The last three pages consisted of loose technical verbiage, mostly German industrial firms — several of them still in existence — on which ‘Bettina’ had fed for its information, its know-how and transportation facilities. Mönch was not specific about anything. The implication might be there, but there was no direct link with ABCO, or with any Western agency, diplomatic or commercial.
Hawn said, ‘And you paid four thousand dollars for this?’
‘My friend, I am not so naive. I am aware that these documents are not important in themselves. But Mönch also enclosed his address. I was anxious to make contact with him. Not personally. Through friends.’
‘The friends being members of Jacques?’
Pol’s smile became less benign. ‘Mon chèr, Jacques is a highly exclusive organization. You happened to hear about it only from Mönch. That was not your fault. But do not think, as a journalist, that you have the privilege to mention Jacques so lightly whenever you feel like it.’ He ordered more wine and there was a moment’s uncomfortable pause.
‘Why did you ask us out here?’ said Hawn.
‘Because I think you can be useful to me. I also like you — and that is more than I can say for most of my fellow creatures. I want to continue to work with you. But first, let us share our resources. You have shown me Mönch’s original documents. I am particularly interested by his references to “Bettina”. In my own researches I have come across this name before, but have never known what it signified.
‘Mönch’s information is far from complete, and it leaves much guessing. But I happen to know, from private sources, that he held a unique position in the Third Reich — one that enjoyed the confidence of the Nazi leadership on one side, and gave him easy access to the British and Americans on the other — that is to say, agents working for the British and Americans. But only in the most intense secrecy.’
Anna interrupted him. ‘From what I know, the Nazis always worked in the greatest secrecy. Even the extermination of the Jews was kept secret from most Germans. There are no records, for instance, of the Wannsee Conference when they decided on the Final Solution for the Jews.’
‘The Jews were another question,’ said Pol. ‘Hitler’s gang knew that once they embarked on the murder of an entire people, they were putting themselves beyond the pale. Given the Nazi ideology, the Final Solution was the obvious consequence, of course. But they also knew that if they lost the war, the world would never forgive them. At Nuremberg Goering is reputed to have said, “If it hadn’t been for Auschwitz, none of us would be in the dock now.”’
‘All right,’ said Hawn, ‘but the guilt of murdering six million Jews is rather different from importing a few million tonnes of crude oil from your adversaries. So why the intense secrecy?’
‘Because for the first time in the history of the oil business, the big international companies were not entirely their own masters. There were plenty of crooks about in the Second World War, on both sides, but on the whole Churchill and Roosevelt played a straight game. And if they had even suspected that their underlings were trading in oil with the enemy, heads would have rolled, perhaps even literally. The Nazis needed that oil. And they needed to protect the people who were supplying it to them.’
‘But, do we have proof of all this?’ Hawn said.
Pol grinned. ‘Proof, mon chèr, is a relative thing. It depends on whom you want to convince. No, I do not need sufficient proof to satisfy an international court of law. All I need is enough proof to satisfy myself and — how shall I put it? — my friends.’
‘Then you take justice into your own hands?’
‘Justice? What is that? Give me an example of justice that has emerged from any war? But these are academic arguments. We’re wasting time, and, worse, we’re wasting this excellent food!’ He ate for a moment in silence. ‘But you surely have something to tell me?’
Hawn paraphrased his researches into Salak and the unhappy de Vere Frisby — though he was careful at this point not to mention Shanklin: Shanklin was too near home for comfort — while Anna followed with a neat resumé of her researches to date.
‘I’m afraid it’s not much to show for a month’s work,’ Hawn said. ‘At least, hardly enough for you to unleash your dogs of justice once again.’
‘Not at all, mon chèr! On the contrary, what you have both recounted interests me greatly. For a start, it establishes a definite link between Turkey and the Caribbean. That is the one link that has so far evaded me.
‘Now, I have been doing a little work of my own. I have a friend who was in Istanbul during the war. He has also heard of this man Salak. The gentleman appears to have been a formidable character — no wonder your SOE used him. Or rather, shared him with the Germans! But most important of all, the man is still alive.’ He put his hand inside his jacket and hauled out a long plain envelope which he handed across to Hawn.
Inside were again two first-class air tickets, this time open-return, Paris to Istanbul. They were booked in his and Anna’s full names — departure time 9.30 next morning from Orly. There were also 100,000 francs in 500-franc notes — more than a thousand pounds.
Hawn was not immune to the seductive sight and feel of so much cash, so suddenly, gratuitously offered. He felt his judgement and resolution weakening. He looked at Anna, and she looked back at him, bright-eyed, curious. He said to Pol: ‘What’s the brief? Track down this man Salak, so your boys can catch up and deal with him?’
‘Mon chèr, even for a journalist you have sometimes a most indelicate way of expressing yourself. I want information from Salak. I want you to help me to get it. I want you to bribe him — buy him. And if you need more funds, you know where to get them.’
‘Why don’t you do it yourself?’ said Anna.
‘Because, as I have told you before, I am sadly too conspicuous — too many people know me — and my reputation is wide, and not always so pure.’ He wiped some sauce off his beard. ‘But you are the ideal pair — a professional journalist and his researcher mistress —’ he nodded to Anna — ‘if you will pardon the expression.’
Hawn sat sipping his liqueur. ‘My friend in London told me only that Salak used to be a wrestler and has a shop in a district called Kumkapi. Can you give us any other details about him?’
‘That is really all you need to know. Kumkapi is a very low area, in the south of the city. But Salak prefers to be the big fish in a small dirty pond. Also, wrestling in Turkey is like boxing in New York. Just find a cafe or bar where wrestlers congregate.
‘One word of warning. Salak is rumoured to be still a powerful and influential man — in his own domain. Be careful how you approach him. You may not find him as amenable or as vulnerable as Doktor Mönch. And one other thing. Keep out of trouble with the Turkish police — they are not gentle.’
‘And how do we get in touch with you?’
‘When you get to Istanbul, book into the Pera Palace. It is one of the most civilized hotels in the Middle East — once rivalled only by the St Georges in Beirut, which unhappily is now a ruin. I will contact you in my own time.’
He turned, as though to call for the bill; then paused. ‘I have not been quite frank with you. When Mönch sent us this second document, he also enclosed his address — as I told you.’ He rummaged in his mighty trouser pocket — an effort which caused him to sweat — and finally produced a folded sheet of hotel notepaper. Across the back, in that old-fashioned Germanic script, made almost illegible by a wobbly hand, were traced two lines. It took Hawn several minutes to decipher them — and he only succeeded because they were two of the most famous lines of verse in German literature.
Die Voglein schweigen im Walde beim See.
Warte nur — bald ruhst du auch.
Hawn looked at him. ‘Maybe Mönch’s last words — before he hanged himself? Although the newspapers say he didn’t leave a note.’
‘He enclosed it with his address.’ There was a note of impatience in Pol’s voice. ‘What does it mean?’
‘It’s Goethe. It has to be. No one else is ever quoted in German. Only the quote isn’t correct. It should read, “The little birds are silent in the wood — just wait, and soon you will be silent too.” In this version Mönch says, “The little birds are silent in the wood by the lake…”’ He looked at the big sweating face above its food-stained bib. ‘“Just wait, and soon you will be silent too.” The final testament of an old man close to death? Or just a warning? You and your boys were too impatient with Mönch. If you had given him a little more time, and handled him correctly, he might have told us everything.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as where the complete files on “Operation Bettina” were hidden. In a lake, by a wood, maybe.’
‘Keep that piece of paper, Monsieur Hawn. Or rather, memorize it. It could be useful.’ He paused. ‘How typical of the Nazis! Goethe and Beethoven. What romantics to drag such names into their filthy business.’
CHAPTER 18
They landed at Yesilkoy Airport, Istanbul, on a cool grey afternoon. Customs and Immigration formalities were swift and casual. Hawn changed 20,000 francs into Turkish lire, bought a street map of the city, and fought with a scrum of taxi drivers; the winner was a solid man with a ferocious black moustache like a scouring brush. During the thirty-minute drive into the city, he kept to the fast lane of the dual carriageway, his foot flat down, his hand on the horn, giving way to no one. If a car had been following them, the driver would have had to have been either exceptionally skilful or downright reckless.
They passed small white houses with tiny allotments, spreading into wooden slums that clustered round the feet of grey tower blocks, many of them unfinished, reaching down to the edge of the Sea of Marmara. The city beyond presented a wide undulating panorama, humped and spiked with mosques and minarets — magnificent and filthy, built layer upon layer upon the decaying stones and clogged effluence of many civilizations, from Byzantium and Constantinople to the opulent barbarity of the Ottoman Empire — now raddled by the corruption of a modern Western city, of high-rise hotels, multi-storey car parks, boutiques, discos, supermarkets, constipated traffic.
Istanbul is the only city in the world which stands on two continents. The main half, on the eastern extremity of Europe, is divided from the other by the Golden Horn, which is shaped more like a fat snake, its dark waters churned and thrashed by crowds of dilapidated rivercraft fighting to find a berth, or to scramble through the narrow gap in the Galata Bridge — an ancient pontoon structure whose central sections open twice a day to let shipping squeeze out into the Bosporus. Across this famous channel of water lies Istanbul’s eastern half — Uskudar, formerly Scutari, which is part of Asia.
The traffic in the city was appalling, but did not seem to deter their driver. They crossed the Golden Horn by the more recent Atatürk Bridge, into the commercial district where whole areas had been cleared to make way for modern office blocks whose angular shapes almost overshadowed the bulging, archaic mosques below.
They climbed steeply, through a fog of exhaust fumes, and drew up finally at the steps of a modest building with a blue glass dome. The driver charged them treble the sum on the clock; Hawn refused to pay; the driver yelled at him; Hawn offered him a third; the driver accepted, grinned hugely and wrung his hand.
Once inside, Hawn could see why the Pera Palace Hotel was no longer the watering-place of the rich and fashionable. Instead of air-conditioning, there were big swinging fans from the ceilings that stirred the tepid air; the tall mirrors round the walls were mottled brown; the staff, in their white mess tunics and red tarbouches, looked as though they needed dusting down, and the potted plants wanted watering. The walls were veined marble and black teak, under chandeliers looking like clusters of gilded orchids. Flaking cherubs stared sadly down at them from above the reception desk.
Hawn had the impression that the hotel was far from full. In the lobby the few guests to be seen were either plump, prosperous-looking Turks or ageing foreigners of distinguished and academic appearance, like old-fashioned archaeologists.
The room was spacious, heavily-draped, with wide windows overlooking the steep sprawl down to the Bosporus, with the minarets sticking up like sharpened pencils. The bathroom was enormous, tiled in marble, with elaborate plumbing which might have been part of an ancient steam engine.
At four o’clock, downstairs, the tarbouched retainers were moving discreetly among the tables, serving tea and tiny cups of muddy black coffee. Hawn gave his usual quick glance round to see if there was anyone to arouse his suspicion. Then they went outside.
They had been warned that it was almost impossible to get a taxi, so they walked. The streets were not imposing — grey, grubby, deafening, the pavements moving with dogged, silent crowds, their button-black eyes registering no expression. Seen close to, even the mosques lost their magic: huge hunks of Oriental Gothic which reminded Hawn of Victorian railway stations in London. There were many money changers and souvenir shops bristling with hideous over-priced artefacts of bogus pedigree.
After half-an-hour, their eyes stinging with dust and fumes, they returned to the melancholy charm of the Pera Palace.
Here they asked Reception if they could arrange for a chauffeur driven car. A more than usually alert man at the desk said it would be done at once. The result was a brand-new Mercedes with no meter and a driver who smiled a lot and was obviously keen to show off his English, which was rapid and colloquial, with an American accent. Hawn told him that they wanted to go across to the Kumkapi District.
The driver said, ‘Kumkapi no good. Full of bad men. Dirty, it smells. You must go to Suleymaniye Mosque. And the Mosque of Rustum Pasa. You have already seen the Topkapi and the Blue Mosque?’
It took Hawn several minutes to convince him that they were determined to go to Kumkapi. Hawn’s final explanation seemed a ludicrous one, especially with Anna sitting beside him. ‘We are interested in wrestling. Do you understand, “wrestling”?’
The man turned and showed his white teeth. ‘Very good sport. Football, wrestling. Very good!’ Then he shook his head, as they narrowly missed the car in front. ‘But you see no wrestling in Kumkapi.’
‘No? But many wrestlers come from there? There are many bars and cafes where wrestlers go? Yes?’
‘They are not good places. The good wrestlers do not go there. Only the older ones, the bums.’ He laughed and repeated, ‘Bums!’ — with a sideways glance in his driving mirror at Anna.
‘Take us to one of those cafes,’ Hawn said. ‘We’ll give you a bonus.’
It took them almost an hour to get back across the river, into an area of shabby crooked streets full of tiny wooden shops like cupboards, and the occasional covered bazaar. They came to a small square with a brick mosque and seedy shops, most of them selling meat. On the steps of the mosque sat a row of long-haired European youths and their girls, their faces pinched and vacant.
The driver stopped, pointed ahead; he seemed disappointed and did not smile. ‘There is wrestlers’ cafe. But not a good place.’
After a long haggle, they agreed on a price for him to wait.
The square smelt of charcoal, coffee and charred meat; the shops were hung with bulbous lumps of greasy white goat’s meat. There was only the one cafe, full of grim-looking men sitting over empty cups. Hawn and Anna went inside and ordered coffee.
It was now that they encountered the most awkward and obtrusive aspect of Turkish life. They had only been there for a couple of minutes when two glasses of a yellowish liquid appeared on their table. A man of savage aspect, sitting at the next table, and dressed in boots and a khaki vest, shouted at them: ‘Akadash!’
Hawn had taken the precaution of bringing an elementary English-Turkish dictionary. The man shouted at them again — ‘Akadash!’ — and made a gesture as though drinking.
Hawn smiled politely at him and, presuming it was some kind of white wine, swigged the glass in front of him and nearly choked, his throat burned raw.
; ‘Raki!’ the man shouted.
Hawn smiled again, bitterly, and took another sip. Then he consulted his dictionary. ‘Akadash’ meant ‘Good friend’. He repeated it back to the man, offering him a tentative toast.
He and Anna finished the two drinks and called the waiter — a stout man in a dirty white apron — and ordered one raki, gesturing to their host. The man at the next table howled something, obviously furious. A moment later two more rakis appeared in front of them both.
‘American?’ the Turk demanded.
‘English,’ Hawn said.
‘Ah, English.’ He turned and bawled at some men at another table. One of them came across. He was stout and bow-legged, very unshaven, wearing a blue tracksuit. Without being invited, he sat down at their table.
‘I speak very good English,’ he said, and called to the waiter for more raki.
Hawn was beginning to find this aggressive hospitality both tiresome and a little disquieting. He was thinking more of Anna than himself, and how they were going to get away without fuss; but so far none of the men appeared to have taken any interest in her at all.
‘How long you in Istanbul?’ the stranger said. His breath reeked. Then, without waiting for an answer, added: ‘You have American cigarettes?’
Hawn explained that Anna and he did not smoke.
‘You want to buy American cigarettes?’ the man said. ‘Good price. Fifty Turkish lire, two hundred Lucky Strike.’
Hawn decided this was his cue. He said, ‘What is your name?’
‘They call me Baka.’
‘Well listen, Baka, akadash. We have to go back to the hotel now. But tomorrow we will come back and I will give you some good American cigarettes. You give me raki — I give you cigarettes.’
There was a lot of shaking hands and kissing on the cheeks — though none of them attempted to kiss Anna. They at last got out of the cafe and returned to the car.
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