwa smiled. “It sounds irresistible. How much?”

  “I have personally staked fifty dollars,” said Jonathan.

  Najwa reached inside her purse, took out a fifty-dollar bill, and placed it in Jonathan’s hand. Sami did the same.

  “Thanks. One fifty should do the trick.”

  “When does this investment pay off?” asked Sami.

  “Tomorrow morning,” said Jonathan as he slipped the money into his pocket. He looked thoughtful. “I was also thinking of a little trade. Seeing as how we are in Istanbul and all…”

  “And the deal is?” asked Sami.

  “Your contacts that gave you the scoop on Yael and the Kurdish kidnapping attempt. If it really was the Kurds.”

  “It wasn’t.” Sami paused for a few seconds. “And we get?”

  “The name of the very, very, very important person who is going on an unannounced shopping trip tomorrow to the Grand Bazaar.”

  24

  Yael shivered and rubbed her arms. The sun had set and the cemetery was becoming dark and cold. “Joe-Don and Quentin have been arrested on charges of what?”

  “Terrorism.”

  Her eyes opened wide. “That’s so absurd. What’s the evidence?”

  “They were both carrying information about a detailed plan for an attack on the summit. They had the architectural plans of the Osman Convention Center, the places where the bombs would be planted, damages estimates, the timings for first responders, the plan for the second wave. It was all there, apparently, hidden in encrypted files on their telephones. Everything has been sent to us. Security is being raised to the highest level, for an imminent attack.”

  This was her fault. They had, all three of them—she, Joe-Don, and Quentin—been set up. She had passed on the information—or rather, the disinformation—from Jones’s phone to them. Part of her was enraged, another part almost admiring. Clairborne had made her work so hard, first to get Cyrus Jones’s telephone and then to decrypt the information on it, that it had never occurred to her that she was being used.

  All Clairborne had needed to do was tip off the Secret Service or his friends in the agency for the two men to be detained. It would come out eventually, of course, that Joe-Don and Quentin were innocent, trying to prevent an attack on the summit, not carry out one. But by then it would be too late. The more Yael thought about it, the more diabolical Clairborne’s gambit was. She could imagine them both, claiming immunity, denouncing Clairborne, trying to explain the provenance of the information on their mobile telephones—to no avail.

  The more they protested and demanded to be freed, the longer they would be held. Clairborne would deny everything, proclaim he was the one being set up, call on his network of contacts within the United States’ deep state. Thinking back, Yael realized she had meant to check the names of the Prometheus Group staff on the plan. They had set an alarm bell ringing. Why would Clairborne ever use real names? It was a security risk. Now she understood. The names were fakes. Joe-Don and Quentin would ask the Secret Service to check the names, but Clairborne would be able to say, truthfully, that nobody by those names worked for Prometheus. Clairborne’s argument, that he was being set up, would be even further strengthened. Once discovered, the plan would be sent to the Turkish authorities, as Yusuf had confirmed. Security would be tightened further, everything triple-checked in anticipation of an attack from the outside. It was a brilliant maneuver. Clairborne was hiding something in plain sight. But what?

  Yael shivered again. “Can we go back now?”

  Yusuf nodded. He led her down the way they had come. They soon reached a small iron door set into a wall, under an incline where the cemetery grounds rose steeply upward. Yusuf opened the door and led Yael down a narrow corridor, back to the archive room.

  Yusuf busied himself making tea. Yael sat down at the table and rested for a moment. She felt strangely at home here, among the dusty, musty old books and ledgers of the Dönme, a small tile in the dazzling mosaic of Mediterranean history.

  Yusuf put an aluminum teapot on the table, together with two small tulip-shaped glasses. For a moment Yael was back in her window seat in Café Markiz.

  “The girl,” she asked. “The beggar girl on İstiklal Caddesi?”

  “She is fine. I alerted a friend of mine who runs a charity. They will help her.” Yusuf poured tea for both of them. “And now, I think it’s your turn to talk.”

  Yael reached for her tea. She looked at Yusuf, his dark, expressive eyes, his obsidian-black hair, his long slender fingers, the look on his face as he brushed the earth from his wife’s grave. Her instincts had never let her down. She told him everything she knew: about Clarence Clairborne, Cyrus Jones, the Prometheus Group, the plan to attack the summit, which she now knew was disinformation, and Prometheus’s links with Nuristan Holdings through Bank Bernard et Fils.

  Yusuf stared at Yael. “Which bank did you say?”

  “Bernard et Fils, in Geneva.”

  “Nuristan Holdings,” Yusuf said, thoughtfully. “We know who runs Nuristan Holdings.” He reached inside the desk drawer and took out a folder. He passed a photograph to Yael. “Does he look familiar?”

  Yael peered at the picture, frowning. The image was quite poor quality and pixilated after being enlarged. It showed a clean-shaven man in his late forties, with dark hair, getting out of a car, with two other men in front of a rundown house at the end of a street of wooden-fronted houses, each with an enclosed balcony on the first floor.

  Yael frowned. “Yes, but I’m not sure. Is he Turkish? Persian?”

  Yusuf passed her another photograph. It showed the same man, but bald now with a neatly trimmed beard, in a co
llarless shirt.

  “Salim Massoud,” said Yael. “Is he here, in Istanbul? Where?”

  “About a mile from here.” Yusuf took out another photograph, much sharper, showing Massoud entering the rundown house. “I agree with you, Yael. There is no plan by jihadis to bomb the summit. Nor by the Kurds. We have people inside every radical, Islamist, Kurdish, far-left, far-right, Syrian-refugee, and jihadi group. There is no increase in activity—no chatter, no surge in telephone calls. We would know if there was.”

  “Then why is Massoud here, in disguise, if nothing is planned?” asked Yael. An idea began to form in her mind, a train of thought that could perhaps explain events so far and answer her question, when her UN mobile beeped. She checked the screen. An SMS message from Isis:

  V. worried to see TV reports. You OK? Can you meet me 11am Mercan kapisi grand bazaar tomorrow. Have David info.

  Yael put the phone down, her hand shaking, her heart pounding, all thoughts of Clarence Clairborne, the summit, terrorist attacks: gone.

  She pushed the phone across the table.

  Yusuf read the message. “Your brother?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “We like to keep an eye on our VIP visitors. You understand that meeting Isis is out of the question.”

  Yael said nothing, her head tilted to one side as she looked at Yusuf.

  “You are wanted by Interpol. There is a warrant out for your arrest,” he said.

  Yael merely held his gaze.

  “There is a terrorist alert. The whole city is on lockdown.”

  Yael continued looking.

  Yusuf refilled their tea, smiling despite himself. “You are a very difficult woman.”

  Yael picked up her glass. “I hope so,” she said brightly.

  Yusuf sighed with exasperation. “Every policeman in Istanbul is looking for you.”

  “But what if they cannot see me?”

  President Freshwater looked her security chief straight in the eye. “I. Want. To. Go. Shopping.”

  Dave Reardon looked at the ceiling for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “Madam President, we have talked about this. Istanbul is under a complete lockdown. We’ve had two bombs in the heart of the tourist quarter. An attempted kidnapping of a senior UN staffer, apparently by Kurdish terrorists, who has now disappeared. The P5 presidents and their entourages will all soon be gathered in one place, in a building helpfully made of glass. The Istanbul Summit is the number one target for every kind of crazy from here to Baghdad.”