The man with white hair got up, grunted something, and walked away. Mustafa Gebel began stacking the cards. Hawn noticed that although he was a small man next to Selim Pasha, he had surprisingly large shoulders and hands, and that he wore a spectacular diamond ring.
He looked at Hawn from under his bifocals. ‘Selim tells me that you are interested in meeting a certain important man in Istanbul? That you wish to interview him in connection with his memoirs? I must tell you at once that it will depend much on what you want him to tell you.’
‘How do you mean — depends?’
‘The gentleman in question knows many secrets. Secrets that have never been revealed. He will expect to be paid for his services.’
Hawn looked, frowning, at Selim Pasha. He had decided that a little innocent bluffing would not be wasted at this point. ‘But you said he’d be delighted to have his exploits written up. You said nothing about money.’
The big man shrugged and said nothing. Mustafa Gebel folded his thick brown fingers together and gazed between Hawn and Anna.
‘It is I who talk about money,’ he said softly. ‘No secret is free — not even after more than thirty years.’
‘Are you negotiating for him?’
‘No. I am simply preparing the way for negotiations. I would not like you to be disappointed.’
‘I prefer to negotiate directly with the seller. I’ll put the questions to him, he can name his price, then we can argue.’
Mustafa Gebel inclined his vulpine face across the table and pursed his thin, moist lips. ‘You would save us all much trouble and inconvenience, Mr Hawn, if you told me now the kind of questions you want to ask.’
Anna, who had so far been completely ignored by both Turks, said, ‘What’s so special about this man that he has to be protected like this? We’ve heard he’s important. He’s presumably also intelligent. So why can’t he do his own negotiating?’
Mustafa gave a peevish smile. ‘Miss Admiral, you are right — the gentleman is most intelligent. But he does not have experience of journalists. And journalists, as we all know, not only make news, they make scandal.’
‘What scandal does this man have to hide?’ she asked.
Mustafa Gebel smiled again, a patient smile this time. ‘All great men have scandals to hide. During the war the gentleman was in a very difficult and delicate situation. You know that, or you would not be here trying to interview him.’
At this point Hawn broke in: ‘All right. What do you want? A broad resumé of what we’re after, or a detailed list of questions we’re going to ask him?’
Selim Pasha had sat all this time huge and rigid in his chair, watching the three of them with small sly eyes. He had spoken not one word.
‘A resumé would be sufficient,’ Mustafa said.
‘And if you’re satisfied, when do we meet him?’
‘It can be arranged for this evening. At least, the preliminary meeting.’
Hawn said, ‘I need a drink.’
Without turning, Mustafa snapped his fingers, and immediately a waiter appeared beside them. ‘You would like whisky? Do not be afraid, it is not the usual stuff you find in Istanbul — contraband stuff. I shall make sure that you receive the best.’
The waiter brought two glasses, with ice and water. Neither of the Turks seemed to be drinking.
Hawn drank half of his neat; then said: ‘Miss Admiral and I are following up a theory about the last war. To be brief, we think the Germans were being supplied with fuel by Western oil companies. We think that some of that fuel passed through Istanbul. A very good and reliable contact of mine in London recommended that your gentleman friend might provide us with some useful information about this.’ Mustafa Gebel began to speak, quietly, rapidly in Turkish. When he had finished, Selim Pasha shrugged and nodded. Hawn drank the rest of his whisky and waited.
The lawyer had pressed his fingertips together and spoke, without looking at Hawn, ‘You have a tape recorder?’
‘No.’
‘Do not all journalists have tape recorders?’
‘Not all. I’m old-fashioned. I believe in taking notes. Besides, if your friend has to be so protected, he won’t want all his secrets committed to tape.’
‘Instead, he will have to trust to your memory and your discretion?’
‘Mr Gebel, I consider myself an experienced and reputable journalist. Remember that I will also have to trust your friend, and accept that he is not just telling me fantasies and lies.’
‘Our friend does not lie.’ Mustafa Gebel glanced across at the great ravaged face of Selim Pasha. He said something, and again Selim nodded. Mustafa turned back to Hawn. ‘I agree in principle that you may meet our friend. But I must warn you. If you in any manner attempt to trick or deceive him, your body will be found in the Bosporus. Also that of your charming friend here, Miss Admiral. I know it is a melodramatic threat, but remember, Istanbul is not London. We are trusting your honour, and in Turkey, if a man abuses that honour, he pays the ultimate price.’
‘You make yourself admirably clear. So when is the meeting?’
‘You will be collected at your hotel at eight o’clock. In the meantime you are to communicate with no one. We have reliable contacts at the Pera Palace, and if you disobey, we shall know.’
He stood up, and each man ceremoniously took their leave of them, while Mustafa Gebel explained that he and Selim Pasha were staying behind, as they had business to discuss. The car would drive Hawn and Anna back to the hotel. Selim Pasha gave him a bone-cracking handshake.
‘You will accept my apologies for this afternoon. But you must also keep it as a confidence. I don’t want tiresome inquiries from the British
