London’s little-known Hemlock Club could be addictive. Tucked away in Masons’ Yard, off Duke Street, St James’s, members were expected to distinguish themselves through activities the club’s famous ‘Rule 49’ described as ‘notorious and heretical’. The Rule had provided mirth for many generations of Hemlockians.
Members took wry delight in listening to archbishops publicly questioning key tenets of their faith, lawyers probing the validity of the Law, scientists suggesting Newton might be in error, and politicians declaring that democracy might not have been the sole destiny of the species. The risk of public disapprobation, condemnation or even a brief hiatus in an otherwise stainless career was regarded as a small price to pay for admission.
The doorman, dressed entirely in moleskin, nodded to Ashe then coolly appraised the stranger. Like a hangman assessing his latest client, he approached the towering Turk and inspected his neck. He then reached beneath his desk and brought out a mahogany tray bearing a selection of fine ties that had once been the property of late members. ‘Perhaps sir would favour a more modern tie, to match his coat?’
Aslan assented, taking a black leather Slim Jim. It went well with his blue shirt and black Italian leather jacket. Ashe nodded his approval.
‘The name “Hemlock”, Dr Ashe – is it from the legend of Socrates’ death? The great philosopher forced to take the poison for telling the truth?’
‘Socrates has always been regarded as the true founder of the club, although the deeds of foundation – like so much that is true – lie buried beneath the rubble of time.’
‘Ah! The “rubble of time”. I fear we shall be seeing more of that.’
‘Do you place your faith in forensics, Colonel?’
‘I place faith in this.’ Aslan touched his nose.
Ashe laughed politely and guided the Turkish colonel through dark corridors to the walnut-panelled restaurant. A bottle of 1998 vintage Pommery stood erect at the centre of their table. Klimt, the waiter, darted forwards to open it, his grey, greasy locks swaying over his bony shoulders.
‘Why did you ring me, Colonel? How did you get my number?’
‘Hardly a challenge, Dr Ashe. A NATO contact told me about the attack on your meeting. I had a hunch. The two events could be linked.’
‘Two events?’
‘The Lodge bombing in Istanbul.’
‘Long way from Hertfordshire, Colonel.’
‘Our enemies have long arms. And I confess, my assistant, Ali, in addition to being a semi-competent secretary is also a computer specialist. Generously he sacrificed his free weekend to penetrate your security wall. Ali isolated your personal interest in the Kartal Masonic attack. It gave him an opportunity to show off his English.’
While miffed, Ashe could see the funny side of the impertinence. He instinctively liked Aslan. ‘I shall look forward to returning the favour.’
As the rich red Cabardès flowed and the French onion soup gave way to rack of lamb followed by coffee ice cream, Ashe discussed with Aslan the mythology of Jewish–Masonic conspiracy and its place in Islamic extremism. Aslan’s views were enlightening.
By the time brandy was served, the colonel was ready to show his cards.
‘Frankly, Dr Ashe, I don’t enjoy your freedom of investigation. I’ve been told investigations into the Lodge bombing must cease. I’ve been informed that the case is closed.’
‘And is it?’
Aslan sighed deeply. ‘It is always possible my superiors did not like the direction I was taking.’
‘Which was?’
‘An independent direction.’
‘I see.’ Ashe felt kinship with the colonel’s predicament, but could say nothing.
‘You see, Dr Ashe, in Istanbul, one cannot always see eye to eye with the revered chief of police.’
‘May his name be blessed.’
Aslan smiled. ‘And there are other voices… from on high.’
Ashe summoned Klimt to refill the colonel’s glass. ‘Thank you, Klimt.’ He turned to Aslan. ‘Other voices, you say?’
The colonel nodded.
‘And your hands are tied.’
Aslan grunted. ‘But not my feet! Perhaps you can be my hands for a while.’
‘I, Colonel?’
‘How could I not think of you, Tobbi Ashe, after all you did when your consulate was hit in my city. You made quite an impression.’
‘Thank you, Colonel. It was an interesting experience. But I don’t see how we can help this time. The Kartal Lodge bombing is not a priority.’
‘Officially?’ Aslan gulped his brandy. Ashe said nothing.
Aslan thought deeply, burying his teeth into his fist. ‘Would you consider pursuing a line without official encouragement, Dr Ashe?’
Ashe savoured the idea as Aslan narrowed his eyes and pointed a finger at him. ‘I could offer … guidance.’
‘I’d need something more concrete. Evidence of a link between the Lodge bombing and the attack on our department, for example.’
‘I see.’
‘By the way, who is your “friend” in NATO?’
Aslan laughed. ‘I prefer to keep my friends…’ He looked at Ashe directly. ‘And to protect them.’
The table was silent. Aslan realised the Englishman needed more.
‘Dr Ashe, as you know, Turkey today is a most complex phenomenon. What if I said to you that the Lodge bombing was not necessarily the work of extreme Islamists? Or shall we say, not the work of extremists alone.’
Aslan felt a tug on his line; Ashe had taken the hook. ‘You see, Tobbi, Freemasonry is viewed with great suspicion by a faction of ultra-nationalists in my country. There are those who find The Protocols of the Elders of Zion stimulating. They see Jewish conspiracies everywhere. Freemasons, Jews – it’s all the same to them. They see…’ Aslan sighed, ‘… problems.’
Ashe thought hard. ‘OK. What I need is the guest list. It should be on the summons to the meeting the night the Lodge was bombed. And there may have been guests not mentioned on the summons.’
‘I’ll see what can be done, Tobbi. No guarantees.’
‘I don’t need them. Your word is—’
‘Best left unsaid, Dr Ashe.’