by Alex Gerlis
For a while Prince recognised where they were: past the Grand Post Office and the Egyptian Bazaar, the New Mosque illuminated beside it. By now the streets were busier and teeming with people. Alvertos looked nervous and Prince noticed him remove his Beretta from the holster, holding it cocked beneath the flap of his jacket. When he spoke with the driver both sounded tense. Apparently responding to instructions from Alvertos – who was impatiently pointing which way to go – the driver turned back onto a main road. Prince recognised they were driving through Unkapani and he briefly wondered if this was a trap after all, if for some unaccountable reason they were returning to the Kayseri.
Then they entered an area which somehow felt different and both Alvertos and the driver appeared more relaxed. The buildings seemed more tightly packed with fewer people on the streets.
Once more the driver pulled the Mercedes into a small lane and waited while Alvertos left the car, returning just a couple of minutes later but this time accompanied by a young man who said nothing, glancing briefly at Prince as he climbed into the front passenger seat.
Five minutes later the car pulled up in front of a high wall, freshly painted white and with the tops of palm trees swaying behind it in unison. In the middle of the wall was a pair of black metal gates, almost as high as the wall, with spikes arranged across the top.
The young man who’d joined them a few minutes earlier appeared by Prince’s door and opened it and by the time he’d got out of the car the iron gates had already closed behind them. Alvertos beckoned to follow him into the building, a villa-style house built around a courtyard, with palm trees and tiled fountains and two other parked cars. In one of the doorways he spotted a man standing in the shadows, the silhouette of a shotgun held in front of him clearly visible. A large wooden door unlocked and he and Alvertos were now in a dimly lit hallway.
‘Welcome. You’re my friend and my guest. David will search you first and then we will talk. I am sure we have much to talk about – and to drink.’
* * *
The young man who’d searched him had been exceedingly polite and even apologetic but Prince couldn’t fault the thoroughness of the search – it was the work of a professional. He was then taken into a lounge with little in it other than a sofa and a side table. The young man brought him a large whisky – no ice – and a carafe of water with a glass.
‘Please wait here, Alvertos will be ready soon.’
Alvertos wasn’t ready soon. In fact it was well over an hour before Alvertos was ready. During that time the young man popped in frequently to check he was all right and to offer him more to drink.
And it was while he was waiting that Prince began to wonder. There was no getting away from the fact his visit to the Kayseri had been misguided; it hadn’t taken very long for him to come under suspicion. Despite Gilbey’s warning to be careful he’d managed to sound naive and had soon come up against Ulrich, the man he’d been warned about.
In the circumstances he was exceedingly grateful to Alvertos for rescuing him and during the lengthy car journey that followed he had little reason to suspect anything. But that, he decided, could be the problem. What on earth was Alvertos’ reason for rescuing him when they’d only just met? He’d invited himself over to the table, introduced himself and ordered a drink. It was not as if Alvertos owed him a deep and lifelong debt of friendship.
What if this was a sophisticated ruse to find out who this Irishman who’d turned up at the Kayseri really was and what he was up to? It was possible, he decided, they wanted him to feel so grateful to the mysterious Alvertos he’d have no problem in opening up to him, happy to tell him who he was and why he’d been at the Kayseri.
And then there was the fact they appeared to be Spanish. What were Spaniards doing in Turkey, of all places? Was there a link with Franco’s fascist regime, were they doing the dirty work for the Germans in another neutral country?
He’d tried to find out more from the young man called David who’d searched him and who popped in every so often to check on him. He told him his name was Michael and David replied saying he knew.
There was not, Prince concluded, an awful lot he could do about his predicament other than resolve that if he somehow survived whatever was going on tonight, he’d write an article as soon as he returned to the hotel with a short message to say he was on his way home. He’d use a code word they’d agreed on to indicate things had gone wrong and he had to flee Istanbul: seagull. He’d probably use the word twice – a flock of the wretched birds, ideally.
He’d wire it from the Grand Post Office first thing in the morning and then get the hell out of Istanbul. Once he arrived in Baghdad, Martindale could make himself useful and get him home. He was thinking about Henry and dreaming of being reunited with him soon when he realised David was in the open doorway and had been calling his name.
‘Mr Michael, sir? Come with me, Alvertos is ready now.’
* * *
Alvertos appeared to have used the time to have a shower and get changed. He was now clean shaven, his wet hair neatly combed back, and wearing a clean, neatly pressed white shirt. He greeted the man he’d rescued like a long-lost friend, placing an arm round Prince’s shoulder as he came into the room and leading him over to a huge leather sofa scattered with embroidered cushions. On the other side of a coffee table was another leather sofa, where Alvertos himself sat down. David poured him another large whisky and pointed to an array of bowls on the coffee table: nuts, dates, olives and small cakes. Alvertos was already helping himself to them.
‘You must have questions for me – I certainly have questions for you.’ Alvertos paused while he extracted a date stone from his mouth and placed it in an empty bowl. ‘Shall I start?’
Prince nodded.
‘Don’t you have a saying in English, “putting all your cards on the table”? I like that phrase, I’ve always found myself using it whenever I talk with people in English. You will find that I am very straight, Michael Doyle – I am very honest with you and I expect you to be very honest with me. So perhaps we will start by you telling me who you are and why you were at the Kayseri?’
Prince hesitated, unsure of what he could possibly say. He was aware of something moving behind him and turned round. It was David, pulling up a chair and sitting down, all the while smiling pleasantly at Prince.
Alvertos waved his hand extravagantly in the direction of the younger man. ‘Don’t worry about David, please. He is my nephew. He will help you. Now, you were telling me who you are and what brought you to the Kayseri. Let me say one thing first that may help how you tell me the story. You have to excuse me – I speak six languages and English is one I am not very fluent in. What I will say first is this – you came and sat with me and almost immediately Ulrich came over and wanted to take you away. He said you were to come with him and he brought two of his heavies with him. Ulrich is a Nazi agent, Michael Doyle, and he came straight for you and I want to know why.’
‘I’ve never met him before. The first time I saw him was when he appeared at the table.’
‘I didn’t ask whether you’d met him before, I asked who you are and why you came to the Kayseri. Did you have any idea about its connection with the Nazis?’
There was a little less bonhomie about Alvertos now. Just along the sofa from Alvertos, nested between two cushions, Prince spotted the Beretta in its shoulder holster. Prince coughed, took a sip of whisky and spoke quietly and slowly to ensure his Irish accent didn’t slip.
‘My name’s Michael Doyle. I’m Irish but I’ve lived in the United States for a number of years. I’m a journalist with a magazine called Travelling and Travellers in New York City. I’ve mostly been based in the office but recently I’ve started travelling on assignments myself. On this trip I’ve been to North Africa, including Egypt and then Iraq. I arrived here on the Taurus Express ten or eleven days ago. I’ve written a number of articles on the trip and filed them to the Travelling and Travellers bureau in Zurich. Hopefully my e
ditor will like them and they’ll be published soon.’
He chuckled, as if Alvertos would understand a journalist’s insecurity about whether an article would be deemed good enough. Had it really been necessary to mention the bureau in Zurich?
‘And the Kayseri – what brought you there tonight?’
‘I felt all my articles from Istanbul had been about well-known places, the ones in the guide books, if you know what I mean. I felt I needed to find places that would show another side to Istanbul. Before I left New York I’d been speaking to a friend of a friend who’d been here before the war and he mentioned a few places – the Kayseri was one of them. So tonight, I thought I’d try it. It wasn’t as I’d imagined, I was hoping for somewhere a bit more… I don’t know, traditionally Turkish?’
Alvertos roared with laughter, rocking back into the sofa and slapping his thighs. He sighed, wiped his forehead with a napkin from the table and tipped a few olives into his palm before pushing the few that remained in the bowl towards his guest.
‘You see? Now I’m suspicious of you, my friend. Anyone who imagines the Kayseri would be a traditional Turkish venue must be… mad! The Kayseri is a brothel, quite a good brothel as it happens, but a brothel nonetheless. And the Kayseri is also one of a number of places in Istanbul that operates as a front for the Germans. Its run by a German called Ulrich who says he’s Swiss. They like to have these places they can lure people to, where they can get intelligence from them or blackmail them. They have a couple of shops in the centre of Istanbul they use as fronts along with at least one restaurant and even a barber’s shop. The Kayseri is a place where they invite prominent people and then provide them with prostitutes. They find this often leads to them obtaining information these people would otherwise have been unwilling to divulge. So maybe you can be more honest with me?’
‘But how come you were there, Alvertos – and why did you threaten to have the place closed down? I think that’s what you said. Are you involved with the Germans?’
Alvertos said nothing for a while as he scooped up a handful of nuts and concentrated hard as he popped them into his mouth, one by one. He spoke to David in Spanish and after a brief conversation the nephew came to join his uncle on the sofa.
‘You are clever, Mr Doyle, if that is your name. That was a good question. You have put me in a position where I am showing my hand earlier than I’d intended to, before you have told me everything. So I will tell you now, on the condition you are then more honest with me, eh?’
Prince nodded and drank more of the whisky.
‘My name is Alvertos Kamhi. I am from Thessaloniki in Greece. You’ve heard of it?’
‘Greece?’
‘Thessaloniki – don’t be clever with me, Mr Doyle. Thessaloniki is a major port and my business there was not one you’d describe as wholly legal. In fact the opposite.– I ran the biggest black market operation in Thessaloniki and I also had a small operation here in Istanbul before the war, though it’s much bigger now. I had to leave Thessaloniki in a hurry in 1941 and I came here. For many reasons it’s safer for me to operate in a neutral country. My sister – David’s mother – married a Turkish man and we’ve built up my operation here. I have good contacts in the port and I still have my black market operation. But my business has also expanded. I control prostitutes in this part of the city – most of the area on the southern side of the Golden Horn is controlled by me. It may surprise you but prostitution is tolerated to an extent in Istanbul, though we have to spend a lot of money bribing the police to ensure it remains tolerated. The only way the Kayseri could operate as a brothel is by cooperating with me. So that is why I said I could have the place closed down. You understand? It’s business, nothing more than that. I hate the Germans more than you’ll realise, my friend, but my logic is that if they didn’t have their brothel where it is they’d open one elsewhere in the city, where I may have no influence. This way I like to think I may somehow be able to keep an eye on what the Germans are up to.’
‘I’m not sure I’m following all this.’ Prince pushed his glass of whisky away from him – he’d already drunk too much. ‘So you’re Greek?’
‘Correct.’
‘With family here in Turkey?’
Alvertos nodded.
‘And yet as far as I can gather you’re speaking Spanish. Is that correct?’
Another quick conversation between uncle and nephew.
‘Now I really am going to put all my cards on the table. We are actually speaking a language called Ladino – it is essentially medieval Spanish. Have you heard of it?’
Prince shook his head.
‘Ladino is the language used by Jews who were expelled from Spain over four hundred years ago. They settled mainly around the Mediterranean including communities in Greece and in Turkey. There’s a very large community in Thessaloniki and another one here in Istanbul. Ladino is our common language.’
Prince looked even more confused. ‘So you’re Jews?’
Alvertos and David nodded.
‘And you’re working with the Germans?’
Alvertos shrugged as if he could appreciate Prince’s evident confusion. ‘It’s a way of us having influence over them. We watch carefully what’s going on there, one day we intend to use this information to help the British. Don’t be in any doubt, my friend, we’re on the side of the British. That’s why I helped you at the Kayseri – I thought you were British and believe me, if you’d gone off with Ulrich and his dear friends, I don’t know what would have happened to you but it wouldn’t have been good. People have disappeared from the Kayseri.’
‘You say you have a black market operation based around the ports?’
‘You’re asking a lot of questions.’
‘Perhaps you could help me. I’m looking for information about the port. I’m interested in writing an article on what is being shipped from them, particularly to… say… the Germans.’
‘You’re writing an article on that?’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t believe you – who writes an article on a subject like that for a travel magazine.’ He paused. ‘However, there’s very little that comes in and out of the ports on the Bosphorus that I don’t know about, so I’m sure I can help you.’
Prince hesitated. It didn’t sound as if Alvertos had finished. He’d said something to his nephew who’d gone to the door and called down the corridor. Alvertos indicated they should wait and a few minutes later someone knocked at the door. David brought over a tray of coffee and placed it on the table.
‘I’ve been more than honest with you. I’ve told you I’m Jewish – which is not something one wants to tell too many people with this war on. I’ve also told you I escaped here from Greece and that I’m involved in illegal activities. I’ve told you that because I trust you, not least because Ulrich clearly saw you as some kind of enemy. You need to tell me more about yourself.’
‘The truth is, Alvertos, I have colleagues who are interested in finding out about certain materials that are apparently being exported from Turkey to the Germans. If I was able to pass on specific information regarding that it would help defeat the Germans.’
‘So you’re a spy?’
‘I’m a journalist, Alvertos, I write articles for a travel magazine. I’m Irish and Ireland is a neutral country in this war, like Turkey. But the war means – how shall I put it – that there are many grey areas – not everything is always as it seems, like your association with the Germans. As part of my work, I’ve met people who want me to provide information.’
‘What kind of exports are these people you met interested in?’
‘Chromium.’
A quick conversation between Alvertos and David, the latter doing more of the talking while Alvertos raised his eyebrows.
‘We may be able to help you, but I’ll need some time. And I don’t like the fact that Ulrich will be looking for you. The Germans have a lot of agents in this city, they own many police officers. T
hey’ll turn the city inside out to find you. You said you’re staying at the Bristol?’
Prince nodded.
‘You’d better check out and come and stay here.’
‘But if I left the Kayseri with you won’t they know where to find me?’
‘They know nothing about this place. But it will look too suspicious if you don’t go back there tonight. David will sort everything out. There’s a rear entrance to the hotel and David and a couple of my men will keep an eye on the place. First thing in the morning you check out of the hotel. Don’t trust Ismet – it will be best to check out very early, before he comes on duty. Just tell them you have to move on, you don’t need to say any more than that. We’ll make sure one of our taxis is there for you and brings you back here. Then we can talk.’
Chapter 18
Istanbul
September 1943
On the Friday – the morning after Michael Doyle’s escape from the Kayseri – all hell broke loose in the Abwehr office and the corridors encircling it in the German consulate next to the Park Hotel.
Manfred Busch, the deputy head of the Abwehr station, was in charge while his boss was on a trip to Berlin, a short working visit somehow extended into a lengthy holiday in the Bavarian Alps. A postcard with a photograph of mountains on the front and a message hoping he was coping lay on Busch’s desk. In normal circumstances, Manfred would have been delighted his boss wasn’t around. Heinrich Scholz was only head of station because he was a loyal Nazi, a Party member from the early days, trusted by Berlin rather than professional intelligence officers like Busch. It was a constant source of tension in Berlin that many senior Abwehr officers weren’t even Nazi Party members.