by Maha Akhtar
“He’s already here. He came to my office just after your telegram arrived.”
“As I said, you go with him and you’re as good as dead.”
The two men looked at each other. Musa raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“Musa, can you delay departure until midnight?”
“Are you crazy? How will I explain that to the port captain? And with this new curfew? They’ll never agree to it. I’m a Yemeni freighter captain … a pirate for hire to the highest bidder. I have to get out by ten. That’s the last departure slot they’ll give me.”
“Look, if I can arrange it, can we leave at midnight?”
“Why? What is more important than your life?”
“Musa, there is one more thing I need to do.”
“Brother, you are going to get yourself executed.”
“Nusair, it is the last and most valuable piece of the puzzle.”
Musa looked at him silently.
“Just give me a few hours.”
The captain sighed deeply.
Salah took his leave with a warm handshake. He ran down the gangplank and quickly walked to the customs house.
“Mehmet,” he said, shutting the door.
“Salah! I wasn’t expecting to have that dinner tonight … and I can’t … my wife is expecting me …” Mehmet’s fez sat askew on his big, bald, egg-shaped head.
“Mehmet,” Salah put his hand up to stop him. “I need a favor … please.”
It was close to nine o’clock when Salah left the customs house. In return for a sum of money, Mehmet had agreed to let the Tree of Life stay in port until midnight.
“But not a minute later, Salah,” he warned. “I have to stamp the exit papers with today’s date or else I will be hauled off for questioning. You know the rules. And then what will happen to my family if I am in prison … ?”
“Thank you, dear friend,” Salah interrupted him.
The docks were still buzzing with activity. Voices mingled with ship horns as some of the vessels started to pull up anchor and move out of their berths. As Salah approached the guards at the entrance to the dock, he kept his gaze set on the street in front of him. He could feel them staring at him as he walked past. It was almost curfew and, in his suit, Salah didn’t exactly look like a dockworker. And while he was a civil servant and had the right to be out past curfew, he was carrying a gun, a wad of cash, and several different identity papers. Getting stopped and searched was not ideal.
“Hey! You!” he heard behind him.
Salah froze.
Suddenly, a flash of lightning lit up the early night sky. Thunderclouds rumbled, only this time, they sounded closer than ever. In the split second that everyone’s attention turned toward the sky and the long-awaited possibility of rain, Salah quickly slipped away amid the general chaos of horse carriages, donkey carts, passersby, and vendors.
Taking every shortcut he knew, he approached the small residential, cobblestone street just off Konak Square in the heart of the old city, where he lived on the top floor of an old townhouse that had been converted into apartments. He looked around cautiously before opening the main door, entering as quietly as he could. He didn’t want his neighbors or the concierge or anyone to know he was back.
He stole across the courtyard and ran up the stairs to his apartment. The door was unlocked. Someone had been there. He padded into the darkened foyer, turned on the small gas lamp and glanced around quickly. Everything looked normal. He turned it off.
He hurried down the hall to his bedroom. He lit an oil lamp and waited for a moment, listening, just in case. But apart from the sound of the cicadas, there was silence. He grabbed a small satchel out of the closet. He opened the top drawer of his dressing table, pulled out a couple of shirts and a pair of pants and threw them in. He opened a second drawer and took out a diary, putting it in the satchel along with the wad of lira notes and three passports from his breast pocket and the papers from the leather pochette.
He stripped off his suit and hung it in his closet as he usually did, before tossing his shirt in a basket. Like his office, he wanted it to look as normal as possible. He pulled out a suitcase from under the bed. Inside was a khaki German lieutenant’s uniform that he had quietly acquired the week before. It was a little tight on him, both the pants and the tunic straining at the waist, but it would have to do. He pulled on a pair of black boots, tucking the pants into them. He slipped into the standard leather holster that had several pockets around the belt, securing the Luger inside, and placed a brown officer’s cap on his head.
A floorboard creaked. The sound seemed to be coming from the direction of the living room. He thought he could hear hushed voices. Moving quickly, he peeked through a crack in the curtain. The same two men who had followed him earlier were standing in the courtyard looking up at the apartment. The floorboards creaked again.
Salah’s heart jumped. There was someone in the apartment. He quickly extinguished the lamp, slung the satchel over his shoulder and across his body, and went through his bathroom to the kitchen. Keeping close to the walls, he felt his way to the back door that led to a spiral staircase down to the garden. He found the doorknob and turned it, wincing at the loud whine of the hinges. He squeezed himself through the small door and locked it from outside with his key. The door wouldn’t survive a good push, but it would give him a couple of extra minutes in case he needed them. He was almost at the bottom of the staircase when he looked up and saw the lights go on in his apartment. He saw shadowy figures dash from one room to the other and heard the sounds of furniture being overturned, closets being thrown open, and the sound of breaking glass.
Salah flew down the last few steps. He went quickly through the garden and out into the street through the back gate. It was a twenty-minute walk to the old Ministry of the Interior, an imposing early nineteenth-century building, now the seat of German military command. Salah knew the building like the back of his hand. It was where he first had his office when he began working at the Chemin de Fer Imperial in 1908.
It was a dark, silent night with the occasional rumble of thunder in the distance. Salah moved as quietly as possible, keeping to the darker corners and alleyways, avoiding the main roads and the streetlights. Sound traveled fast on nights like this. He had a couple of close calls along the way, almost colliding with a group of soldiers patrolling the area around the barracks.
As he neared the building, he veered off to the right. He walked under an arched bridge and stopped at an old rusted iron gate covered with clinging plants. He opened it and descended a short staircase into a narrow tunnel that went underneath the grounds of the building toward the back entrance of the Ministry. The Izmir Clock Tower rang out, telling Salah it was 10:15. He had an hour, maybe an hour and a quarter, but not much more.
Just as he came out of the tunnel near the back gates, they opened and a small convoy of cars pulled out, driving off into the night. The car in front was the dark blue Benz belonging to the military chief of staff himself. Good! He’s going home for the night.
A high wrought-iron fence surrounded the compound. Salah knew that two guards were posted at the brightly lit main gate and the compound was patrolled by soldiers and German shepherds every fifteen minutes. Dropping down onto his belly, Salah cautiously approached the fence. There was another tunnel hidden in the embankment that surrounded the building that Salah knew would take him into the building. Once inside, all he had to do was get to the third floor and into the military chief of staff’s office.
Digging in the earth near a stout old olive tree, Salah found the wooden gnarled door that led into the tunnel. The wood was rotted and the latch was completely rusted and initially refused to budge. Salah tried to coax it open but he couldn’t. He didn’t want to pull it, fearful of the noise it would make. He would have to wait until the next time the guards came by with the dogs and somehow get them to bark to mask the sound of him pulling open the door.
The clock tower struck 10:30. They
should be along anytime now. Right on schedule, two guards with big German shepherds came walking along and stopped on the other side of the fence a few feet away from Salah. One of the dogs came to the fence and began to sniff. The other followed him. The guards lit up cigarettes. Salah rolled over on his back. His hand felt for a small rock and, saying a little prayer, he launched it.
“What was that?” one of the soldiers said. “It came from over there,” he pointed to a dark corner.
“It’s nothing … probably just a rat.”
“Let’s go take a look.”
Just then, a cat came out of nowhere and ran across the compound. The two dogs began barking, baring their teeth, straining at their leashes as the cat squeezed through the iron bars.
“Hey, hey, hey!”
Salah heard them from inside the tunnel calming the dogs down: “It’s only a little kitty cat.” But the cat had done its job well. During the racket, Salah had used the butt of his gun to push the latch back.
The tunnel was pitch black. Once inside, Salah lit a match. The tunnel was dank, the sides black and green with mold. Salah went down the stairs. He was almost knee deep in dirty water and his head skimmed the ceiling. The tunnel was narrow enough that if he stretched his arms out, he could touch the sides. Rats scurried along the sides and God knows what else lurked in the filth beneath him. He knew he had roughly two hundred yards to go. Lighting match after match, he finally reached the short flight of stairs that led to another door. This one was behind a painted wooden panel in one of the hallways off the foyer on the main floor. Salah stuck his ear to the door and carefully pushed it. It wouldn’t budge. No! He tried again. It wouldn’t move. He put his ear to the door again, but he couldn’t hear anything. Putting all his weight against the door, Salah shoved. The door gave a little. Hopeful that he could slowly get it to open, he shoved again and was about to give it another push when he heard a muffled voice.
“What was that?”
Salah held his breath.
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“It was like a groan.”
“A groan … you’re imagining things.”
“I swear I heard it.”
“Come on, this is an old building. Maybe they’re ghosts.”
“I probably just need some sleep.”
Salah heard footsteps walking away from him. He heaved a huge sigh of relief. A couple more pushes and the door opened a crack, allowing him to peek in. But he had to move quickly … a crack in a wooden wall panel would be easily noticed.
Once in the foyer, Salah looked around. There was no one there. He cautiously took the staircase to the first floor, ran up the second, and was on the third when he heard footsteps behind him. He quickly ducked behind a heavy brocade curtain.
“Now, Captain Brandt, I need those reports typed up and on my desk within the hour.”
Peeking through the slit in the corner he recognized General Otto Liman Von Sanders, the head of the German military mission. Salah moved into the shadows behind the curtain. What the hell? So who was in his car? All the information Salah was looking for was in Von Sanders’ office.
The clock tower struck eleven.
“By the way, Brandt, why is the carpet on the stairs so dirty?” Von Sanders asked. “Actually, it looks like wet footprints. Find out who came up here with wet boots and get that cleaned, would you. It stinks.”
“Yes, Sir,” the younger army officer saluted smartly and went about his business.
Salah heard Von Sanders open the door to his office and then close it.
Now what?
There wasn’t much time left. He needed the information he’d come for. And, he had to get to the docks by midnight or else he was dead. Just as he was debating what to do, he heard the door to Von Sanders’ office open. Through the slit in the curtain he watched him walk down the hall. Where is he going? And for how long?
Salah had to take the chance. He was about to step out when he stopped and pulled off his wet, smelly boots before padding across the hall. Cautiously, he went in and closed the door behind him. Boots in hand, he rushed over to the General’s large mahogany partners desk, scanning the papers quickly. They were not what he needed. On the right, there was a wooden cabinet. Salah tried to pull the top drawer open, but it was locked. Outside he heard footsteps. He froze. They passed by and headed down the hallway. He looked around quickly to see where he could hide if he needed to. Behind the curtain of a tall French window was his only bet. Hurriedly, he hid his boots behind it.
Where would he keep the key to this damn drawer?
Salah looked around the desk. There they were, sitting in a little leather tray. He dove for them and quickly opened the drawer. Inside were files, all neatly labeled. This was it. Exactly what he’d come for. He began rifling through them. Come on! Come on! Caucasus, Persia, Gallipoli, North Africa … Here! Arab Campaign … South Arabia Campaign, Sinai, Palestine, Mesopotamia.
Salah opened the South Arabia file. There they were: maps of German-Ottoman military installations and key ammunition depots and reports of the latest troop concentrations from Damascus to Medina. He pulled out a small notebook and started scribbling madly. Suddenly, he heard Von Sanders’ muffled voice coming down the hall. He was sweating. All he needed was five more minutes.
Von Sanders stopped outside his door. Salah saw the handle go down. He jumped up and quickly went behind the curtain. He stood there, his heart hammering against his rib cage.
“General! Please come with me to the war room!” he heard someone say.
“What is it?”
“We have received some very disturbing news from Jemmal Pasha in Damascus.”
The clock tower struck 11:15.
Salah held his breath. From behind the curtain, he saw the door handle slowly go back up. “All right … Brandt, did you find out whose wet boots were on the stairs? Oh and Brandt … could you get me a little schnapps, bitte …”
Salah quickly went back and began copying down the information. He shut the files, placed them back exactly as he’d found them, and locked the drawer. Now all he had to do was get out. It was almost 11:30.
He was out of time. There was no way he was going to be able to get through the tunnel and to the docks in time.
Quickly, he opened the door to Von Sanders’ office and slipped out out, pulling his boots on outside. The hallways were empty. Hopefully they were all in the war room. He got down to the ground floor and was wondering what to do when a door opened and he came face to face with Captain Brandt.
The two men stared at each other in silence.
“Lieutenant!” Brandt said, looking at the officer insignia on his sleeve.
“Ya wohl!” Salah stood to attention and saluted, looking straight ahead.
Brandt walked around Salah and came back and stood in front of him.
“Lieutenant, you stink? Where have you been?”
Salah looked down at his muddy boots.
“What are you waiting for, Lieutenant?” Brandt said loudly. “Get to your barracks and change. You cannot be in the war room with the general smelling like you’ve been in a sewer!”
Salah shook his head and smiled tightly.
“Ja, mein Kommandant!” he mumbled, trying to disguise his accent.
He saluted the German officer again.
“Get this man to the barracks. He stinks!” Brandt said to the two guards who appeared.
“Go on, go on! What are you waiting for, you fool?” Captain Brandt flicked his hand shooing Salah away.
Salah walked backwards toward the front entrance and flew down the stairs to the courtyard and toward the gate. All he heard was the jeering laughter of the guards as he sailed through the gates on his way to the docks.
It was almost midnight. Carefully Salah entered the port. Thunderclouds rumbled and a flash of lightening lit up the sky. Salah ducked behind huge crates piled up at the entrance. He looked around for the guards but he didn’t see them. Hiding in the shadows
and behind dock equipment, boxes and anything that served as cover, Salah made his way to Quay 7. Suddenly, the wind picked up and thunder rolled again. He saw Musa Nusair pacing up and down the quay, smoking, his dark figure a stark contrast to his white cotton sweater and his white captain’s hat that glowed yellow in the gaslight. He whistled softly to get the Yemeni’s attention. Musa stubbed out his cigarette and whistled back. Lightening ripped open the sky and the crack of thunder this time was ominous.
“Quickly,” Salah heard Musa say to his men who were standing by the gangplank. “Untie her and prepare to haul anchor. We leave now.”
From where he was hidden, Salah saw Musa head toward the customs house, no doubt to get his exit papers stamped. Moments later he came out, holding his cap firmly across his brow as the wind twirled around him. He whistled again. Salah came out of the shadows and walked quickly toward the gangplank. Silently, both men boarded the ship.
Just as the Tree of Life pulled away from the quay, the Izmir Clock Tower struck midnight.
A flash of lightning lit up the entire harbor, illuminating the man who sat quietly on a bench, looking out to sea. He took a long drag of his cigarette, crossed his legs and laid an arm across the back of the bench casually, as though he had all the time in the world. The gaslights of the harbor flickered as the wind picked up. The man looked first at his pocket watch and then up at the customs house. The light was still on in the office on the second floor. The wind and thunder died down, momentarily restoring the peaceful sound of water lapping around the wooden dock posts. Several minutes later, another man emerged from the now darkened customs house and came and sat down on the bench.
“So was our friend Mehmet amiable this evening?”
“The gold helped loosen his lips, Colonel Erdogan.”
“Good.”
“The boat is headed to Chania … in Crete.”
Just then, there was a crack of lightening. Following a deafening roll of thunder, the rain came.
Chapter Two