‘Economics.’ Her voice was still stiff with anger.
‘And Mr Hawn is perhaps a journalist who specializes also in economics?’
‘I’m on a sabbatical, writing a book about medieval Italy. Does that satisfy you?’
‘Mr Hawn, I am never satisfied until I am sure. I have only your word for what you say.’
Anna broke in: ‘Well, you’ll just have to be satisfied! If you think you can kidnap us, then intimidate us, you’re wrong. At least they might have taught you some manners at Cambridge.’
The big man held up his hand. He sounded bored. ‘Please, please, no more histrionics. Unless absolutely necessary, I like to think of myself as a peaceful man. Now I tell you what I propose to do. I am going to give you two simple choices. Either you tell me what you are doing in Istanbul — in the interests of “journalistic research”. Or I shall insist that you leave the city on the first available plane. And don’t think it will help you by going to the police. They would probably prefer not to believe your story — but even if they did, I have influence in high places, and I could no doubt persuade them that it was in the national interest that you were both declared personae non gratae. I will give you two minutes to make up your minds.’
Hawn decided, reluctantly, that they had little to lose now by being frank. Pol had warned them to treat their assignment circumspectly: although Pol had perhaps not bargained for quite these circumstances.
Hawn spoke with care: ‘We’ve come to meet a man called Imin Salak. By all accounts, a very brave man. We’re writing a book about the wartime activities of the Special Operations Executive, and part of the book involves British espionage and counter-espionage in Turkey. An old friend of mine — a veteran of British wartime Intelligence — recommended that we try to talk to Salak.’
The man’s black eyes watched him, without blinking. ‘You are foolish not to have mentioned this before. Salak is a very proud man — proud of his war exploits, which have never been chronicled. He will be delighted to have a book written about him. Why did you not tell me this at once?’
‘If your methods hadn’t been so heavy-handed,’ said Hawn, ‘we might have done.’
The man raised both hands as though in prayer. ‘That is the uncivilized Turk in me. As Miss Admiral so truly said, they taught me no manners at Cambridge. Besides, I have my business interests to protect — and in my business one sometimes becomes unnecessarily suspicious.’ He stood up, with a smooth swift movement, and walked across the room to a telephone on the desk. He walked very straight, on his scarred bare feet, like a soldier.
The conversation lasted nearly five minutes; then he hung up and shouted something, and the door was opened by the man in the white suit. The big man gave him an order and he withdrew; he turned now to the others.
‘My car will be here in a couple of minutes. And I have arranged for your new driver to be paid off.’ He smiled. ‘There is at least one way in which I am civilized. I believe in organization. My organization is probably the best in Istanbul. It is certainly superior to the Government’s. Now, if you will excuse me for a moment, I will dress.’
He reappeared a few minutes later, from behind one of the damask curtains, wearing cavalry-twill jodhpurs, soft black calf leather boots and a tunic buttoned to the neck. He looked like a cross between an ageing bandit and a high-class chauffeur.
The others followed him back down the dark stairs, through the chemist’s shop and out into the street, where a large old-fashioned American car stood, shining black, with a shark-mouthed radiator grill, high chromium fins and smoked windows. They all three got into the back. The man in the white suit was driving.
They headed north, out of the narrow shanty town and across the bridge into Galata, stopping at last outside a big neon-lit cafe with steel-framed chairs and plastic-topped tables at which groups of men sat playing dominoes, backgammon and noisy card games. The walls were decorated with Pirelli calendars and posters for the latest American films. There were no women. Hawn wondered whether the men in Turkey worked at all.
The driver stayed outside with the car. The big man led the way in, to a far corner where two men were playing rummy. They were both elderly — one with a mass of white hair and a great white moustache, the other balding, and of a dark hooked Semitic aspect. Unlike most Turks whom Hawn had seen, he was closely shaven, and again unlike most Turks, he wore a collar and tie under a tight-fitting business suit. His black shoes shone like mirrors, and he wore a pair of gold-rimmed bifocals behind which his eyes were two opaque marbles.
The big man drew up chairs and made the introductions. For the first time he disclosed his own name to Hawn and Anna: ‘I am Selim Pasha Esquire. And this is Effendi Mustafa Gebel.’ He did not introduce, and totally ignored, the white-haired man.
‘Mustafa is my lawyer,’ Selim Pasha explained. ‘He looks after my business interests and advises me on matters of delicacy. You may talk freely — he speaks English.’
The man called Mustafa Gebel inclined his head and kissed Anna’s hand. ‘Delighted. You are enjoying your stay in Istanbul?’
‘It’s certainly been eventful,’ Hawn said; he stared between the two men, at the poster behind them from which Julie Andrews pranced joyously out at them, followed by her band of happy children. He wondered how long the way to Imin Salak was — if indeed there was a way — or whether these introductions were merely
