Major William Häfner set out from the Harbiye barracks with two junior officers, one of them behind the controls of Von Stein’s motor car. It was half past eight in the morning and a hard day’s work lay ahead of him.
He enjoyed the weak sunshine passing through the window by his elbow and allowed his thoughts to drift a little. It was a rare moment when he could allow his guard to relax and his thoughts to wander and he enjoyed the luxury for the length of time it took to negotiate the crowded streets between the barracks and the heart of the commercial district.
The address he was heading for was a business lying close by the Galata Bridge over the Golden Horn. The driver was soon pulling the wheel over and the tires bumped against the rough edge of the road.
There were more motor cars in Galata than anywhere else in the city but motor cars that contained three German officers in the middle of the business district on a weekday was unusual enough to create a small stir of morbid interest.
Those businessmen watching them climb from the car knew well enough why they were here. Possibly they had suffered through a similar visit in the past. Even if they had only heard rumors, they were still uneasy. The representatives of Imperial Germany were of chancy temper these days, for their mettle was being tested in ways these simple business folk could not possibly conceive.
Within the limits imposed by a war waged almost on their doorsteps, their lives—and the commerce that went with it—carried on.
Aware that he was moving into a dangerously philosophical frame of mind, Häfner shrugged his shoulders beneath his greatcoat, trying to dispel the mood. He crossed the road to the double-doored shop front. Peiter already had the door open and stood stiffly at attention.
Häfner stepped into the neat, clean front office of the Oriental Export Company and observed the secretaries’ and clerks’ startled expressions. Abruptly, all the typewriters fell silent. Surprise was swiftly followed by dismay and just as quickly hidden.
The front office was large and airy. An expanse of dark green linoleum shiny with wax was split by a thigh-high railing that separated the public portion of the office from the group of secretaries’ desks and the high clerks’ desks at the back.
In the far back wall was a door with a frosted glass pane, which obviously led into the inner managers’ offices and storerooms but it was shut.
The office manager shuffled forward, in a series of short quick bows that were almost comical. He pushed open the swing gate in the rails and stepped through.
“Herr General,” he began, in bad German.
“Major, you idiot,” Häfner snapped.
“Herr Major, I am Syed Mushtaq Ali, the manager of this establishment. Is there some way my humble company may serve the great German Imperial army?”
He was a typical Turk—small framed, short, with dark eyes. His black hair was oiled and combed smooth, with an unnaturally straight and perfect part in the middle. A red rose adorned his lapel and there was a red silk kerchief in his pocket. The eyes were wide, with the same curiously hurt and vulnerable look so many Turks seemed to have.
“Your company is an export company, Herr Ali.”
“Certainly, Herr Major.”
“It has come to my attention.”
Ali lost the color in his cheeks. “Effendi?” he said.
“What did you call me?” Häfner shot back.
“I mean…my apologies…I mean, Herr Major?”
“You mean what?”
“I-I…I mean…I meant nothing, Herr Major.” He dropped his gaze to his feet. He was trembling.
“An export company can be in a privileged position,” Häfner continued smoothly. “You have opportunities the average subject does not. You have far reaching contacts. Such power and opportunity could well corrupt a manager of such a business. He might use it to benefit himself and his friends. These are hard times, after all.”
“This may be true, Herr Major but I assure you, our business is honest. We work hard to bring pleasures and luxuries to simple folk…such as yourself. Whatever you have heard must be completely unfounded. We know it is by your good graces that we are permitted to continue our business.”
“You speak wisely but you do not reassure me. The information I have received about you and your company was very specific.” He reached into a pocket and withdrew a single sheet of paper. “For example, you recently acquired a bolt of silk cloth from Japan, and failed to declare the importation to the customs officials.”
“That is a lie!” Ali declared with bravado that could only have been a product of sheer indignation. He would not dare speak so if he was any less irritated.
“Really?” Häfner said smoothly. “A search of these premises would produce no cloth?”
“Herr Major, we have many such bolts of cloth on the premises but I assure you they have all been properly declared and the appropriate taxes paid on all of them.”
“It was a very expensive roll. Bright pink—a color barely seen since the war placed such stress on economies and ladies’ fashions. My wife, a brunette, looks wonderful in that color, for instance but I haven’t seen her wearing it since 1913.”
The little silence that greeted his words was pregnant with tension.
Finally, Ali cleared his throat. “As it happens, we do have such a bolt on the premises, although it could not possibly be the undeclared cloth you seek. I will show it to you, Herr Major and you can inspect it for yourself. In fact, I will make you a gift of the cloth—for your wife who must crave such pretty things these days. Then you will know that I am an honest merchant, yes? For I would not freely give you illegal merchandise, would I?”
Häfner reassembled his expression into one that showed cautious pleasure. “Well…” he began doubtfully.
“Perhaps, Herr Major, we could discuss this matter in my office?” Ali was sure of himself now. It was clear from his growing confidence he knew where the conversation was going, what Häfner wanted of him. He clicked his fingers and one of the clerks hurried forward to open the door that led further into the building. Beyond was a corridor with glass-fronted doors leading from either side.
Ali was waving Häfner forward. “I will have you brought an excellent cup of Turkish coffee—”
“I hate Turkish coffee,” Häfner growled, not moving from the spot he stood upon.
“Of course you do!” Ali agreed, without batting an eyelid. “For a delicate palate such as yours, our thick brew is offensive. I have some African beans that were delivered here only yesterday. Much lighter, a delight to the nose. Come, come, Herr Major.” He waved to one of the clerks sitting at a typewriter. “Luise, the cerise silk organza to my office at once.”
Häfner moved toward the corridor and as if his movement was a signal, the five typewriters behind him began tapping out their messages once more. The atmosphere in the front office visibly relaxed. They were sure their manager had read Häfner right and would deal with the matter as swiftly and efficiently as usual.
Häfner knew Ali was indeed efficient. He was a wily man and had managed to keep his business open and operating through dint of bribery of corrupt officials, a carefully built network of associates and friends in high places and by keeping a painfully clean, law-abiding reputation and appearance at all times.
The corridor Häfner stepped into had six doors leading from it—two on the left and four on the right. The door at the end of the corridor on the left had a glass front and the Turkish word Ambar in Latin script painted across it. There was a lingering mixture of scents, odd and intriguing. Häfner recognized spices, teas, coffees, dry goods and other exotic odors that beckoned but he kept his attention to the matters at hand.
There were two clerks in the corridor and one looked over his shoulder, saw Häfner’s uniform and stepped to a door and slipped behind it with startled speed. The other continued down the corridor and opened the far left door. Häfner caught a glimpse of shelves of dry goods before the door shut behind him. Obviously that was the storeroom and the source of the wafting scents.
Ali opened the far right-hand door and waved Häfner into his office. “Please, sit down. The coffee will be here very soon.” He shut the door and Häfner eased himself onto the padded upright chair that stood in front of the desk.
The highly polished wood of the desk was unadorned except for a single telephone. Ali sat down behind the desk and spread his hands across the wood and stared at Häfner.
“You bring news from Hadiya?” he said softly.
Häfner nodded and delved into his greatcoat again. He produced a large buff envelope, which he placed on the desk. Ali slid it to the edge. He opened the drawer beneath and dropped the envelope into it, returning the desk to its pristine orderliness.
“The coffee should be here momentarily,” Ali said.
“I’m sure it will be good…although I quite like your Turkish stuff—it is superior at the end of a long day.”
Ali smiled. “Then you’ll be relieved to know that is what you will be served. We have no African beans at all. The last shipment was absconded by enthusiastic customs officials somewhere out on the Aegean Sea. Damned Greeks!” Ali scowled.
Häfner cocked his head sharply as he heard a minute noise at the door. He rose to his feet but spoke casually. “You mean to say you serve my fellow German officials Turkish coffee and claim it to be African?”
Ali answered smoothly. “But of course.”
Häfner moved silently toward the door.
“Half of them cannot tell the difference, anyway,” Ali continued. “If I tell them it is African, they believe me and declare it to be the best coffee they have tasted in a month. One claimed he could tell me where in Africa it came from, down to the nearest square mile!”
Häfner gripped the door handle, opened it very suddenly and stepped out. He looked up and down the empty corridor, then shut the door again, puzzled.
“Someone was listening?” Ali asked.
“I don’t know. Perhaps I’m just imagining things. We’re all a little more nervous these days.”
Ali smiled sympathetically. “I’ll have this package on its way by midnight. Rest easy on that one.”
“Hadiya will be pleased to hear it,” Häfner responded.
The door opened again and a clerk hurried in with a startlingly bright bolt of silk and a second man behind him carried an armful of cigarette cartons and tinned goods.
“Ali, no…” Häfner began.
“You must take these,” Ali insisted.
“Just the cloth. It would look suspicious if I did not and Madeline will truly adore the color.”
“You must give the cigarettes and preserves to your men.”
“They are obedient and do not question me.”
“Then these will ensure their undivided loyalty.” Ali waved his hand as Häfner opened his mouth to protest once more. “I am more familiar with bribery than you, Herr Major. You must trust me on this.”
“I will,” Häfner agreed reluctantly.
“And you must promise to wave your armful of goods so that everyone on the street cannot fail to see them as you walk back to your lovely automobile,” Ali added.
“To show all who see that you have successfully bribed another corrupt official?”
“But of course. I have a reputation as an astute businessman to maintain amongst my peers,” Ali said smoothly. “I wish to make them envy me just that much more.”
Häfner gave in and vented a great gust of laughter.
* * * * *
Zeki climbed back into the yard and sucked the splinters from his fingers as Sigerson slid back out through the painted-out window, soundlessly shut it once more, swung the bars back over and relocked the padlock. Zeki was breathing heavily and his heart was thudding erratically.
“You scared me!” he accused Sigerson. “You order me to stand guard at the door into the corridor while you prowl around amongst the people out in the offices, spying on them. Then you duck back into the storage room like a startled goat—not once but twice! And both times you send me flying! Then you push me out the window with no more ceremony than you would afford a…a sheep!”
“With all due apology to your fingers and hide, Zeki, I had rather more important matters to worry about on both occasions.” Sigerson inspected the yard. “Eavesdroppers are not supposed to prosper but we have had the greatest good fortune. It was inevitable, perhaps, that we should manage to be in this place at such a time.” He smiled and rubbed his hands together.
Zeki stared at him. “You make no sense!” he protested
“No? It’s of no matter—we cannot stand here and discuss it, anyway. One question, Zeki. Does the name ‘Hadiya’ mean anything to you?”
Zeki frowned and shrugged. “It’s just a name.”
“Is it a place? Or a person?”
“I know of no place called Hadiya. It is a man’s name.”
“Then we may well have found the name of the faceless one. A trip to the hall of records is in order.”
“Hall of records? But….” Zeki stared at Sigerson, truly puzzled. There was an eagerness, an excitement emanating from him.
“I will explain it all in time, but first I must confirm the ownership of this company. Someone gave those orders in London, Zeki. Someone set up this form of communication in the first place, and they’re still running things and giving orders, if I understand fully what I just heard. With luck, we’ll find their name on the company papers. Or we will find a name that we can use to trace the German connection.”
“German?” Zeki’s voice squeaked in surprise.
“Yes, German,” Sigerson confirmed grimly and turned away. “Come! The hall of records!”
* * * * *
The house of central records lay in Stamboul, just on the other side of the Golden Horn. The journey was directly across the Galata Bridge and through the elegant, archaic roads and squares, past the beautiful fountains and pools of ancient Constantinople.
Zeki wondered what the passersby would think of the innocuous man walking by his side if they knew he carried instruments for picking locks, a revolver in his pocket and a wicked, gold-handled knife in a scabbard strapped to his belt and could use all of them with experienced ease.
The hall of records was gaily decorated on the inside, rivaling the frescoes and artwork of the most magnificent mosques of the city. The atmosphere inside the echoing, vast chamber was equally as dignified. Silent clerks scurried between the huge tables, carrying rolls of records from the stacks to the businessmen and officials who waited at the tables for their requested materials.
Zeki and Sigerson found an unoccupied table and Zeki caught the attention of a clerk, who hurried over and nodded. “Your request?” he asked.
Zeki asked for the company ownership records for the Oriental Export company and gave the address they had visited. The clerk nodded again and hurried away.
They sat in the cool, dim room, waiting. Sigerson carefully avoided catching anyone’s eye, while appearing to be casually interested in his surroundings.
“What if the company is actually listed as the British one you called it? The name they use in London?” Zeki asked.
“We will simply ask for that company name, if this one produces no results. But it will—the people behind this scheme are thorough and paid great attention to details and appearance. All will be in order. You’ll see.”
Zeki did not feel fully reassured. “Will you not tell me now what you heard in the corridor of the export company?” he asked.
“Not here,” Sigerson said. “Later. Patience, Zeki. I can see the end to this matter now. I will explain it all in time. These records will confirm my guesses and then I will be able to give you facts, rather than suppositions.”
The clerk finally returned with a large bundle of rolls, which he spread out upon the table—which explained the reason for the large tables. He nodded and moved away to give the two businessmen their privacy.
Zeki frowned over the Turkish script while Sigerson pretended an interest and held down the corners of the manuscripts.
“There are a lot of legal clauses,” Zeki murmured. “Long ones.”
“I see that aspect of business does not change from language to language,” Sigerson replied. “Keep going. What is this document?”
After a moment, Zeki replied, “It’s the setting up of the company, I think. Charters, limits of liability. Declarations.”
He read a while longer, then pushed it aside. “There are no names on it,” he explained, reaching for the next.
“Look for a board meeting, or a declaration of ownership,” Sigerson advised, standing up and pushing the first document further along the table. “Registration of a public company even here must involve a declaration of who will be in control of that company. Trading would be hampered without that knowledge.”
Zeki scanned the next document and pushed it away to reach for the third, while Sigerson stacked it on the first.
Immediately, Zeki pointed to the text. “There! President. Syed Mushtaq Ali.”
“Hmmm…I thought he was too good for a simple manager,” Sigerson murmured.
“Effendi?”
“Never mind. Who else?”
“Board members. Al-Qishawi Abdulkarem. Al-Adarah Al-Ajleh.”
Sigerson shook his head, frowning.
Zeki grabbed his sleeve. “Here!” he hissed. “Hadiya! Hadiya Adlparvar.”
Sigerson surged closer. “Where?”
Zeki pointed the name out and Sigerson shook his head irritably. “Spell it—Latin script,” he instructed.
Zeki spelt the name aloud, slowly.
“Parvar,” Sigerson murmured. Abruptly, he sat down again, his hands lying flat against the document. His eyes were distant, unfocused.
Zeki found his heart was thudding just as hard as it had been when Sigerson had bolted back into the supply room on both occasions that morning, yet he did not understand why he should feel this sudden, terrifying rush of fear and excitement.
“What is it?” he hissed again, keeping his voice low. Businessmen did not shout at one another, after all.
“I have been utterly blind….” Sigerson murmured.
“Sir?” Zeki prompted yet again. Then, more urgently, “Sigerson!”
He stirred and looked at Zeki and amazingly, he smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “How would you feel about a hot meal, some coffee and a big fire before which you can warm your toes?”
“Where? When?” The thought of food was more than enough to distract Zeki from his deep puzzlement over Sigerson’s reaction to the name.
“Now. As soon as I hunt down a place to buy some supplies.”
“The Grand Bazaar is a short walk from here,” Zeki pointed out.
“Of course it is. Yes. Then to the Grand Bazaar we must go. Then, Zeki, back to our grand palace. With food and fuel and the good news I have to cheer us, you won’t notice the drafts, I promise you!”