Jerusalem Poker (The Jerusalem Quartet Book 2)

by Edward Whittemore

  Is that a man stepping out to greet the tiny woman dressed entirely in black?

  None other. A man and just as cautious and clever as the tiny woman he’s greeting. Skulduggery’s afoot and a romantic assignation seems a highly likely possibility.

  Is the man wearing a uniform? asked Cairo.

  No mistaking a uniform, said Joe. I often wear one myself and you can’t fool me there.

  And this host cuts a dashing figure in his uniform?

  Decidedly dashing. Women along the Bosporus probably make fools of themselves when faced with that dashing figure. Although why my own uniform never has that effect I can’t imagine.

  Would you say he’s a young man? asked Cairo.

  That he is, unexpectedly so.

  Do you recognize the uniform?

  I’m trying, but again this distance of twenty-two years is making things less clear than they should be.

  Could it be the uniform of a cavalry officer?

  Joe turned and looked at Cairo.

  Yes.

  Dragoons?

  Joe stared at Cairo.

  Yes.

  A lieutenant colonel of dragoons in the Austro-Hungarian Imperial Army?

  Joe whistled softly.

  My God, how about that. We’re spying on Munk as a young man.

  And his visitor, the tiny woman in black? You still don’t recognize her?

  No, I don’t. In fact I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen her before.

  You haven’t, said Cairo emphatically. And I’ve never seen her either. At this point in time, 1911, there are only a handful of people in the world who would recognize her, and most of them peasants, because she has lived such a reclusive life in her little corner of the world. Only a year or two ago she emerged from strict seclusion after mourning the death of her common-law husband. And before that, and for many decades, she lived so modestly and said so little while doing so, she was generally referred to as the Unspoken. But just give her a few more years, I tell you, and she’s going to become notorious. Men in high positions all over the world will know this tiny woman as the Black Hand.

  Joe whistled very softly.

  Sophia? Is it really Sophia coming to call on Munk?

  Cairo smiled.

  After emerging from mourning, Sophia has toyed with lignite mines in Albania and decided to look into oil. She’s been studying the oil situation in the Middle East and has become convinced that substantial reserves are to be found along the Tigris. She wants to put a syndicate together to exploit this oil, but to do so she first needs a charter from the Ottoman government, which is in a state of terminal decay and is hopelessly corrupt. Who should she approach with bribes? The routes are multiple and devious. It is absolutely essential that she get confidential information from a disinterested observer, someone outside the government, who is both knowledgeable and thoroughly trustworthy. She has made numerous inquiries in Constantinople and the answers coincide. It appears the person to see is the brilliant young Austro-Hungarian military attaché in the capital. It’s true that he’s astonishingly young to be in such a position, but everyone agrees he is fully cognizant of the intrigues within the Ottoman menagerie. Furthermore, he happens to be a scion of the most powerful financial family in central Europe, the revered House of Szondi.

  That decides Sophia. The House of Szondi is run exclusively by women and therefore she trusts it. Therefore she will go to the scion even though he is astonishingly young.

  Secretly Sophia contacts the young lieutenant colonel and a meeting is arranged at his villa, just after sunset for purposes of security, a few weeks hence. The young lieutenant colonel, meanwhile, checks into Sophia’s background and finds she is the head of the important Wallenstein clan in Albania. The political situation in the Balkans, never more unstable than now, is of great interest to the Austro-Hungarian Empire, therefore to its military attaché in Constantinople. Mightn’t this head of an important Albanian clan have much to tell him? Mightn’t this even be an assignment of the highest priority?

  Duty calls. Obviously more could come from this meeting if it were not just a dull business conference in a dull business setting. And so we find certain preparations being made in the villa.

  For one, the formal dining room has been rejected in favor of a cozy alcove at one end of the paneled library. Here an array of delicacies have been laid out by the servants, who have then been given the night off. Candles cast a soft glow in the villa. An inviting fire crackles in the library fireplace, in front of which sit two deep leather lounging chairs and a soft deep leather sofa. Joe? Are you all right?

  Joe’s eyes were wide. Cairo smiled broadly.

  Now then, said Cairo. What obviously lies before us is a leisurely dinner for two in a secluded villa beside the Bosporus, a sparkling evening over champagne in a cozy setting. Strictly out of duty, mind you, our young military attaché intends to carry out his mission in a most relaxed atmosphere, bringing all his considerable charm to bear.

  Joe broke out of his trance. He pounded the table and began leaping around the rooftop, singing, doing a kind of dance.

  Our very own Munk, ho ho ho. Turning on the charm for Sophia, ho ho ho.

  Suddenly he stopped in front of the table.

  Sophia? Wait a minute. Sophia still the Unspoken? My God, how old was she then?

  Sixty-nine, said Cairo dryly. Munk was twenty-one.

  Joe roared with laughter and slapped the table. He sat down, only to jump to his feet again.

  This is stunning, simply stunning. Here I thought there was going to be a way out of this lurid Luigi bog before nightfall and instead I’m sinking deeper all the time. Candlelight and champagne in Constantinople, you say? Dashing young Munk in his dashing cavalry uniform just leisurely doing his duty at a private sumptuous dinner for two in a villa beside the Bosporus? Fires crackling invitingly and candles casting glows? Soft deep leather lounging chairs and sofas? Delicacies in a cozy alcove? On with it, for God’s sake, before I have a liver attack.

  Cairo cleared his throat.

  It may be you haven’t had experience in these matters.

  My God of course I haven’t, you know that. Just don’t ease off now, get on with it.

  Yes. Well, you see, when I worked as a dragoman in Egypt back before the war I found there were occasions, not as infrequent as you might think, when an older woman, even a much older woman, could be strongly attracted to a much younger man. Now if she were a wise woman, as Sophia obviously is, she had no illusions about it. She knew perfectly well what was happening and why, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy herself.

  Oh help, saints preserve us. You don’t mean to say the dinner is going to progress from private to intimate?

  I do. That’s precisely what I mean.

  Then here’s another quick shot of champagne for both of us. You may not need it but I do. And don’t stop. Keep this amazing news churning.

  Well, in short, we find the evening taking a vivid course. Dishes are tasted, corks pop, there are pleasantries and laughter. Sophia happens to recall several off-color anecdotes, having to do with itinerant Armenian rug dealers, that have been passed down from mother to daughter in her family for a couple of centuries. Munk, for his part, is able to repeat a number of naughty insinuations currently making the rounds in Constantinople’s demimonde. And all the while Sophia is well aware that in return for the attentive favors of this handsome young lieutenant colonel of dragoons, information useful to him is expected. Political and economic information concerning the Balkans.

  No, shouted Joe, jumping up and sitting down again. Not another bloody word about the Balkans. Quickly back to the candlelight dinner and tell me what happened next. I know what you’re going to say. What happened next?

  They made love, said Cairo quietly.

  Joe banged the table. He shrieked.

  Ha. I knew it. I just knew you were going to say that. All that cozy candlelight beside the Bosporus, it’ll get you every time. But my Go
d, is this true? Did Munk really do that?

  Yes, a thoroughly friendly matter. Even so, it took some time to bring off.

  What?

  Well when a woman gets into her late sixties, you see.

  No. Hold it right there, Cairo. I don’t see and that’s not information I need at the moment, it’s not a problem I’m facing. When the time comes, forty years from now if it does, I’ll write you a letter and you can fill me in. But will you just imagine Munk up to something like that? And you too when you were back in Egypt, you shameless dragoman-ex. Where’s it come from anyway, this scandalous behavior? Did you both inherit something from this Luigi fellow?

  Cairo smiled. Joe was chain-smoking and puffing furiously.

  Now just let me calm myself, he said, blowing smoke everywhere. And before we get mixed up with this Luigi fellow again, give me a hint of how the evening in the villa ended. How did it end?

  Not until the following morning. The night was a busy one and no one got any sleep. Fortunately the servants weren’t due back until noon the next day.

  And?

  And after some final activities that accompanied the sunrise, Munk fell asleep in his bed. He woke up toward the middle of the morning, hearing water running.

  Water?

  Sophia was drawing a bath for him.

  Ah and ah. What else?

  Delicious smells were coming from the kitchen. Munk noticed that his uniform, newly pressed, had been laid out over a chair. His boots, newly polished, stood beside the chair. There was also a bouquet of flowers, freshly picked from the garden, on the night table. Sophia had evidently been bustling about while Munk caught his few hours of sleep. When he finished his bath Sophia appeared with a tray and served him breakfast in bed.

  What?

  As I recall, freshly squeezed orange juice, eggs and a steak, a pot of strong coffee laced with cognac, and a mountain of hot rolls straight from the oven. Extremely light, he said. Mere fluffs of ambrosia.

  Fluffs, yes. Ambrosia. Then?

  Then the tiny old woman smiled in the doorway, threw him a wink and was gone. Altogether a singular performance, said Munk. A singular evening, a singular night, a singular morning after. It was his opinion that a woman fifty years younger couldn’t have possibly equaled it. There was only one problem.

  There was? What?

  His back. His back was absolutely covered with long deep scratches. Fingernails, you see. Uncontrollable passion.

  I see.

  But of course he was more than ready to suffer that because of what had gone with it.

  Of course.

  And he also had great difficulty walking. His legs, he said, were like jelly.

  Jelly, yes.

  And he couldn’t really straighten up, and he’d never been so sore. Every muscle in his body ached from the experience, although naturally that was fine too.

  Joe sagged in his chair.

  I’m limp, he said, I can’t move. That’s all, I hope.

  Not quite. Apparently the heavy scent of Sophia’s cheroots lingered in the bedroom for days. Munk said he used to go in there and find himself immediately lost in a reverie. He said it was several weeks before he could pull himself together and get back to working in a proper manner.

  Proper? cried Joe. What’s proper about any of these goings-on? It’s all outrageous, that’s what, and should never have been repeated to a sober Christian like myself. Mere fluffs of ambrosia indeed. A scandal.

  Cairo laughed.

  Now in the course of that very long night Sophia talked about a number of things, including the man she’d loved all her life, the last of the Skanderbeg Wallensteins. Her mother had been a servant in the Wallenstein castle in 1802, when that young and friendly Wallenstein wife had taken a Swiss stranger to her bed, and had been so excited by it she had to tell some of her female servants about it the next day, after the stranger had gone on his way. Thus Sophia was able to describe the Swiss stranger who’d been the father of her beloved Skanderbeg, the young Swiss student with a passion for details who’d been on a walking tour to the Levant that year. I mean she described his appearance exactly, down to a quite specific and intimate fact.

  What fact? asked Joe.

  Cairo cleared his throat.

  It seems the Hungarian Szondi men all inherited a certain peculiarity from Johann Luigi.

  What peculiarity?

  A physical one that proved exceptionally pleasurable to the Szondi women.

  Move on, Cairo, what specific fact?

  It has to do with size, with dimension.

  Oh.

  And with a change in direction.

  Oh?

  Highly unusual. About halfway along, it seems, matters take an abrupt turn. Thus movement is going on in many directions at once, so that the love the Szondi man is expressing is being expressed in a whole host of different manners at one and the same time. Apparently you can’t speak of thrust in such a case. And in and out is simply out of the question. Apparently there’s only one word for the sensation the woman feels inside her in such a case.

  Which is?

  An explosion. A vast explosion of continuing duration as long as he’s inside her. That change of direction, you see, simply strikes everywhere. Apparently it feels as if something about the size of a baby’s head is in there, humming and singing and shouting for joy.

  Explosions, muttered Joe. These revelations are exhausting me. Back to Munk and Sophia at once.

  Yes. Well when Sophia described the young Swiss student who had impregnated the young and friendly Wallenstein wife in 1802, Munk recognized at once that this student was none other than his own great-grandfather, the tireless Johann Luigi Szondi.

  Tireless Luigi, said Joe. That’s him all right. But hold on there. What about this male Szondi peculiarity you were speaking of?

  What about it?

  Well Sophia had just spent the night with Munk.

  Yes.

  And so?

  Oh you mean didn’t she recognize the similarity, the connection, between Munk and that Swiss student of the early nineteenth century? Of course she did. No woman could mistake that explosion. In fact Munk speculates that was the real reason, once they’d got into bed, that Sophia was so taken with him. He’s modest about it and doesn’t put it down to his charm. No, he thinks Sophia must have found the idea of it immensely appealing. Erotic to the outer limits, in other words, making love with the great-grandson of the man who’d fathered her beloved Skanderbeg.

  I’ll never understand the Balkans, said Joe. Go on.

  Well Sophia also told Munk how her Skanderbeg, formerly a Trappist by the way, had discovered the original Bible in the Holy Land, been shocked by its chaos and gone on to forge an acceptable version. A new original.

  Discovered what? whispered Joe. The wind up here’s playing tricks with my head.

  The original Bible, repeated Cairo slowly. You know, the Sinai Bible.

  Joe choked. He reached for his handkerchief but didn’t get it up to his mouth in time. A slug of dark brown phlegm shot out of his throat and landed in his champagne glass. Joe gazed absentmindedly at the glass for a moment and fished in it with a spoon.

  You’re smoking too much, said Cairo.

  Joe nodded vaguely.

  I believe it. What I don’t believe is this business about the Sinai Bible, Munk knowing about it all these years. Why didn’t he ever mention it to me?

  Did you ever mention it to him?

  No.

  Well?

  I see. But wasn’t he interested in finding it?

  Munk’s not religious, said Cairo. You know that.

  I do. But I’m not religious either.

  So?

  Joe shook his head. He seemed dazed.

  All right, Cairo, so the bog’s all around me and I’m sinking fast. Give me a hand and pull me out before my head goes under. In other words, when did you learn all this from Munk? About this Luigi fellow who was your common great-grandfather and what he�
��d been up to one night in Albania? No I don’t mean that, I mean about the Sinai Bible. When did you learn about the Sinai Bible?

  When I met Munk.

  What? All the way back at the beginning of the poker game?

  Yes.

  How’d it happen? I’m about to go under for the last time.

  I asked Munk about his name. Menelik Ziwar had told me my great-grandfather’s real name was Szondi.

  He did? Old Menelik the mummy? On his back in the bottom of his sarcophagus conjuring up the past again? Well I thought I was going under for the last time but it seems you can sink forever in this bog. I mean, how did old Menelik know that? I always thought he was ferreting out tombs along the Nile, not spending time down in villages on the fringe of the Nubian desert soliciting accounts of Swiss wanderers who had passed that way in disguise some years before he was born.

  Menelik had known my great-grandmother when he was young, when they were both slaves in the delta. She told him about the father of her child, who’d been a well-known expert in Islamic law in his day. Later Menelik was able to trace this expert back to Aleppo, where he discovered his real identity. Aleppo, you see, was where Johann Luigi had lived for several years, perfecting his Arabic, before assuming his disguise and setting out on his wanderings.

  Ah sure, someone’s real identity. So tell me now in the end when it’s almost over, what is this game we’ve been playing, Cairo? And where did it really start?

  Cairo laughed. Any one of those places we’ve mentioned?

  Yes I suppose. And when. When did it start?

  Any one of those times we’ve mentioned?

  I believe it, I do. All these years I’ve been circling around like my pigeons up there. Well why not pop another song of time so we can see the scheme of things over the Old City?

  Cairo opened another bottle of champagne and the pigeons scattered in the air. The two men watched them swoop back and slowly begin to circle.

  Ah that’s better, that’s nicely reassuring. For a moment there all this was unsettling my mind. Here I’d been thinking about finding the Sinai Bible these last dozen years and more, thinking no one in the game knew the great secret of its existence but me, and what do I discover all of a sudden? You and Munk both knew about it, that’s what. And you, Cairo. Just a couple of months ago we spent a long night up here talking together, deciding to end the game, and you let me run on about the Sinai Bible as if you’d never heard of it. Guilty or not?