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The young man beamed. ‘Thank you. It is special. Rare. An Ozipek. The best name, a good name.’
Another young man appeared carrying a tray with glasses of tea on it, and both women took a glass. Leaning closer, Iffet murmured, ‘It is the custom, serving tea. And we have to drink it, or they will be offended.’
When Kemal returned a short while later, Mustafa left the showroom and Kemal spoke swiftly in Turkish, after excusing himself to Justine.
Once he had finished, Iffet made a moue. ‘Some good news. Kemal’s father did know your grandmother. He told Kemal that an Englishwoman called Gabri did buy carpets from him. The bad news is that he hasn’t seen her for some years. I am so sorry.’
‘It’s okay. And at least we know Gran did spend time in Istanbul. Gabri is her nickname, by the way.’
TEN
The man cut quite a swathe as he walked through the lobby of the Çiragan Palace Hotel Kempinski, was well aware of the glances cast his way. He was used to it, therefore paid no attention.
His name was Michael Dalton, and he was tall, lithe, and in excellent physical condition at the age of thirty-nine. Because of his arresting dark good looks and last name, the movie buffs who met him thought he might be the brother of the British actor Timothy Dalton. But he was not, nor was he in the business of treading the boards or making movies.
Michael Dalton was in a very different kind of game, and it was one that was close to his heart. It took him all over the world and threw him into a mix of very diverse people. He always held his own whatever company he kept, and his geniality, charm and ready smile were captivating, disarming and persuasive, camouflaging the true nature of the man. Only a scant few were ever allowed to see the real Michael Dalton, get a glimpse of his superior intelligence, inside knowledge of international politics and formidable understanding of world history.
There was a lot of speculation about what he really did for a living. Some people said he was a secret agent with the CIA. Others maintained he was British-born, worked for British Intelligence, and went undercover for MI6. And there were those who insisted he was a negotiator, a fixer, a go-between for presidents and prime ministers. Others had decided he constructed huge financial deals for tycoons, tyrants and oligarchs. They insisted that was where all his money came from. But they were wrong.
Michael Dalton did exactly what he actually purported to do. He owned and ran an international security company with offices in London, Paris and New York. It was renowned, had a fine reputation and was highly successful with a raft of big clients, including major corporations, banks and multinationals.
Many of the other things bandied around about him happened to be true. He was an American, had been born in New York, had attended Princeton and Harvard, did have a law degree and had been engaged. Once. Now he was unencumbered and preferred it that way.
Michael Dalton had two mantras: Those who retire die; he who travels fastest travels alone. These thoughts were on his mind as he strode out onto the terrace of the hotel and glanced around. Only two tables were taken. In one corner there was a young blonde woman, in the other the man he had come to meet.
As he reached the table, put his hand on the man’s shoulder, he received the response he fully expected, ‘Take a gander at the other table, Michael. I’ve not seen such a beautiful blonde for centuries.’
Michael laughed and sat down. ‘You never change, Charlie; you’ve always got one eye on a girl, even when you’re doing business.’
Charles Anthony Gordon, who ran a private bank in London, laughed with Michael, and asked, ‘What are you drinking? Not the usual Coca-Cola, I hope?’
‘No. I’ll have tea instead.’
‘Guess what? I’ll have the same. It’s a bit too early for booze. So how do you feel now that you’ve broken off the engagement?’
‘Relieved. I was just thinking that as I came out onto the terrace. I was also reminding myself that when a man retires he dies.’
‘I expect that’s a dig at me, old chap, but guess what? I think I’m going to change my mind.’
‘You’re not going to retire after all?’ Michael sounded surprised. He stared at his old friend, who had not yet reached retirement age. ‘I hope you mean it, Charlie!’
‘I do. Scout’s honour and all that stuff. You’re looking pleased.’
‘I’m thrilled. How come you changed your mind? You were so adamant when I was in London two weeks ago.’
‘I know I was, and I did mean it. But I got talked out of it by our Scottish friend. He made good sense.’
Michael beckoned to a waiter, ordered English breakfast tea, one with milk, the other with lemon, and, once alone again with Charlie he added, ‘I’m glad Alistair did a number on you. I can’t tell you how essential you are to us. But then you know that.’
‘I do, I suppose. Which is why I changed my mind. Got to do one’s duty, protect the lands of the free and the brave.’
Michael leaned across the table. ‘I’m glad I didn’t bring a farewell gift for you.’
‘Yes, it would have been a waste of money.’ Charlie placed a cigarette lighter on the table and a packet of cigarettes. ‘I know you like a smoke now and again – have one of mine, Michael. It’s your favourite brand.’
‘Thanks, I will.’ Michael took out a cigarette, put it in his mouth and brought the lighter to it. ‘It’s in the packet, correct?’
‘You’ve got it right.’
After taking several puffs of the cigarette, Michael stuck it in the ashtray to burn away, picked up the packet of cigarettes and put it in his jacket. He then pushed the lighter across to Charlie, who slipped it in his trouser pocket.
‘I’ve got bad news, I’m afraid,’ Michael now announced, focusing all of his attention on the Englishman. ‘Those birds we spoke about when I was in London, I’m afraid they may be delivered to someone else.’
‘The pheasants?’ Charlie raised a brow. ‘Damn and blast, and we were promised that wouldn’t happen.’
‘C’est la vie,’ Michael murmured, as he grimaced and shook his head. ‘Some people are untrustworthy.’
‘Any chance of a diversion?’ Charlie asked.
‘I’m working on it. That, or perhaps extinction. I do believe those pheasants in particular have to be off the market… permanently.’ When Charlie didn’t respond, Michael exclaimed, ‘If you can tear your eyes away from the blonde, I have a bit more news for you.’
‘Oh, sorry. I couldn’t help admiring her when she stood up. Quite the leggy colt, isn’t she?’
Michael simply smiled, and said sotto voce, ‘Stay close to our contact, make sure he understands we’re now all behind him.’
‘I will.’
The waiter arrived with the large pot of tea, and Charlie turned to Michael. ‘Will you be coming to London in early June? If so, I’d like you to be my guest at Wimbledon.’
‘No, I don’t think I will be there then,’ Michael answered, ‘but thanks for the invitation.’
The two men walked through the gardens of the hotel, heading in the direction of the marble Çiragan Palace, a rococo building which had been in ruins for years until it became part of the new hotel. Now it had sumptuous suites, private rooms for special events, and a traditional Turkish restaurant, yet it had not lost any of its nineteenth-century charm.
Michael Dalton and Charles Gordon had been associates and friends for many years. Michael knew that underneath that English ‘old school tie’ exterior Charles presented to the world was a man of integrity, steely determination and dependability. He ran the bank his grandfather had started in 1903, and which his father had brought to prominence; Charles, a financial genius, had only made it more prosperous than ever over the last twenty-five years. He was now fifty-nine, but looked so much younger.
The bank was a client of Dalton Incorporated, and Michael’s company handled all security matters for the bank and its top-level personnel. Charles and Michael had developed a special relationship over the last seven years, and exchanged a great deal of vital information about many other things, not always to do with the bank. Rather, these matters related to events that affected and often changed international politics. And so affected the financial world.
Now that they were entirely alone in the gardens, Michael turned to Charles, ‘Have you just given me some names?’
‘Yes, of three men. You’ll find a little strip of paper underneath the cigarettes. They could become dangerous men. Although not everyone knows that. You must keep them in your sights at all times.’
‘Enough said.’ Michael immediately changed the subject, and asked, ‘How long are you staying in Istanbul?’
‘Five days, I’m here with my wife and two of our kids, Randolph and Agnes. I think you’ve met them. It’s a nice weekend break for me, and gives me a chance to spend time with the family. I’m glad our trips coincided. How long are you staying?’
‘I’m not sure. I’m here to see several top clients, so probably a week, then I have to go back to Paris for a few days. I just took on a new client there, who’s become extremely security conscious of late.’
‘A lot of people have since nine/eleven, and I can’t say I blame them. It’s a dangerous world.’ Charlie grimaced, added, ‘Why am I telling you that? If anyone knows what it’s like out there, it’s you.’
‘A powder keg.’ Michael shook his head. ‘The world will never be the same again. And it’s changing every day. And so fast it’s hard for the average person to keep up. We just have to live life as normally as we possibly can.’
Charles Gordon made no comment, and the two men walked on in silence for a short while, as always at ease with each other. When they reached the old palace they turned around and walked back the way they had come, each lost in his own thoughts.
At one moment Charles said, ‘I was pleased when I learned you were staying in the same hotel, Michael. It turned out to be convenient.’
‘Yes, it did. And I’ll be in and out, around, if you need me for anything.’
‘I hope to God I won’t,’ Charles exclaimed.
‘So do I,’ Michael answered.
Once he was back in his suite, Michael took the cigarettes out of the packet, then shook it until a small slip of paper finally fell out. When he read the names Charles had written on it he was truly startled, and instantly understood why Charles Gordon had preferred to pass these names to him in this way, rather than say them out loud.
He tore the paper into small pieces, did the same with the packet and the cigarettes, and went and flushed everything down the toilet.
Returning to the sitting room, he opened the French doors and stepped out onto the terrace. How beautiful the Bosphorus looked at this hour. The sun was setting and the deep blue waters of the straits rippled with rafts of crimson, pink and gold, and the sky was aflame along the rim of the far horizon. He loved it here at this time of day. They had a name for it in the movie business. The Magic Hour they called it, and indeed it was exactly that. The world was a beautiful place. What a pity it was full of madness.
Taking off his blazer, he put it on the back of the chair and sat down, thinking about the clients he had to see here. But soon his thoughts drifted, and he focused on the words he had said to Charles a short while before. He had called the world a powder keg, and it was the truth. Anything could happen, anywhere, at any time.
As a historian he knew that the history of the world was actually a history of wars. Endless wars since the beginning of time. He was convinced that fighting was genetic, a compulsion man could not resist. There would always be wars because man had no choice. Making war was hardwired into the human mind. And whatever reason was given, it was to gain one thing, and one thing only. Power. He sighed under his breath. All he could do was what he was doing, and hope that sanity would prevail.
That expression immediately reminded him of Vanessa, his former fiancée, and the last conversation they had had four months ago. She had told him she hoped sanity would prevail and that he would sell his company, take the money he was being offered and run. With her by his side. He had known at this particular moment that she could not, would not change. She loathed what he did for a living, and wanted him to lead an entirely different life. In fact, she wanted to change him completely. Remake him into someone else.
And so he had run. Not with the money he got for his company, because he had turned down the deal, had declined to sell. He had run from her because the doubts he had had about her had suddenly become certainties. He understood she was not the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. That woman was one he had not yet met but hoped he would. What he wanted was to be loved for who and what he was, for the man he had become. He did not want to be turned into an entirely different person, or be some woman’s puppet.
The ringing phone brought him to his feet. He strode into the room and over to the desk. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s me, darling. What time shall I expect you?’
‘In about an hour, sweetheart. Is that all right?’
‘Of course it is, and I can’t wait to see you.’
‘I feel the same way.’
She simply laughed and hung up, and he smiled as he walked back to the terrace to get his blazer. He loved that laugh of hers. It was full of joy. That was what he wanted in his life. Joy. It struck him suddenly that this was something he had not experienced for the longest time, not for the entire year he had been with Vanessa. She was not acquainted with joy. It was an emotion she didn’t understand. Or perhaps didn’t even have.
Nasty thought, Michael, he chastised himself as he returned to the sitting room, hung his blazer in the closet and picked out a silk tie to wear to dinner. He wanted to look his best tonight. He smiled again at the thought of the evening ahead.
ELEVEN
Istanbul. City of contrasts. European. Oriental. Exotic, Justine wrote in her Moleskine notebook, then added, a cosmopolitan city: diverse in every way… and put down the pen as her cell phone began to sing its little tune. Pushing back the chair on the terrace, she ran into the bedroom and picked it up off the bedside table. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s me, Justine,’ her brother said, sounding as if he was next door.
He had taken her by surprise, and she exclaimed, ‘Is something wrong? Why are you calling me now? It’s four o’clock in the morning in New York.’
‘I couldn’t sleep; I woke up about half an hour ago. And I felt a compulsion to call you. I suppose you’re on the way out – it’s noon there, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right, and oddly enough I’ve been wanting to speak to you too, Rich, but obviously I couldn’t, it was too early.’ She cleared her throat, went on, ‘How’s Daisy? And how’s the installation going?’
‘Daisy’s terrific, what with everyone fussing over her and all that jazz, and the installation has gone without a hitch, so far. It’ll be finished on time. I guess you’re down in the dumps?’
‘I am, yes, a bit. I arrived here a week ago yesterday and still haven’t found Gran, and it frustrates the hell out of me, Richard.’
‘I know… just as I know you’ve done everything you can. Local television interviews, stories in the newspapers: everybody in Istanbul must be aware that you’re there by now.’
‘I guess so. I did think of one thing… maybe Anita and Gran do live here but are away somewhere, and haven’t seen all the publicity about me and “Proof of Life”. That’s possible, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, it is…’ He paused, then said somewhat hesitantly, ‘Listen, Justine, I did have an idea—’
‘What?’ she asked, cutting across him, wondering what she could have missed. ‘What idea?’
‘We could call Mom. She must know where Anita Lowe lives, otherwise Anita would have written her address in the letter.’
‘I’m not going to call her. You have to do it.’
‘No, I can’t, it would be better if you called.’
‘No way. Tackling our mother on the phone won’t work. She’ll say that Anita Lowe has dementia or Alzheimer’s. We’ve discussed this before. The only way we’ll ever get the truth is to confront her in person and wrestle it out of her. You know what she’s like – you grew up with her too.’
‘Not really, if you think about it. We grew up with Dad, and Gran on the sidelines.’
‘True. Honestly, I won’t call her, Richard, and you shouldn’t either. She won’t tell us a single thing, and we’ll only alert her that we’re aware of the truth about her, what a despicable person she is.’
‘You’re correct in everything you say, but what are we going to do, Justine? We’ve reached a dead end.’
‘That’s the way it looks, and Iffet hasn’t come up with anything either, though she’s tried very hard. She had someone in her office check various organizations and clubs where foreign residents congregate for social evenings, and the British Consulate as well, but nobody seems to know them. As Eddie would say, we’ve come up with zilch.’ Justine paused, fighting back rising anxiety mingled with frustration yet again.
‘So, we’re adrift at sea in a leaky boat,’ Richard muttered. ‘About to sink.’
Justine couldn’t help laughing. ‘That was one of Gran’s favourite sayings.’
‘Along with, “There’ll be tears before midnight.” That was another favourite… warning.’
‘And “Stop crying, tears won’t get you anywhere.” Gran had a line for almost every situation, all from her auntie Beryl – at least that’s what she told me. Anyway, I did come up with one possibility and it might just work. I was waiting until a bit later to call you, to pass it by you, see whether you agree that I should do it.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I’m going to take some newspaper ads and—’
‘Ads!’ he cried, his voice rising. ‘That’ll embarrass Gran, not to mention Anita Lowe, whom we don’t even know. You can’t do that.’
‘I don’t care about embarrassing anybody right now; I care about finding these two women, in particular our grandmother. Anyway, the ads aren’t about them, but about my new documentary. It’s called “Biography of a City”, and it’s all about the history and peoples of Istanbul.’
‘When did you think this up?’ he asked, sounding puzzled.
Justine could almost see him frowning as he spoke, and she answered, ‘Since I’ve been here. And it’s all started to come together in my head in the last few days – the documentary, I mean.’
