Spoils of War, page 28
‘I think his woman may still be with him,’ Ali said.
‘Then we must assume she shares his knowledge. In which case she must also share his fate.’
Where the city began thinning out to the north, the Bosphorus was overlooked on both sides by wooded hills dotted with houses and patched with the spring colours of lilac and wisteria. Two great road bridges crossed the straits but the taxi kept to the European shore. Along it, what had once been small fishing villages had, all too obviously, become weekend retreats for the better-off, invaded by ugly flat-roofed villas, bars, restaurants and places advertising themselves as diskoteks.
The road was still choked with traffic, and it was after five o’clock before they reached Sariyer. After stopping to ask directions, the driver guided the Pontiac a short way past the village, took a left turn and stopped at an impressive gateway.
The barrier here seemed just as formidable as the one at Yildiz Fort. Visibly at least there were no armed guards, but there were heavy barred gates eight feet high, set between thick stone pillars. There was a bellpush in one of the pillars, and an electric eye and an entryphone speaker: domestic security, California-style. Jack rolled down his window to ring the bell, conscious again that they had lost the advantage of surprise.
A male voice erupted from the speaker. A response that Jack recognized as Greek: ‘Oreste?’
‘Mr Zakarios?’
‘Perimenete, parakalo.’
There was a lengthy wait before another, throatier, voice came on: ‘Yes?’
‘Mr Manolis Zakarios?’
‘Yes?’ Cautiously, as though by admitting it he might be giving something away.
Jack gave his name, told Zakarios he was a friend of Eric Patley’s and said Eric had suggested he look him up while he and a friend were visiting Istanbul. He apologized insincerely for not phoning beforehand, saying they’d just been out sightseeing when they realized how close they were to the house.
There was a brief silence before Zakarios said: ‘Come in. You’ll join us for a drink.’ The speaker clicked off and a few moments later the gates groaned open.
A driveway twisted uphill for perhaps three hundred metres between lines of horse-chestnut trees. There were terraces on either side planted with citrus and olives, and the only attempt at a formal garden had been made on levelled ground at the top, where a small lawn was bordered by footpaths and rose bushes. Overlooking this stood a villa, not one of the seaside cubes but a strange confection of pale stone and decorative marble. Nineteenth-century Ottoman kitsch, three storeys high, with a pantiled roof and wrought-iron balconies; the marble, in alternating slabs of grey and green with touches of pink, had been inlaid around the windows and the front door, and in vertical columns from the ground to the roof.
Off to one side, a chauffeur was polishing a black Rolls-Royce. Half a dozen other cars were parked on the gravelled forecourt.
Not wanting to look too businesslike, Jack left his briefcase in the taxi. The front door, which had a security camera above it, was opened by a uniformed maid who led them silently through a large hall to a door from behind which came a buzz of conversation. She opened it to reveal a drawing room in which nearly two dozen people were gathered.
The windows gave a spectacular view of the Bosphorus. There was more coloured marble covering the floor and the lower half of the walls. Among those seated or standing about the room were several middle-aged men and women, a few younger ones, children ranging from ten or eleven to the late teens, and a very old couple on a chaise-longue in one corner. The men were in suits, the women in print dresses and hats. At the centre of an admiring circle was a woman with a baby in her arms, wrapped in an elaborate brocaded gown. Huge arrays of food were set out and the room was filled with flowers. A manservant in a white jacket was going round with champagne.
Dale and Jack exchanged embarrassed glances. Although the guests did not seem put out, nodding and smiling at the newcomers, it was clear that they had gatecrashed a party.
The old man rose to greet them, with the aid of a silver-headed cane. He was yellow-skinned and completely bald, and he wore natty, dark grey pinstripes and a black bow tie with white polka dots. He appeared to be well into his eighties and was small but robustly built, with hunched shoulders and a roguish expression that gave him the look of an elderly but still lively chimpanzee.
They introduced themselves. ‘I am Manolis Zakarios,’ the old man said, giving them an arthritic handshake. ‘And this is my family. Wife, children, grandchildren, sons-in-law, daughters-in-law, and one great-grandson.’ He waved his stick towards the baby. ‘Today he has been christened. Come. Eat and drink.’
‘I really am sorry to burst in on you like this,’ Jack said. ‘If we’d known . . .’
‘Never mind, never mind. Friends of Eric Patley will always be welcome. How is Eric?’
Jack brought him up to date with Eric’s news while the servant poured them champagne and Zakarios pressed them to select from bowls of caviar, boiled shrimps, stuffed vine leaves and cheese pastries. Then he took them round and introduced them to his wife and his offspring and their spouses. They were handsome, dark-eyed people, phanariot Greeks whose origins went back to pre-Ottoman days, Orthodox Christians whose forebears had somehow survived Constantinople’s turbulent history.
‘We were here before there was any such place as Turkey, you know,’ Zakarios said with a chuckle. ‘In fact, we were here two and a half thousand years ago, before Christianity or Islam were thought of.’
They chatted in a desultory way to the relatives. Zakarios’s wife spoke only Greek and Turkish, but the younger people all had some English and the old man’s was excellent. Eventually he grew tired of standing, and Jack found him a chair and sat beside him.
‘I gather you were in the jewellery business,’ he said.
‘For nearly sixty years, until I realized there was more to life than work. So I retired and moved out of the city.’
‘Who runs the business now?’
‘Two of my sons. Of course it’s not what it was when Eric knew it,’ Zakarios added.
The remark seemed pointed, but at least it was opportune. Jack said: ‘He told me you used to have quite an international operation.’
‘I think he was exaggerating. What else did he say?’
‘That you both had an interest in . . . well, the unofficial gold market?’
‘Ah! Those gold bars that he brought here in the panels of his car?’ Zakarios grinned. ‘I think Eric imagined he was pulling a fast one on me. He thought the price was about to fall. I knew it would go up. But it’s not so easy to predict things nowadays. The unofficial market is much more difficult than it was. And I am no longer involved in it.’
‘But others have taken over?’
‘Maybe.’
Jack waited. Zakarios continued: ‘It isn’t a question I would advise you to pursue, Mr Rushton. It’s a dangerous business. For an amateur, and a foreigner . . .’
‘I think you misunderstand,’ Jack said. ‘I’m not interested in buying or selling gold.’
‘But you’re interested in something.’ Zakarios’s eyes twinkled in the comical chimpanzee face, but his tone was serious. ‘Why else would you be here? You don’t think I believe that you just happened to be passing my door, do you?’
Jack hadn’t expected the point of the discussion to be reached so quickly. He was tempted to prevaricate, but instead decided to come clean.
‘All right, Mr Zakarios. I’ve come to ask you a favour. I want your advice, and the benefit of your experience.’ He glanced around the room; nobody seemed to be paying them any attention. ‘I’ve been given the job of tracing a missing Iraqi who may have stumbled on a plot by some of his countrymen to steal a consignment of gold bullion. The gold itself isn’t my concern; it’s only by getting closer to it that I stand any chance of finding out what happened to this man. I need to know how, and perhaps through whom, these people might have been planning to sell it. It’s only a guess, but I think it’s a reasonable one, that they might have chosen to do it here in Turkey.’
The old man sat reflectively sucking his yellow cheeks, watching Jack closely. ‘What I told you still applies,’ he said. ‘The market can be a dangerous place even if you are not selling or buying. In my day there were rules – unofficial ones, but rules all the same. Contracts were made and kept. Now it’s different. In this country it’s gone underground, and so it attracts people who don’t like to be seen in the daylight. If you poke into their burrows, the chances are you’ll get bitten.’
‘I know enough to be careful. And to keep anything you care to tell me to myself.’
‘And the young lady? Is she aware of this . . . undertaking of yours?’
‘Completely.’
‘Then bring her through to my study,’ Zakarios said, heaving himself to his feet. ‘What I have to say will take only a few minutes, but I can save you the trouble of repeating it.’
26
The study was along a side passage of the villa, a room too large for its purpose and looking as though it wasn’t much used in any case. It was furnished with a dainty writing desk, a sofa and a few chairs in the French Empire style, and an ornate bookcase that held only a scattering of books. Zakarios lowered himself into a chair and Jack and Dale sat on the sofa.
‘First tell me more about this gold you believe has been stolen,’ the old man said.
Jack related as much as he thought necessary about the disappearance of part of the bullion taken from the Kuwait Central Bank. He repeated the rumour Abdel Karim had heard about the gold being flown to northern Iraq, and also what Dr Zunckel had told him in Zurich about Ghani and his enquiry about the possibility of offloading it on the official market. Zakarios smiled at the innocence of this notion.
‘So where do you think it is now?’ he asked.
‘The man who called himself Ghani is dead,’ Jack said. ‘And so are several of the people who were probably involved with him. But there must be others in the know. I don’t see how they could have moved it out of Iraq as long as the country was in a state of siege. They knew that from the start, and they planned to leave it there until the crisis was over. My guess is that it’s probably still there. But sooner or later they’ve got to get it out, and the logical way of doing so is through Turkey. Am I on the right track?’
Zakarios thought for a moment, then pointed with his stick at the bookcase. ‘There is a map up there. Save my legs. Fetch it for me.’
There were several folded maps crammed on to one shelf. The one he wanted was a double-sided road map of Turkey, published in Germany. He got Jack to open it on the floor at his feet to show the eastern half of the country, then jabbed his stick at the lower right-hand corner.
‘Here is the border between Turkey and Iraq, among the southern Taurus mountains of Kurdistan. There are only two roads across it. But it is desolate country and people who know the mountains well can find other ways to get across them. Often I used to buy small quantities of gold that were brought out this way, usually by Kurdish refugees carrying whatever valuables they could bring: jewellery, old coins, hoarded ingots. In normal times, using guides and pack mules and travelling by night, it would not be impossible to transport an amount even as big as the one you mention. But things are not normal. The Kurds are carrying on a guerrilla war against the Turks. The whole area has been under military control for several years, and now with the Iraqi Kurds coming across the mountains . . . well, it seems hardly the right time for such a venture. On the other hand, maybe your guess is wrong and the gold has already been moved. And even sold.’
‘If it had been,’ said Dale, ‘would you have picked up some inkling of it?’
Zakarios gave his quizzical grin again. ‘As I’ve told your friend, young lady, I have been out of that business for a long time. But one never completely escapes from it. I hear things through my sons. If that much gold had been released on the market, it would not have gone unnoticed.’
‘If or when it is brought out, then, what’s likely to happen to it?’
‘Firstly you can’t assume that it will all arrive at once. Dividing it into smaller quantities lessens the risk that it might all be seized. Then, obviously, a plan must be in place to move it on as quickly as possible. I doubt that your Iraqis would have the opportunity to melt it down and export it piecemeal, as I would have done.’ The old man poked at the map again. ‘See where those two roads lead, after they cross the frontier? One towards Iran, the other westwards to the seaports at Iskenderun and Mersin. That is part of the Silk Road, the ancient trade route between Europe and the Orient, and it is the more likely choice. To transport the gold safely, these Iraqis will need help from people here that they can trust, and if a few Turkish palms can be greased as well, so much the better. Above all they will need protection. The Jandarma are vigilant, and nowadays they would not turn a blind eye to smuggling on that scale. Not that they are all above being corrupted.’
‘The gendarmerie would be responsible for a matter like this?’
‘Yes. They are paramilitary police, a division of the army responsible for internal security and for law enforcement in rural areas.’ Zakarios looked at them gravely. ‘I will not go into details about the trade that I was in, but I can say that it used to be reputable. We had understandings with the authorities, and we had no violence. The system worked to the advantage of everyone, including the Turkish government. Now there are no controls, and what’s left of the business is in the hands of criminals. Some of them ordinary crooks, but others claiming to act for political causes, which makes them unreasonable as well as vicious.
‘You probably know that the Turks have many terrorist groups to contend with. There are the Kurds who fight them in the east; there are Islamic fundamentalists who have attacked synagogues, here in Constantinople; and there are Marxist revolutionaries who blow up soldiers and wage war against the rich. Why do you think my house is so well protected? But there is another organization that is less familiar to outsiders. Have you heard of Emegin Birligi? In English known as the Grey Wolves?’
They shook their heads. ‘They were a right-wing party in the days of Ataturk,’ Zakarios said, ‘but later they began calling themselves Marxists and took up arms against the Turkish government. In the seventies they were involved in bombings and political assassinations but they degenerated, if one can use such a word, into gangsters. Still, they maintain links with Palestinian extremists and they have also done some dirty work on behalf of the Ba’athists in Iraq.’ He paused. ‘As I told you, I hear things. These people are opportunists. They’re involved in protection rackets and smuggling. If you want to know who your Iraqis may have sought help from here, you need look no further than the Grey Wolves. But I suggest that you don’t look too closely.’
Jack shrugged. ‘We wouldn’t know where to start, anyway. Do the police here know about this connection?’
‘In a general way, I’m sure they do.’
‘The reason I ask is that the only other contact we have is with an officer in the gendarmerie. He might be interested in what you’ve told us, but . . .’
‘But you don’t want to embarrass me? I think there is no fear of that. These are only my opinions, remember. I have no secrets, but also I know nothing definite. The Turks would be too proud to come for advice to a phanariot, but if they did I would tell them exactly what I have told you.’
‘And what would you suggest that they do?’
‘Watch out for a ship arriving at Mersin or Iskenderun without specific sailing orders. It’s a route that I sometimes used myself.’ Zakarios smiled again. ‘That’s all I can tell you. And now if you don’t mind, I must go back to my family.’
The sun was setting by the time they left the villa. The water of the Bosphorus had turned from vivid blue to an oily, leaden grey, and the ships heading up and down the channel had their navigation lights on. Along the coastal road the Sunday traffic was even worse than it had been on the outward journey, and by the time they reached the outskirts of the city it was fully dark.
At first the taxi driver flatly refused to take them back to Yildiz Fort. They didn’t know what Turkish soldiers were like, he said. If they arrested him they might also impound or confiscate his car, which would be a far more serious matter for him than spending the night in jail. Eventually, but still with reluctance, he agreed to park on the road outside and accompany them on foot.
They tramped along the sandy floor of the alley that led through the embankment. It was an odd feature, but even in the dark a second viewing made its original purpose clearer. The fort that had once stood here was just one more of the Byzantine ruins in which Istanbul was smothered, a spot that didn’t rate a mention in Dale’s rather inadequate guidebook; and this passageway had been a ditch between the inner and outer ramparts. It was about eight metres deep and six metres across, and no doubt it had been a formidable obstacle to attacking crusaders and Ottomans. The walls that flanked it, and the overgrown banks on either side, seemed to be all that was left of the building. Strong light came from up ahead, beyond the turning leading to the gates, and when they reached the bend they could see that the entrance and the approach to it were illuminated by powerful lamps.
Jack also saw, with foreboding, that the same pair of guards were on duty. The sight of three people walking towards them out of the night seemed to alarm them more than the arrival of the taxi had, and their carbines were levelled almost before the visitors were within shouting distance.
‘Dur! Dur!’ one of them called sharply. The driver stopped walking and indicated to Jack and Dale that they should do the same.
They stood still, exposed within a circle of remorseless light.
‘Ask them if General Delkin is home yet,’ Jack said. ‘And tell them the message we have for him is even more urgent now.’
The announcement, bellowed from twenty metres away, was met with the same hostility as before. The driver exchanged several remarks with the soldiers and then said nervously, ‘They say nothing. Only that we must go.’
‘Then we must assume she shares his knowledge. In which case she must also share his fate.’
Where the city began thinning out to the north, the Bosphorus was overlooked on both sides by wooded hills dotted with houses and patched with the spring colours of lilac and wisteria. Two great road bridges crossed the straits but the taxi kept to the European shore. Along it, what had once been small fishing villages had, all too obviously, become weekend retreats for the better-off, invaded by ugly flat-roofed villas, bars, restaurants and places advertising themselves as diskoteks.
The road was still choked with traffic, and it was after five o’clock before they reached Sariyer. After stopping to ask directions, the driver guided the Pontiac a short way past the village, took a left turn and stopped at an impressive gateway.
The barrier here seemed just as formidable as the one at Yildiz Fort. Visibly at least there were no armed guards, but there were heavy barred gates eight feet high, set between thick stone pillars. There was a bellpush in one of the pillars, and an electric eye and an entryphone speaker: domestic security, California-style. Jack rolled down his window to ring the bell, conscious again that they had lost the advantage of surprise.
A male voice erupted from the speaker. A response that Jack recognized as Greek: ‘Oreste?’
‘Mr Zakarios?’
‘Perimenete, parakalo.’
There was a lengthy wait before another, throatier, voice came on: ‘Yes?’
‘Mr Manolis Zakarios?’
‘Yes?’ Cautiously, as though by admitting it he might be giving something away.
Jack gave his name, told Zakarios he was a friend of Eric Patley’s and said Eric had suggested he look him up while he and a friend were visiting Istanbul. He apologized insincerely for not phoning beforehand, saying they’d just been out sightseeing when they realized how close they were to the house.
There was a brief silence before Zakarios said: ‘Come in. You’ll join us for a drink.’ The speaker clicked off and a few moments later the gates groaned open.
A driveway twisted uphill for perhaps three hundred metres between lines of horse-chestnut trees. There were terraces on either side planted with citrus and olives, and the only attempt at a formal garden had been made on levelled ground at the top, where a small lawn was bordered by footpaths and rose bushes. Overlooking this stood a villa, not one of the seaside cubes but a strange confection of pale stone and decorative marble. Nineteenth-century Ottoman kitsch, three storeys high, with a pantiled roof and wrought-iron balconies; the marble, in alternating slabs of grey and green with touches of pink, had been inlaid around the windows and the front door, and in vertical columns from the ground to the roof.
Off to one side, a chauffeur was polishing a black Rolls-Royce. Half a dozen other cars were parked on the gravelled forecourt.
Not wanting to look too businesslike, Jack left his briefcase in the taxi. The front door, which had a security camera above it, was opened by a uniformed maid who led them silently through a large hall to a door from behind which came a buzz of conversation. She opened it to reveal a drawing room in which nearly two dozen people were gathered.
The windows gave a spectacular view of the Bosphorus. There was more coloured marble covering the floor and the lower half of the walls. Among those seated or standing about the room were several middle-aged men and women, a few younger ones, children ranging from ten or eleven to the late teens, and a very old couple on a chaise-longue in one corner. The men were in suits, the women in print dresses and hats. At the centre of an admiring circle was a woman with a baby in her arms, wrapped in an elaborate brocaded gown. Huge arrays of food were set out and the room was filled with flowers. A manservant in a white jacket was going round with champagne.
Dale and Jack exchanged embarrassed glances. Although the guests did not seem put out, nodding and smiling at the newcomers, it was clear that they had gatecrashed a party.
The old man rose to greet them, with the aid of a silver-headed cane. He was yellow-skinned and completely bald, and he wore natty, dark grey pinstripes and a black bow tie with white polka dots. He appeared to be well into his eighties and was small but robustly built, with hunched shoulders and a roguish expression that gave him the look of an elderly but still lively chimpanzee.
They introduced themselves. ‘I am Manolis Zakarios,’ the old man said, giving them an arthritic handshake. ‘And this is my family. Wife, children, grandchildren, sons-in-law, daughters-in-law, and one great-grandson.’ He waved his stick towards the baby. ‘Today he has been christened. Come. Eat and drink.’
‘I really am sorry to burst in on you like this,’ Jack said. ‘If we’d known . . .’
‘Never mind, never mind. Friends of Eric Patley will always be welcome. How is Eric?’
Jack brought him up to date with Eric’s news while the servant poured them champagne and Zakarios pressed them to select from bowls of caviar, boiled shrimps, stuffed vine leaves and cheese pastries. Then he took them round and introduced them to his wife and his offspring and their spouses. They were handsome, dark-eyed people, phanariot Greeks whose origins went back to pre-Ottoman days, Orthodox Christians whose forebears had somehow survived Constantinople’s turbulent history.
‘We were here before there was any such place as Turkey, you know,’ Zakarios said with a chuckle. ‘In fact, we were here two and a half thousand years ago, before Christianity or Islam were thought of.’
They chatted in a desultory way to the relatives. Zakarios’s wife spoke only Greek and Turkish, but the younger people all had some English and the old man’s was excellent. Eventually he grew tired of standing, and Jack found him a chair and sat beside him.
‘I gather you were in the jewellery business,’ he said.
‘For nearly sixty years, until I realized there was more to life than work. So I retired and moved out of the city.’
‘Who runs the business now?’
‘Two of my sons. Of course it’s not what it was when Eric knew it,’ Zakarios added.
The remark seemed pointed, but at least it was opportune. Jack said: ‘He told me you used to have quite an international operation.’
‘I think he was exaggerating. What else did he say?’
‘That you both had an interest in . . . well, the unofficial gold market?’
‘Ah! Those gold bars that he brought here in the panels of his car?’ Zakarios grinned. ‘I think Eric imagined he was pulling a fast one on me. He thought the price was about to fall. I knew it would go up. But it’s not so easy to predict things nowadays. The unofficial market is much more difficult than it was. And I am no longer involved in it.’
‘But others have taken over?’
‘Maybe.’
Jack waited. Zakarios continued: ‘It isn’t a question I would advise you to pursue, Mr Rushton. It’s a dangerous business. For an amateur, and a foreigner . . .’
‘I think you misunderstand,’ Jack said. ‘I’m not interested in buying or selling gold.’
‘But you’re interested in something.’ Zakarios’s eyes twinkled in the comical chimpanzee face, but his tone was serious. ‘Why else would you be here? You don’t think I believe that you just happened to be passing my door, do you?’
Jack hadn’t expected the point of the discussion to be reached so quickly. He was tempted to prevaricate, but instead decided to come clean.
‘All right, Mr Zakarios. I’ve come to ask you a favour. I want your advice, and the benefit of your experience.’ He glanced around the room; nobody seemed to be paying them any attention. ‘I’ve been given the job of tracing a missing Iraqi who may have stumbled on a plot by some of his countrymen to steal a consignment of gold bullion. The gold itself isn’t my concern; it’s only by getting closer to it that I stand any chance of finding out what happened to this man. I need to know how, and perhaps through whom, these people might have been planning to sell it. It’s only a guess, but I think it’s a reasonable one, that they might have chosen to do it here in Turkey.’
The old man sat reflectively sucking his yellow cheeks, watching Jack closely. ‘What I told you still applies,’ he said. ‘The market can be a dangerous place even if you are not selling or buying. In my day there were rules – unofficial ones, but rules all the same. Contracts were made and kept. Now it’s different. In this country it’s gone underground, and so it attracts people who don’t like to be seen in the daylight. If you poke into their burrows, the chances are you’ll get bitten.’
‘I know enough to be careful. And to keep anything you care to tell me to myself.’
‘And the young lady? Is she aware of this . . . undertaking of yours?’
‘Completely.’
‘Then bring her through to my study,’ Zakarios said, heaving himself to his feet. ‘What I have to say will take only a few minutes, but I can save you the trouble of repeating it.’
26
The study was along a side passage of the villa, a room too large for its purpose and looking as though it wasn’t much used in any case. It was furnished with a dainty writing desk, a sofa and a few chairs in the French Empire style, and an ornate bookcase that held only a scattering of books. Zakarios lowered himself into a chair and Jack and Dale sat on the sofa.
‘First tell me more about this gold you believe has been stolen,’ the old man said.
Jack related as much as he thought necessary about the disappearance of part of the bullion taken from the Kuwait Central Bank. He repeated the rumour Abdel Karim had heard about the gold being flown to northern Iraq, and also what Dr Zunckel had told him in Zurich about Ghani and his enquiry about the possibility of offloading it on the official market. Zakarios smiled at the innocence of this notion.
‘So where do you think it is now?’ he asked.
‘The man who called himself Ghani is dead,’ Jack said. ‘And so are several of the people who were probably involved with him. But there must be others in the know. I don’t see how they could have moved it out of Iraq as long as the country was in a state of siege. They knew that from the start, and they planned to leave it there until the crisis was over. My guess is that it’s probably still there. But sooner or later they’ve got to get it out, and the logical way of doing so is through Turkey. Am I on the right track?’
Zakarios thought for a moment, then pointed with his stick at the bookcase. ‘There is a map up there. Save my legs. Fetch it for me.’
There were several folded maps crammed on to one shelf. The one he wanted was a double-sided road map of Turkey, published in Germany. He got Jack to open it on the floor at his feet to show the eastern half of the country, then jabbed his stick at the lower right-hand corner.
‘Here is the border between Turkey and Iraq, among the southern Taurus mountains of Kurdistan. There are only two roads across it. But it is desolate country and people who know the mountains well can find other ways to get across them. Often I used to buy small quantities of gold that were brought out this way, usually by Kurdish refugees carrying whatever valuables they could bring: jewellery, old coins, hoarded ingots. In normal times, using guides and pack mules and travelling by night, it would not be impossible to transport an amount even as big as the one you mention. But things are not normal. The Kurds are carrying on a guerrilla war against the Turks. The whole area has been under military control for several years, and now with the Iraqi Kurds coming across the mountains . . . well, it seems hardly the right time for such a venture. On the other hand, maybe your guess is wrong and the gold has already been moved. And even sold.’
‘If it had been,’ said Dale, ‘would you have picked up some inkling of it?’
Zakarios gave his quizzical grin again. ‘As I’ve told your friend, young lady, I have been out of that business for a long time. But one never completely escapes from it. I hear things through my sons. If that much gold had been released on the market, it would not have gone unnoticed.’
‘If or when it is brought out, then, what’s likely to happen to it?’
‘Firstly you can’t assume that it will all arrive at once. Dividing it into smaller quantities lessens the risk that it might all be seized. Then, obviously, a plan must be in place to move it on as quickly as possible. I doubt that your Iraqis would have the opportunity to melt it down and export it piecemeal, as I would have done.’ The old man poked at the map again. ‘See where those two roads lead, after they cross the frontier? One towards Iran, the other westwards to the seaports at Iskenderun and Mersin. That is part of the Silk Road, the ancient trade route between Europe and the Orient, and it is the more likely choice. To transport the gold safely, these Iraqis will need help from people here that they can trust, and if a few Turkish palms can be greased as well, so much the better. Above all they will need protection. The Jandarma are vigilant, and nowadays they would not turn a blind eye to smuggling on that scale. Not that they are all above being corrupted.’
‘The gendarmerie would be responsible for a matter like this?’
‘Yes. They are paramilitary police, a division of the army responsible for internal security and for law enforcement in rural areas.’ Zakarios looked at them gravely. ‘I will not go into details about the trade that I was in, but I can say that it used to be reputable. We had understandings with the authorities, and we had no violence. The system worked to the advantage of everyone, including the Turkish government. Now there are no controls, and what’s left of the business is in the hands of criminals. Some of them ordinary crooks, but others claiming to act for political causes, which makes them unreasonable as well as vicious.
‘You probably know that the Turks have many terrorist groups to contend with. There are the Kurds who fight them in the east; there are Islamic fundamentalists who have attacked synagogues, here in Constantinople; and there are Marxist revolutionaries who blow up soldiers and wage war against the rich. Why do you think my house is so well protected? But there is another organization that is less familiar to outsiders. Have you heard of Emegin Birligi? In English known as the Grey Wolves?’
They shook their heads. ‘They were a right-wing party in the days of Ataturk,’ Zakarios said, ‘but later they began calling themselves Marxists and took up arms against the Turkish government. In the seventies they were involved in bombings and political assassinations but they degenerated, if one can use such a word, into gangsters. Still, they maintain links with Palestinian extremists and they have also done some dirty work on behalf of the Ba’athists in Iraq.’ He paused. ‘As I told you, I hear things. These people are opportunists. They’re involved in protection rackets and smuggling. If you want to know who your Iraqis may have sought help from here, you need look no further than the Grey Wolves. But I suggest that you don’t look too closely.’
Jack shrugged. ‘We wouldn’t know where to start, anyway. Do the police here know about this connection?’
‘In a general way, I’m sure they do.’
‘The reason I ask is that the only other contact we have is with an officer in the gendarmerie. He might be interested in what you’ve told us, but . . .’
‘But you don’t want to embarrass me? I think there is no fear of that. These are only my opinions, remember. I have no secrets, but also I know nothing definite. The Turks would be too proud to come for advice to a phanariot, but if they did I would tell them exactly what I have told you.’
‘And what would you suggest that they do?’
‘Watch out for a ship arriving at Mersin or Iskenderun without specific sailing orders. It’s a route that I sometimes used myself.’ Zakarios smiled again. ‘That’s all I can tell you. And now if you don’t mind, I must go back to my family.’
The sun was setting by the time they left the villa. The water of the Bosphorus had turned from vivid blue to an oily, leaden grey, and the ships heading up and down the channel had their navigation lights on. Along the coastal road the Sunday traffic was even worse than it had been on the outward journey, and by the time they reached the outskirts of the city it was fully dark.
At first the taxi driver flatly refused to take them back to Yildiz Fort. They didn’t know what Turkish soldiers were like, he said. If they arrested him they might also impound or confiscate his car, which would be a far more serious matter for him than spending the night in jail. Eventually, but still with reluctance, he agreed to park on the road outside and accompany them on foot.
They tramped along the sandy floor of the alley that led through the embankment. It was an odd feature, but even in the dark a second viewing made its original purpose clearer. The fort that had once stood here was just one more of the Byzantine ruins in which Istanbul was smothered, a spot that didn’t rate a mention in Dale’s rather inadequate guidebook; and this passageway had been a ditch between the inner and outer ramparts. It was about eight metres deep and six metres across, and no doubt it had been a formidable obstacle to attacking crusaders and Ottomans. The walls that flanked it, and the overgrown banks on either side, seemed to be all that was left of the building. Strong light came from up ahead, beyond the turning leading to the gates, and when they reached the bend they could see that the entrance and the approach to it were illuminated by powerful lamps.
Jack also saw, with foreboding, that the same pair of guards were on duty. The sight of three people walking towards them out of the night seemed to alarm them more than the arrival of the taxi had, and their carbines were levelled almost before the visitors were within shouting distance.
‘Dur! Dur!’ one of them called sharply. The driver stopped walking and indicated to Jack and Dale that they should do the same.
They stood still, exposed within a circle of remorseless light.
‘Ask them if General Delkin is home yet,’ Jack said. ‘And tell them the message we have for him is even more urgent now.’
The announcement, bellowed from twenty metres away, was met with the same hostility as before. The driver exchanged several remarks with the soldiers and then said nervously, ‘They say nothing. Only that we must go.’
