The Istanbul Puzzle

by Laurence OBryan

  ‘You know the story of Hansel and Gretel?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Did you know it’s based on real events, children being abandoned in forests during the Middle Ages in Europe?’

  ‘Why would anyone abandon children?’

  ‘In the fourteenth century, the Black Death and the famines that followed it struck people down from Egypt to Scotland. England’s population crashed by more than half – from five to two million. Image the impact of something like that. The rules of society crumbled. Some people couldn’t look after their children. They were dying themselves. Children were taken into forests and abandoned. People thought they were doing the best for them. Maybe they were.’

  ‘Crazy.’

  ‘Remember Father Gregory talked about evil returning in cycles.’ She shivered, put her arms around herself.

  ‘Yeah, but he believed in evil spirits. I think we’ve moved on from there.’

  ‘The monks here in Constantinople predicted cycles of evil, of famines and plagues. We found references in some archives that mention this monastery. Apparently this place had a continent-wide reputation for its predictions.’

  The air in the chapel seemed colder now than when we had come in. There was a lonely feel to the place too, as if it was waiting for tonsured rows of monks to return.

  ‘The fourteenth century was the last time anything truly threatened the social order in Europe. Estates were taken over by servants. Cities were abandoned by the ruling classes.’ Her voice echoed off the walls.

  ‘It was the worst century in Europe for seven hundred years. The monks here claimed they’d discovered a pattern. It’s mentioned in two documents. One of them is in the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge.’

  I did a quick calculation. ‘So this coming century is going to be fun too.’

  ‘God knows. Apparently the monks here warned the Byzantine emperor at the time that the plague was on its way. Monks from this monastery had also predicted the famines and wars of the early seventh century. They happened just before Islam appeared and stormed the Middle East.’

  ‘How did the monks make their predictions? What were they doing, reading the stars?’

  ‘We’re not sure. It’s all a bit mysterious, dark arts stuff. When the monk’s predictions came true in 1314 they were praised for warning people. Later they were accused of being in league with the devil. Shooting the messenger is what we’d call it today.’

  ‘Yeah, I can see that happening.’

  ‘Then things got very bad. In 1347 three quarters of the population of Constantinople died from the plague. A lot of people thought it was the end of the world. Riots overran this monastery. Some of the monks were burnt to death.’

  ‘Lovely. That must have been because of those dark arts.’ I ran my fingers along the top of the altar. It felt smooth, well-worn.

  ‘Apparently the monks here were trained in astrology. That was what this place specialised in. There wasn’t any distinction back then between astronomy and astrology. Monks used the stars to decide the date of Easter, to tell people when to plant crops, when to reap, all sorts of stuff. It’s not surprising they were involved in predicting famines and plagues too.’

  She pointed down.

  ‘We think this altar had something to do with their predictions.’ She spread her hands over the top of the altar, touching it gingerly, as if it was alive.

  ‘It’s the only surviving example of a Byzantine oracular altar. We think it was made in the sixth century. We believe it’s a copy of the altar in David’s temple in Jerusalem.’ She was speaking reverently, emphasising each word. ‘It’s made of quartz. And it’s totally unique.’

  ‘Do you think there’s anything in this seven-hundred-year cycle of evil stuff?’

  ‘You know what worries me, Sean?’ She looked around, as if checking the place for intruders.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The people who try to make these things happen, like a self-fulfilling prophecy. Some people want to stir things up, deep things, forces like hatred and fear.’

  She sighed, then leaned over the altar.

  ‘Look at this top stone.’ She pointed at it. ‘It’s an inch thick. It must be the finest piece of Madagascar quartz in the whole world. And we’ve no idea how it was shipped here. My friend found it in a flooded shaft over there.’ She nodded towards a corner of the chapel.

  I bent towards the quartz. The slab sparkled close up, as if it was alive.

  ‘See these markings?’ She traced her finger along a thin silver line on the top of the slab. There were other lines too, inlaid threads of silver all over the top of the altar.

  She traced her finger along one line.

  I peered closer. Far off, I could hear a wailing siren. Then it stopped abruptly.

  ‘This looks like the outline of a shape,’ I said.

  ‘It’s the evening star, we think.’ She ran her finger over the lines. I could just about make out lines joining together at the top of the altar.

  ‘On that side,’ she pointed to where I was standing, ‘there’s a pair of scales with a sword across its pans. That’s the symbol of the Last Judgment.’

  I could see her breasts rising and falling beneath her T-shirt.

  Something scuttled across the floor.

  ‘What was that?’

  She looked around quickly. ‘The place is riddled with vermin.’

  ‘Thanks for telling me.’

  She stepped back from the altar. ‘What did your professor friend say to you today?’

  I told her what I’d told Peter. That I believed Hagia Eirene was where Alek had taken the photos. I also told her there could be all sorts of treasures in any underground areas of Hagia Eirene, if they hadn’t been opened up for centuries.

  I told her about the group digging there. That there were some suspicions about them. I didn’t tell her everything though. I had one last ace. I was keeping that face down.

  When I was finished, she said, ‘Peter thinks there’s no need for you to do any more.’

  ‘I’m sure he does,’ I said. ‘What’s that noise?’

  Music was thumping through the walls of the building, distinctly Turkish music, fast, lively, with a whirling gypsy quality. It suited my mood.

  ‘That’s Fasil music, Turkish nightclub music.’

  Something Bulent had said came back to me. And I knew in a moment what we should do next. ‘You know there’s a Wagner concert in Hagia Eirene tonight.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We should go there, have a look around, say we’re autograph hunting or something. It’s a great excuse to be there. Hagia Eirene will be open, people will be milling around.’

  She looked at me with her mouth half open. I could almost see her brain working, turning over her options, whether she should try to stop me. I smiled at her. I’d been thinking about going to Hagia Eirene the next day, but this would knock a few birds dead with one stone.

  The people digging there might well have been spooked by everything that was going on. They might close the place up if they were up to no good. And I’d find out if Isabel could be trusted, or if all this sympathy was just a game to get me to open up. If she informed her superiors what I planned to do, and they tried to stop me, I’d know what she’d been up to.

  There was a loud banging noise. It seemed like it was coming from somewhere below us.

  The banging grew louder, echoing through the room, as if someone was trying to break in. Isabel reacted as if she’d been stung.

  ‘Come on,’ she hissed. She ran towards the far end of the chapel. I ran after her. There wasn’t a doorway down there, or anywhere for us to go. What was she thinking?

  When she reached the corner of the chapel she pushed something in a section of the wall that looked like it was made of brick. As I came up beside her I saw that the section wasn’t made of brick at all. It was a painting of bricks. A trompe l’oeil.

  I heard a low thud. The banging stopped. It was replaced with deathl
y silence.

  ‘What’s back here?’

  ‘Give me a hand,’ she replied. She was pushing at the wall. I pushed too, though I wasn’t sure what she was expecting. Was the whole wall going to move?

  ‘You think it’s the people who tried to kill us?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But I’m not hanging round.’ She glanced back at the door to the stairs.

  With a low groan a door opened in the wall where we were pushing. It was only five foot high, but it was big enough to get through. There was no way I’d have known it was there if she hadn’t shown it to me. Cool air washed over me.

  ‘I thought it wasn’t going to open,’ she said, as she went through. ‘Come on, push the door behind you.’

  I closed it gently after I went through. Then I looked around. There was a small window high up at the end of the tall and narrow corridor we were in. Moonlight lit the corridor. Slowly my eyes adjusted to the gloom.

  It would take a long time for anyone who didn’t know this place existed to find us. But where did the corridor lead? Would we be trapped?

  ‘Is there a way out?’ I said. There was a stale smell in the corridor. I could still hear the Turkish music. It was louder now.

  ‘This was totally blocked when we found it,’ said Isabel, as she moved up the corridor. ‘The rubble in here was five hundred years old. This corridor was barely big enough to get down. It leads to a back door.’

  ‘I thought you said we weren’t followed.’

  ‘Shsssh, did you hear something?’ she whispered.

  ‘No.’ I looked around. I couldn’t see anything.

  We went on. At the end the window above stood guard over the tightest stone staircase I’d ever seen. At the bottom of it there was another door. It took a minute to find and then open the two locks that held it closed. The door opened with a grinding noise. Luckily we had, so far, heard no more sounds from above.

  We stepped out into an alley that had a modern feel, compared to where we’d been. We pushed the door closed. When we reached the end of the alley, where it connected with the main street, the traffic was bumper to bumper, barely moving in both directions. It was still steamy hot. I was sweating.

  ‘What the hell was that all about?’ I was looking over my shoulder every few yards.

  ‘I’ve no idea, but I’m not going back to find out.’ She didn’t look too shaken. This was one glacier-cool lady.

  Pedestrians were criss-crossing between the cars. People were laughing, gesticulating. I’d heard about Turkey’s booming economy, the way it had turned around, but this was the first time I’d really experienced what that meant.

  ‘Is this what Istanbul’s like every night?’ I looked at my watch. It was 10:30 PM.

  ‘Bebek’s crazy seven nights a week these days, sometimes a lot crazier than this.’

  Not far away, a muezzin began his call. Everyone seemed to ignore it. We pushed through the crowds, like friends on a night out.

  We walked past a couple of restaurants and shops. We were both silent.

  Then I asked, ‘How often do they have concerts in Hagia Eirene?’

  ‘Every few weeks in the summer. There was hardly any security there the last time I went.’

  We passed a shop selling TVs. Its window was full of the latest super-thin screens. On one there was a picture of a man whose face looked familiar.

  ‘What the hell,’ I said. ‘That’s Bulent. The guy I met this morning.’

  Isabel stopped walking. The shop had closed, so we couldn’t hear anything, but I felt a sense of deep foreboding. Had something happened to Bulent?

  The image of Bulent’s face was replaced a few seconds later by a picture of the Golden Horn at night, with Hagia Sophia lit up in the background. That was replaced by a video of an ambulance racing through traffic. Then the picture of Bulent came back on the screen. There were two dates below the picture, 1955–2012, and Professor Bulent’s name.

  Isabel spoke matter-of-factly. ‘He must have been pretty important to get on to the news.’

  ‘This is totally crazy. I was with him this afternoon.’

  Some tether had been cut inside me. I felt as if I was floating. Memories of what had happened to Alek, to Father Gregory, came rushing back. I saw the picture of Bulent’s family in his hand. His poor wife and children. I felt a rush of nausea. Then anger.

  I put a hand to my face. It felt hot. I took a step back. If I hadn’t gone to see him, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. Images of basketball players suddenly filled the screen. Now I felt cold.

  ‘Let’s keep going,’ said Isabel.

  We walked on. Twice I tried to say something, but the words didn’t come out.

  Then I realised what I really needed to say. ‘We’ve got to find out what’s going on,’ I said. My voice sounded odd. ‘Before one of us is next.’

  Isabel put her hand on my arm, squeezed it.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she said.

  I stopped walking. It was time to get a few answers.

  Chapter 29

  Sergeant Henry P Mowlam was reading a memo from the Home Office Security and Counter Terrorism unit. He wanted to scream.

  What the hell was wrong with them all? Having Muslims from all over Europe come to London to demonstrate against the raids on mosques, the new restrictions being placed on them all, the burqa bannings, was not a good idea.

  The UK was one of the few countries where Muslims were free from the worst xenophobic excesses, but that didn’t mean it should become a rallying place.

  A huge Muslim demonstration outside St Paul’s would be like Arsenal supporters holding a meeting outside Chelsea’s football ground.

  Who had approved this? It went directly against all his advice. Was someone trying to gain favour with the Muslim community? He had heard on the grapevine that someone high up had ordered that the right to peacefully demonstrate would be honoured in the UK, to show the world how these things should be handled.

  The flight information, private bus bookings, ferry passenger lists and every other piece of data he’d seen in the last few hours pointed to hundreds of thousands of Muslims coming together.

  The largest gathering of Muslims in Europe was what the organisers were aiming for. And it was going to happen in London in less than forty-eight hours. And it made him very very uneasy.

  Chapter 30

  ‘There’s one thing I want to know before we go any further,’ I said.

  Isabel turned and looked at me.

  ‘Why was Peter playing games with me this afternoon?’

  She shrugged. ‘Sean, I’m not telepathic. I have no idea what Peter was up to.’ She had her hands on her hips.

  ‘So, why don’t you tell me what you do know, like who’s using Villa Napoleon? You were very keen to get me off that island.’

  Her tone was plausible when she answered. ‘Look, if we find evidence that there’s something going on at that villa, we’ll tell the Turkish authorities. They’ll listen to us. They’ll have to. And then they can take action. But we need evidence, something real. All we have right now is your theory that Alek’s death was linked to Hagia Eirene, and then to that villa. I hurried you off the island because I thought you’d be interested in what Father Gregory had been talking about, that cycle of evil stuff.’

  ‘I am interested,’ I said. ‘What do you think I’m doing right now, if it isn’t looking for evidence?’

  I turned to see if anyone was coming after us. The traffic was inching along, but mostly not moving at all. I scanned the pedestrians. No one was looking in our direction.

  ‘Does your phone have a camera?’ I asked, as I turned back to her.

  She put her hand into the front pocket of her black trousers, took out a credit-card-sized phone and held it in the air.

  ‘This has a 16 megapixel camera, and a Carl Zeiss lens. Is that good enough?’

  ‘Maybe, wait here,’ I said. We were near a large brimming-with-goods general store that was still open. It
had everything from boxes of fruit to washing powder on its shelves, which extended into the street. It took only a minute to find what I was looking for. As I paid for the items, I peered through the grimy shop window.

  A minute later we were at the taxi stand. As we left Bebek behind, two chunky SUV police vehicles passed us, speeding in the opposite direction.

  I turned to look at the police cars, until the traffic obscured them. I was half expecting them to turn around and come after us.

  The road we were on ran parallel to the Bosphorus, curving along the shoreline. We were heading back towards the centre of Istanbul. On the far side of the water a billion tiny lights sparkled below a deep purple sky. Boats, all lit up, were plying the waterway and families were out walking along the tree-lined path by the shore.

  Isabel rested her head on the back of the seat. ‘I was hoping to bring my father to that chapel before he died.’

  ‘Your dad would have liked that place?’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, he was the reason I volunteered to come to Istanbul.’ She sounded sad.

  ‘He used to go on about Constantinople, about all the secrets that must be buried here. I really wanted to show him what we’d found.’ She stared out the window at the streams of headlights passing by, a wistful expression on her face.

  She said something in Turkish to the taxi driver. The cab’s engine whined as he accelerated into the outside lane.

  ‘If we get there too late, the concert will be over,’ she said.

  We passed a group of women at a bus stop. There must have ten of them, all wearing full Islamic dress, their heads covered, slits for eyes. Nearby, a pair of mangy dogs went at each other’s throats.

  ‘This place is changing,’ said Isabel.

  ‘Alek reckoned religion is on its way back in the world,’ I said. I turned, looked out the window. Nobody seemed to be following us. But how would I know if they were? Any of the cars behind could have been tailing us.

  Isabel turned to me. ‘You do know Islam is very similar to what early Christianity was like?’ she said. ‘All the fasting, open prayer halls, veiled women.’

  ‘I’m sure some people would dispute that.’