Letter From a Stranger

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  ‘No, she is not. If you knew which district they lived in, that could be a help. I could send someone to do an additional check.’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Justine murmured, and blinked, then glanced away.

  Iffet realized immediately that Justine was tremendously disappointed. Her expression was crestfallen and her blue eyes looked moist, as if she might suddenly cry.

  ‘It is important to you, isn’t it, Justine? That you find these two ladies?’

  ‘Extremely important.’

  A silence fell between the two women. Iffet couldn’t help wondering what this was all about and why her new friend was so upset.

  Justine was asking herself if she should confide in Iffet, and immediately cancelled out that idea. She had met Iffet only yesterday, and could hardly tell her about the letter from Anita. She would hesitate to tell anyone. Her mother had done a horrifying thing and she didn’t want a soul to know. Other than Joanne, who was like a sister to her. On the other hand, perhaps she owed this very nice woman a bit of an explanation. An edited version of the truth.

  She was about to speak out when the waiter arrived with the börek, and so she sat back in the chair, wanting to wait until they were alone.

  Justine realized that she and her brother might have made a terrible mistake. They had decided Anita Lowe lived in Istanbul because the letter she had written bore an Istanbul postmark. But she might have simply been passing through the city, or on vacation. The truth was they didn’t have any idea where Anita lived, nor their grandmother either. And she was more anxiety ridden than ever.

  For a moment her frustration soared. How foolish they had been, and she in particular. She pressed down on these feelings, and made up her mind to confide in Iffet, although only to a certain extent. She was far too ashamed of her mother’s behaviour to reveal that awful part of the story. She would have to fudge the estrangement, and put the focus on finding the two women.

  Taking steely control of herself, Justine drank some of the sparkling water, and settled back on the banquette, glancing around. Several rooms formed the restaurant, and they were all visible to each other through the wide doorways. The cool aqua-tiled rooms, the windows and the starched white-linen tablecloths created a fresh look, and the setting provided a pleasant respite from the noise of the nearby markets and ferry terminals; it was a relaxing haven away from the jostling crowds.

  ‘I am glad I brought you here, Justine. I think you like it,’ Iffet said before picking up a börek and biting into the small triangle of pastry.

  ‘I love it, is it a new place?’ Justine asked, also starting to eat her own börek.

  ‘No, it’s very old. It was opened in 1901 by a fellow called Pandeli, and it has been a success ever since.’

  When she had finished eating the börek, Justine looked across at Iffet and said quietly, ‘I think I owe you more of an explanation about my search for Anita Lowe, but let’s have lunch first. We’ll talk over coffee.’

  This they did, after enjoying the sea bass cooked in paper and the grilled vegetables. Both women smilingly declined the delicious-looking desserts, and ordered Turkish coffee. ‘Rife with caffeine, but why not, for once?’ Iffet murmured, smiling at Justine. ‘What do you wish to explain about Anita Lowe?’

  ‘I must start with Gabriele Hardwicke,’ Justine murmured, holding Iffet with her eyes. ‘She is our grandmother, and it is she I am looking for, and I believed I would find her through Anita.’

  Iffet looked taken aback, startled, and was silent for a moment, then she said, ‘And I haven’t been able to find Anita for you. Perhaps there are some other ways I might be able to locate her, if you are certain she lives in Istanbul.’

  ‘That’s just the point, I’m not. But wherever she is, I do think my grandmother will be with her. They have been friends since they were young girls, and have remained close. Let me tell you how all this came about.’

  Justine told her story swiftly, giving only the details, resisting any embellishments, and explained that she and Richard were out of touch with their grandmother because of a quarrel between Gabriele and her daughter, their mother Deborah. Finally she finished, ‘And I’m worried about Gran because Anita indicated in her letter she is so despondent and misses Rich and me. Also, she might not be well – she is almost eighty.’

  Iffet had listened attentively, and now she said slowly, thoughtfully, ‘Everyone has been making assumptions… Anita, you and your brother. I shall make one. Let us assume Anita and Gabriele do live here. If that is so, there are several other things I could do. What nationality are they? American?’

  ‘No, they’re both English. As I told you, I think they grew up together. In London. Although my grandmother does have some sort of connection to Yorkshire, in the north of England. But why do you ask?’

  ‘Because there are many foreign consulates here. Often foreign residents visit their consulates just to say hello, leave their names for future reference. Or for social events the consulate might give. There are also other organizations that foreign residents can join. I could make enquiries.’

  ‘Thanks, Iffet, that’s great, and I have a couple of ideas myself. My grandmother seems to have past connections to Turkey, buying ceramics, antiquities and carpets for a showroom in New York which she and my father ran. They sold to interior designers. I was wondering if you knew any dealers… one of them could have known Gran, might still know her.’

  A dark brow lifted, and Iffet asked, ‘What kind of carpets? Kilims?’

  Justine shook her head. ‘No, not kilims – they were woven silk carpets from Hereke.’

  ‘This is a good thought of yours, Justine,’ Iffet said, sounding enthusiastic. ‘I know one excellent carpet dealer; we could go to the shop whenever you want. It’s not far from here.’

  ‘Let’s do that. But here’s my other idea, and I know you’ll be able to help. Last night I was watching television, going to different news stations. When I clicked onto the network I work with, Cable News International, I was taken aback when I saw my own face. I couldn’t believe it. There I was on Turkish television. The network had made a promo for my new documentary. That’s what gave me the idea – to be interviewed on a local show. Anita or Gran might just happen to see me.’

  The worried expression on Iffet’s face had dissolved and she was smiling. ‘Brilliant. I can arrange a television interview. What about a newspaper story? We have a Turkish daily newspaper called Zaman Daily English. I can phone them.’

  ‘You’ve brightened my day, given me hope!’ Justine exclaimed, a smile lighting up her face. ‘Let’s forget about the Spice Market today, head for the carpet shop instead.’

  ‘We’re going to Punto,’ Iffet explained. ‘It’s close to the Grand Bazaar over there. It won’t take long.’ Five minutes later she was ushering Justine down a narrow street and through a heavy wooden door which stood open. ‘The carpet dealer is located in this han. It is called the Vezir Han.’

  ‘What’s a han?’ Justine asked, always curious about everything.

  ‘A han is a big courtyard with several buildings around it, and originally, centuries ago, the han provided accommodation for travellers, their pack animals, plus their wares. At night the heavy door was locked for safety. Today these courtyards house workshops, and there are many of them all over Istanbul. Now, we must go around this corner and we will be there.’

  A moment later, Iffet was leading her into a small, ancient shop called Punto. As they entered a young man came forward, smiling broadly. He bowed to Iffet, shook her hand, still smiling, and Iffet introduced him as Kemal, youngest son of the owner. After shaking Justine’s hand he immediately led them down a flight of steps, and Iffet said in a low voice, ‘He’s taking us to the private room reserved for special customers.’

  ‘I’m not a customer,’ Justine whispered back.

  ‘I know. And he knows we are mostly seeking information about Gabriele Hardwicke. I told him on the phone. He wants this to be done in private, an
d you will be shown rugs, as a matter of courtesy.’

  ‘I understand,’ Justine responded.

  Kemal led them to a banquette, and said in English, ‘Please be seated, ladies. Comfortable, yes?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Iffet said, also speaking English. She then reverted to Turkish for a moment or two. Justine guessed she was explaining things to him. Kemal nodded, and disappeared, hurrying across the showroom, entering an office.

  Turning to Iffet sitting next to her, Justine asked, ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘I asked him if he could telephone his father, who is not here today, to enquire if he knows your grandmother. And then I spelled her name for him. He is sending out an assistant called Mustafa, who is going to show us some of the best Hereke silk carpets, and later a weaver will demonstrate how she works on a loom. I hope you don’t mind, but we must show politeness.’

  ‘I understand, and I don’t mind at all.’

  Mustafa arrived, introduced himself, shook their hands, bowed, and then brought out the first carpet. It was beautiful, as were the next two, but when he presented the fourth, throwing it down and pulling it across the floor, Justine caught her breath in surprise. It was a mixture of various blues, on a deeper blue background, and it was gorgeous, that was the only word to describe it.

  ‘It’s breathtaking!’ she exclaimed to Iffet, and smiled up at Mustafa. ‘I’ve never seen such a wonderful carpet,’ she said, and it was obvious she meant this.

  The young man beamed. ‘Thank you. It is special. Rare. An Ozipek. The best name, a good name.’

  Another young man appeared carrying a tray with glasses of tea on it, and both women took a glass. Leaning closer, Iffet murmured, ‘It is the custom, serving tea. And we have to drink it, or they will be offended.’

  When Kemal returned a short while later, Mustafa left the showroom and Kemal spoke swiftly in Turkish, after excusing himself to Justine.

  Once he had finished, Iffet made a moue. ‘Some good news. Kemal’s father did know your grandmother. He told Kemal that an Englishwoman called Gabri did buy carpets from him. The bad news is that he hasn’t seen her for some years. I am so sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay. And at least we know Gran did spend time in Istanbul. Gabri is her nickname, by the way.’

  TEN

  The man cut quite a swathe as he walked through the lobby of the Çiragan Palace Hotel Kempinski, was well aware of the glances cast his way. He was used to it, therefore paid no attention.

  His name was Michael Dalton, and he was tall, lithe, and in excellent physical condition at the age of thirty-nine. Because of his arresting dark good looks and last name, the movie buffs who met him thought he might be the brother of the British actor Timothy Dalton. But he was not, nor was he in the business of treading the boards or making movies.

  Michael Dalton was in a very different kind of game, and it was one that was close to his heart. It took him all over the world and threw him into a mix of very diverse people. He always held his own whatever company he kept, and his geniality, charm and ready smile were captivating, disarming and persuasive, camouflaging the true nature of the man. Only a scant few were ever allowed to see the real Michael Dalton, get a glimpse of his superior intelligence, inside knowledge of international politics and formidable understanding of world history.

  There was a lot of speculation about what he really did for a living. Some people said he was a secret agent with the CIA. Others maintained he was British-born, worked for British Intelligence, and went undercover for MI6. And there were those who insisted he was a negotiator, a fixer, a go-between for presidents and prime ministers. Others had decided he constructed huge financial deals for tycoons, tyrants and oligarchs. They insisted that was where all his money came from. But they were wrong.

  Michael Dalton did exactly what he actually purported to do. He owned and ran an international security company with offices in London, Paris and New York. It was renowned, had a fine reputation and was highly successful with a raft of big clients, including major corporations, banks and multinationals.

  Many of the other things bandied around about him happened to be true. He was an American, had been born in New York, had attended Princeton and Harvard, did have a law degree and had been engaged. Once. Now he was unencumbered and preferred it that way.

  Michael Dalton had two mantras: Those who retire die; he who travels fastest travels alone. These thoughts were on his mind as he strode out onto the terrace of the hotel and glanced around. Only two tables were taken. In one corner there was a young blonde woman, in the other the man he had come to meet.

  As he reached the table, put his hand on the man’s shoulder, he received the response he fully expected, ‘Take a gander at the other table, Michael. I’ve not seen such a beautiful blonde for centuries.’

  Michael laughed and sat down. ‘You never change, Charlie; you’ve always got one eye on a girl, even when you’re doing business.’

  Charles Anthony Gordon, who ran a private bank in London, laughed with Michael, and asked, ‘What are you drinking? Not the usual Coca-Cola, I hope?’

  ‘No. I’ll have tea instead.’

  ‘Guess what? I’ll have the same. It’s a bit too early for booze. So how do you feel now that you’ve broken off the engagement?’

  ‘Relieved. I was just thinking that as I came out onto the terrace. I was also reminding myself that when a man retires he dies.’

  ‘I expect that’s a dig at me, old chap, but guess what? I think I’m going to change my mind.’

  ‘You’re not going to retire after all?’ Michael sounded surprised. He stared at his old friend, who had not yet reached retirement age. ‘I hope you mean it, Charlie!’

  ‘I do. Scout’s honour and all that stuff. You’re looking pleased.’

  ‘I’m thrilled. How come you changed your mind? You were so adamant when I was in London two weeks ago.’

  ‘I know I was, and I did mean it. But I got talked out of it by our Scottish friend. He made good sense.’

  Michael beckoned to a waiter, ordered English breakfast tea, one with milk, the other with lemon, and, once alone again with Charlie he added, ‘I’m glad Alistair did a number on you. I can’t tell you how essential you are to us. But then you know that.’

  ‘I do, I suppose. Which is why I changed my mind. Got to do one’s duty, protect the lands of the free and the brave.’

  Michael leaned across the table. ‘I’m glad I didn’t bring a farewell gift for you.’

  ‘Yes, it would have been a waste of money.’ Charlie placed a cigarette lighter on the table and a packet of cigarettes. ‘I know you like a smoke now and again – have one of mine, Michael. It’s your favourite brand.’

  ‘Thanks, I will.’ Michael took out a cigarette, put it in his mouth and brought the lighter to it. ‘It’s in the packet, correct?’

  ‘You’ve got it right.’

  After taking several puffs of the cigarette, Michael stuck it in the ashtray to burn away, picked up the packet of cigarettes and put it in his jacket. He then pushed the lighter across to Charlie, who slipped it in his trouser pocket.

  ‘I’ve got bad news, I’m afraid,’ Michael now announced, focusing all of his attention on the Englishman. ‘Those birds we spoke about when I was in London, I’m afraid they may be delivered to someone else.’

  ‘The pheasants?’ Charlie raised a brow. ‘Damn and blast, and we were promised that wouldn’t happen.’

  ‘C’est la vie,’ Michael murmured, as he grimaced and shook his head. ‘Some people are untrustworthy.’

  ‘Any chance of a diversion?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘I’m working on it. That, or perhaps extinction. I do believe those pheasants in particular have to be off the market… permanently.’ When Charlie didn’t respond, Michael exclaimed, ‘If you can tear your eyes away from the blonde, I have a bit more news for you.’

  ‘Oh, sorry. I couldn’t help admiring her when she stood up. Quite the leggy colt, isn’t she
?’

  Michael simply smiled, and said sotto voce, ‘Stay close to our contact, make sure he understands we’re now all behind him.’

  ‘I will.’

  The waiter arrived with the large pot of tea, and Charlie turned to Michael. ‘Will you be coming to London in early June? If so, I’d like you to be my guest at Wimbledon.’

  ‘No, I don’t think I will be there then,’ Michael answered, ‘but thanks for the invitation.’

  The two men walked through the gardens of the hotel, heading in the direction of the marble Çiragan Palace, a rococo building which had been in ruins for years until it became part of the new hotel. Now it had sumptuous suites, private rooms for special events, and a traditional Turkish restaurant, yet it had not lost any of its nineteenth-century charm.

  Michael Dalton and Charles Gordon had been associates and friends for many years. Michael knew that underneath that English ‘old school tie’ exterior Charles presented to the world was a man of integrity, steely determination and dependability. He ran the bank his grandfather had started in 1903, and which his father had brought to prominence; Charles, a financial genius, had only made it more prosperous than ever over the last twenty-five years. He was now fifty-nine, but looked so much younger.

  The bank was a client of Dalton Incorporated, and Michael’s company handled all security matters for the bank and its top-level personnel. Charles and Michael had developed a special relationship over the last seven years, and exchanged a great deal of vital information about many other things, not always to do with the bank. Rather, these matters related to events that affected and often changed international politics. And so affected the financial world.

  Now that they were entirely alone in the gardens, Michael turned to Charles, ‘Have you just given me some names?’

  ‘Yes, of three men. You’ll find a little strip of paper underneath the cigarettes. They could become dangerous men. Although not everyone knows that. You must keep them in your sights at all times.’