The Istanbul Puzzle (14 page)

But why all the secrecy about the dig? The possibility that they were Greeks, looking for the ‘blessed’ Labarum of Constantine, as Father Gregory had called it, couldn’t be discounted. It would be a sensational find. And it was something Alek would definitely have been interested in. Knowledge of the banner’s whereabouts had been snuffed out when the Ottomans stormed Constantinople in 1453.

Hundreds of monks had died as Ottoman soldiers, fired up by danger and tales of hidden wealth, had pillaged the city. All the monks with knowledge of the Labarum’s whereabouts could easily have been killed in the slaughter. Was this why Alek had been murdered, because he’d stumbled on a group searching for the Labarum?

But if that was the case, why were jihadists filmed beheading him and why had the video been released onto the internet?

It was raining. At first, it was only a few drops. Then it became intense. Water was soon rushing down the gutters and bouncing off the thick canopy above my head. Thunder crashed. A huge crack of lightning split the sky. I shifted my seat further under the canopy, away from the rain, and watched it pour.

I thought about the secret dig. If underground tunnels, like the one in Alek’s picture, existed under Hagia Eirene, they might have been a hiding place used by the Orthodox clergy or by the Byzantine ruling families when the city fell. And maybe there was more than the Labarum down there. Maybe there were a lot of other treasures down there.

When the Turks rushed the gaps in the landward walls created by the largest cannon then in existence, on that fateful Tuesday, May 29th 1453, some of the greatest treasures of Christianity were gathered in Hagia Sophia. They were used in the last Christian ceremony ever held there, in front of thousands of monks and devout citizens, all praying for a miracle.

What treasures had been gathered in Hagia Sophia? The list was long. Sacred icons that had protected the city many times, fragments from the true cross, the lance that had pierced Christ’s side, many of the earliest books of the Bible.

The Orthodox hierarchy would surely have known that most Christian artefacts would be destroyed as the city was captured. But what had happened to them? If something like the Labarum had escaped the city, someone would have spoken about it, announced its arrival wherever it had gone. No, there was a good chance that some of these treasures were still here, in Istanbul.

So what would happen if long-revered Christian treasures suddenly reappeared?

The arguments would begin, that was for sure. If the Labarum reappeared, Catholics and Orthodox Christians would both claim it.

Others would say the Labarum had been lost because of the wickedness of the unreformed churches. Some would, most likely, claim its reappearance was a sign that God was on the side of Christianity, as it had returned when the conflict with Islam was reaching a head again. They’d say it had mystical powers.

There were a heck of a lot of reasons for keeping the reappearance of long-lost sacred artefacts secret.

A tall magnolia tree with shiny leaves and creamy flowers stood at the side of the road where the wall of the villa began. Beside it there was an entrance to a small lane. Rainwater was rushing from the lane and cascading into the street.

I watched it. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something that made me forget everything else.

‘Only two days to go and they’re late. Unbelievable,’ said Arap Anach, under his breath. He pushed his coffee cup away. It rattled, almost fell over. The Turkish coffee was too sweet and too strong for his taste, but the café belonging to the Syrian exile had few other options. It wasn’t even officially open that evening. He slapped at a fly that had been circling the cracked sugar bowl. He hit it. It fell to the table. He swept it away.

Arap looked through the door to the street beyond. The yellowing blinds were pulled down halfway. He exhaled hard in a low growl. There was no one in the room to hear him. The owner was in the back somewhere. He was unlikely to appear again.

When the door to the street finally creaked open a few minutes later, his smile lasted no longer than a millisecond. The two young Arab men passed the rows of plastic tables and chairs and stood opposite him. Both looked like diligent university students in their jeans and long white collarless shirts.

Arap Anach stood and bowed. ‘
Salaam aleikum
,’ he said. Peace be with you.

‘
Aleikum salaam
,’ they replied. And also with you.

Arap sat and reached down to the black plastic shopping bag he’d brought with him. He pulled out two bricks of English currency. The two men sat, glanced at the money and then looked away as if they weren’t that interested in it. But their faces, pink with anticipation, gave them away. It was unlikely they’d ever seen so much money at one time before. It was also unlikely they’d ever imagined getting it could be so easy.

Hatred is such a simple thing to harness.

‘Distribute it wisely,
effendi
. Make sure that many of our brothers and sisters join the demonstration on Friday. I told you I would pay for their tickets and I am a man of my word. Soon the flag of Islam will fly over England.’ He bent forward, for the important bit. ‘If you keep your vows.’

They nodded eagerly. Each of them picked up a brick of money. One man’s hand trembled slightly.

Arap smiled thinly.

‘When you leave, go in different directions.’ He bowed, kept his eyes closed. They were devout, these men – that was their strength – but he was about to use it against them.

This payoff, and his recent recruit, an insider in the British security services, were the final pieces of the puzzle.

There was no way this plan could be stopped now.

I waved, then rose from my seat.

Isabel was walking towards me with her head down. She was holding a black umbrella above her head. It was half shielding her face, but there was no doubt it was her. She’d emerged from that lane halfway up the hill in a rush. She’d pass by on the other side of the street in seconds if I didn’t attract her attention. I put a few Turkish notes under my glass and ducked out from under the awning.

Within seconds I was drenched.

And then, for a moment, I thought I was mistaken, that it wasn’t Isabel, but as she came nearer I knew I’d been right. But what was she doing here? She owed me an explanation, at the very least.

The rain was beating down on me but I didn’t care.

When she was a few feet away she looked up and gave me a wide amazed smile.

‘What are you doing here, Sean?’ She stopped in front of me.

‘Enjoying the weather. Lovely, isn’t it? What happened to you this morning? Sleep late, did you?’

‘Didn’t Peter tell you?’

I should have guessed. She seemed genuinely disappointed that I hadn’t been told too. Either that or she was an Oscar class actor.

‘Peter said I should go back to London.’ I put my hand up to shield my face.

Her hair was tied up. She had two big black pins sticking through it at the back. They looked like antennae.

She moved her umbrella so it partly covered me. ‘I told him to tell you to go on. That something came up.’

‘That’s it?’

She stared at me, pursing her lips as if she was deciding something.

‘I still have other work to do, Sean.’

I put my hands up. ‘OK, OK. But why didn’t Peter tell me? He had lots of opportunities.’

She looked pained. ‘I don’t know, honestly. Peter is a law unto himself. I’m sure his intentions were good. I spoke to him only a little while ago. He told me you asked about me. He’s concerned about you, Sean. He told me you pushed him aside, ran off. What are you doing here?’

‘Having a beer.’

She let out a sigh. ‘Look, we’re the good guys, Sean. Peter’s off with the birds sometimes, but he’s on your side. You shouldn’t have run off.’ She looked over her shoulder. ‘Come on, walk with me. We can’t stand here like idiots getting wet.’ We walked down the hill, side by side in the rain.

‘You know who’s working under Hagia Eirene, don’t you, and about Villa Napoleon?’ I said. ‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sean.’ She stopped at the top of a long flight of stone stairs. ‘And please don’t get paranoid. I’m trying to help you.’

‘If you know who’s working under Hagia Eirene, why don’t the Turkish authorities raid the place? What are you covering up?’

‘We’re not covering anything up.’ Her face was an inscrutable mask.

‘Sure.’

She frowned. ‘Sean please, put yourself in our shoes. We can’t go around making accusations about people until we have evidence. And we can’t believe every conspiracy theory we hear. We just can’t. Otherwise we’d end up chasing our tails all day. Please, trust me.’ She went down a step.

I didn’t move. I had a funny feeling about this. And I didn’t like being led by the nose.

She stopped, turned and came back up.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Where are you going?’ I said.

‘Back to Istanbul.’

‘I’ve booked into a hotel here.’

‘Do you actually want to die like Alek?’ She looked in my eyes, as if she was searching for something. Her voice was softer now. ‘Don’t you understand why Peter keeps saying you should go back to London? Your life really is in danger.’

‘I’ve booked in under a phony name. I’ll be OK.’

‘Trust me about this at least, Sean. No Westerner stays at a hotel on this island without everybody knowing about it. What’s more important to you, the price of a room or your life? How do you think we knew you were here?’

I took a step back. She came towards me.

‘Please Sean, you’re compromising a surveillance operation right now. If you stay here, you’re going to make our job even harder. Is that what you want?’

‘No.’

‘Then come with me. There’s something I want to show you. I was going to show it to Alek, but I never got the chance.’ There was a note of excitement in her voice, as if she really did have something interesting to show me.

‘What is it?’

‘Wait and see. I think you’ll enjoy it.’

‘It better be good.’

The ferry terminal building was jammed tight with waiting passengers when we arrived. They stared at us as we ran in dripping from the rain. Other stragglers, also soaked, were coming in behind us.

The rain was belting down like a storm of arrows now. Then a toot-toot sounded from a huge catamaran as it pulled up to the narrow jetty. People milled around, pushed forward as one. Although no one queued properly, the press to get on the boat was surprisingly orderly.

Within minutes everyone had boarded. Then, with a longer toot, we departed Büyükada.

‘So what were you doing all day?’ I said, turning to Isabel after we sat down.

‘Looking for someone.’ She pressed a finger delicately to her lips, then glanced over her shoulder. There were people sitting all around us.

She curled into her seat, her head almost touching my shoulder.

‘I need to rest,’ she said.

The catamaran bounced through the waves, heading for the far-off gloom that was the European shore of Istanbul. A thuddering passed through the ship constantly as if we were in a vibrating machine designed to extract badly-implanted fillings. The short twilight was long gone now, and the cabin was brightly-lit and sealed like a fluorescent tube. All around us people were stewing in their damp clothes.

After a while, after a particularly vicious wave, Isabel rose, went to a counter in a corner and returned with Turkish coffees. I noticed a woman at the end of the row staring at us. There were some other women in
chadors
and a few in
burqas
in a group near her.

‘I didn’t know they’d taken up the
chador
here,’ I whispered.

‘Those are tourists,’ said Isabel. ‘They come here from Iran and Saudi these days to cool off in the summer. The islands are a big draw.’

Nearby there was a young, bearded man in a plain white shirt talking into a phone. He’d been glancing at us every now and then.

Isabel followed my gaze, spotted the man.

‘This is why Peter wants you to go back to London,’ she said. ‘You have no idea how complex it is here. We can’t guarantee your protection.’

‘I’ll go back when I’m ready.’

‘We honestly don’t want to see what happened to Alek, happen to you, Sean.’ She turned, looked out the window. There was a scar below her right ear, I noticed. How had she got that?

‘You must have to deal with a lot of crazy situations,’ I said.

‘Too many to talk about.’ She touched her forehead, then tucked her hair behind her ears.

‘Have you worked out where Alek took those photos, Sean?’

‘I thought you’d have figured that out by now. You probably have a hundred people working on it.’

She gave me a deadpan look, as if we were playing poker. ‘Maybe we have, but I doubt it. There’s been cutbacks.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘Yeah.’ She said it with a straight face. Then a smile flitted across her lips.

I hadn’t held much back from Peter, only a few little things, like how I’d recognise the place where Bulent had taken Alek. I wasn’t about to tell her about it yet though. The way she’d appeared out of nowhere was a bit weird. If I did tell her everything, and she told her boss, as she’d have to do, they might have me sent back to London in a diplomatic box with a few air holes in it. She mightn’t even be able to stop them.

Peter would probably seal most of the holes himself after the way I’d pushed him aside.

As our ferry approached the dock at the entrance to the Golden Horn, the noise in the cabin grew louder as people called to each other and arranged bags and children. Then the muffled sound of the engines changed pitch and we swayed vigorously as our progress slowed and the waves shook us. The atmosphere in the cabin was expectant now.

‘What a day this is turning out to be,’ said Isabel. Then she stretched.

I looked out the window. The rain had stopped and the dock was bright because of arc lights set up on tall steel poles. There was a wall of faces jammed up against the fence that surrounded the dock waiting for people to arrive. And a throng of late commuters heading for this ferry could be seen through the long windows of the terminal building. The passengers were better dressed than most Istanbulers. Their clothes were more fashionable, their haircuts better, their handbags more designer store than market stall.

Isabel scanned the crowd, as if she was looking for someone. The people seated nearby moved into the aisle. Isabel stayed put.

‘When are you going to tell me everything you’ve figured out?’ she said.

‘Maybe when you start doing the same.’

The cabin was nearly empty now – our fellow passengers had wasted no time in making their way out.

Isabel came close to me. ‘Alek went off on a one-man-mission.’ She gripped my arm. ‘I just hope you’re not planning to do the same.’

‘I don’t think the Turks would take too kindly to me poking around.’

‘Peter said the same thing.’ She looked concerned.

An announcement in Turkish blared out over the speakers high up on the walls of the cabin. Then, the same female voice announced in English, ‘Last stop, please take all your belongings.’

As we came out of the cabin Isabel shivered under the thin black windcheater she was wearing. I still felt wet from the rain. My clothes were damp, only half dried. We must have looked like a couple of bedraggled refugees coming off the ferry.

We were the last two people to leave the catamaran, and as we stepped off the gangplank, Isabel scanned the dock.

‘Dry land at last,’ she said.

The squawking of hungry seagulls filled the air.

We were behind a group of waddling Turkish mothers herding some excited teenagers towards the terminal building. Isabel walked beside me.

‘You must have been very close to Alek to care so much about what happened to him,’ she said.

‘We were close. And he certainly didn’t deserve what happened to him.’

‘There are usually taxis this way,’ said Isabel, pointing to the right.

‘Wait a second,’ I said. I stopped, bent down to tie the laces on my brown suede loafers. The smell of fish was heavy in the air.

‘Can we wait another minute for the crowd to go?’ I said, looking up at her.

I never thought I’d have to use the stuff my dad had drilled into me, about how to defend yourself, how to deal with urban dangers, things he used to go on about until I was totally pissed with it all, but I was glad he had now.

‘Watch out for crowds, was one piece of advice I remembered.

As I finished with my laces, an attendant opened a side gate and a stream of people rushed out onto the dock heading past us towards the ferry.

Isabel bent down. ‘We’re being watched,’ she said.

‘You think?’

‘That guy from the ferry. You can’t miss him. He’s holding back, waiting for us.’

I didn’t bother to look around. We had to get off the dock. I stood up, took Isabel’s arm and guided her to the side gate the incoming passengers were coming through. Then I pushed past them. They looked irritated.

I kept smiling. The attendant on the other side of the gate shook his head, but let us through into the waiting area beyond. Moments later, we were exiting through a side door and heading for a group of taxis, their snouts pushing up against the brick walkway in front of the terminal.

‘Let’s go,’ I said, as we sat in the back seat of a cramped yellow taxi.

Isabel said something in Turkish to the driver. He set off immediately. When I looked back I saw nothing unusual, just people milling about.

We changed taxis at Taksim Square, a vortex of cars, trucks and pedestrians coming from all directions. The square had one saving grace: a half dozen major arteries intersected there. The honking flow of vehicles provided a perfect opportunity to lose anyone who might be following us.

‘Wait and see,’ said Isabel, when I asked her again where we were going, after we got out of the first cab.

‘No English from now on,’ she continued, as a cab pulled up the second she put her hand in the air.

We didn’t talk again until we got out of the second taxi in a busy café-lined street, in a suburb I found out later was called Bebek. Isabel had given the driver directions in Turkish. It probably looked like we were sulking in the back, we were that quiet.

Each time we stopped at a traffic light, I had to resist looking around. I felt like a criminal who’d just broken out of jail and had to know if he’d made it to freedom.

The idea that people were actively looking for me, were out to kidnap or kill me, still seemed weird, but I couldn’t ignore that it was true. What had happened in my hotel had been a lucky escape. I mightn’t be that lucky the next time.

The upmarket Istanbul suburb of Bebek was on the European side of the Bosphorus, down the hill from Taksim Square but further east, out towards the Black Sea. It had a mixture of Ottoman-era buildings, restaurants, shops and modern apartment blocks. The main road through Bebek twisted along the shore of the Bosphorus like a snake.

Marinas and jetties jostled one another on its outskirts. The small bay that most of Bebek sits beside was lined with sleek powerboats and expensive yachts.

The taxi driver barely let me close the cab door before he shot away to find another fare.

‘Back in a second,’ said Isabel, ducking into a shop. She came out with a bag of fruit and asked me if I was hungry.

I took an apple. It was crunchy and juicy. She scanned the cars and people around us for a minute, then we moved off. We walked past a newly painted clapboard style hotel with people coming and going from it in smart outfits. Then we turned into a narrow alley. It ran up the hill behind Bebek. Other alleys branched off at regular intervals. This was where the older buildings of Bebek were. Ancient-looking doorways punctuated twenty-foot high walls on either side. The walls were crumbling in places.