Читать книгу The Istanbul Puzzle - Laurence O’Bryan - Страница 17

Chapter 12

We arrived at one of the British Consulate’s guest apartments after midnight, and it was past 1:00 AM before I closed my eyes in one of the spartan, marble-floored bedrooms.

I didn’t sleep well. A few hours after drifting off I sat up and looked around, memories of being shot at playing through my mind. I felt angry as the early morning sunlight filtered through the blinds. The air in the room was humid and already heavy. I’d turned off the air conditioning unit by the window before going to sleep.

One question had lodged in my mind. Were those bastards still looking for me?

The apartment had a balcony with a stunning view. Not surprising, I suppose, seeing as how it was on the tenth floor and overlooking where the glittering Sea of Marmara met the choppy Bosphorus channel.

I had a shower in the small bathroom attached to my room. I stayed longer than usual, as the tension of the last twelve hours dissipated into the water. When I was dry and dressed I went out onto the balcony.

The far shore of the Bosphorus, the Asian side of Istanbul, literally another continent, swam far off, in the early morning heat haze. Directly in front of me a variety of ships, freighters and tankers were making their way in two distinct lines, like foam-flecked water insects, travelling into and out of the sun-dappled channel of the Bosphorus.

Isabel had told me the night before that the apartment block overlooked the old Byzantine port of Bucoleon, the sea port that had served the Roman Emperor Justinian’s imperial palace. The shimmering sea and infinite azure sky must have been as alluring back then as they were now.

As I was admiring the view, Isabel joined me. She was carrying a tray with croissants, butter, jam, coffee, warm milk and pale brown sugar.

Her black hair was undone, flowing over her shoulders, but she still looked businesslike. And her expression was serious.

‘Did you sleep?’ she said.

‘Sure, every time I get shot at, almost kidnapped, I sleep like a baby.’

‘It’ll make a good story for your grandchildren.’

‘If I ever have any.’ I poured coffee for the both of us, then tasted mine. It was strong, black, just what I needed. I ate a croissant.

‘What about the police? Are you going to call them?’ I asked, as I poured myself some more coffee. I’d been wondering whether we should have reported what had happened already.

‘We’ll tell them at the appropriate time. What we’re concerned about first is your security.’

‘Why didn’t you shoot back at those bastards last night?’

She was gazing out to sea.

‘I don’t carry a gun, Sean. I’m not James bloody Bond. This is not a movie.’

I could smell salty sea air as a welcome breeze wafted up to us.

‘Having pitched battles in the street isn’t the way we operate here.’

‘Have you any new ideas about who those guys were?’

‘No, and we don’t jump to conclusions. Everyone with a grudge is taking their chances these days. Perhaps you have some new idea?’

‘You gotta be joking,’ I said. ‘That was like Grand Theft: Istanbul last night.’

She stared at a giant red oil tanker that had left a flotilla of ships moored out in the Sea of Marmara. The tanker was proceeding slowly towards the channel of the Bosphorus. Isabel sat down on one of the cushioned wicker chairs facing out to sea and pulled her long legs up under her, as if she was about to do yoga. Her black sweatpants and skintight black T-shirt made her look like a gym instructor. I stayed standing, taking in the view.

‘Some tankers wait a week to get through these straits,’ she said.

We sat in silence for a minute.

‘I didn’t expect that last night,’ I said.

‘The Turks are among the kindest people in the world, Sean. They’re welcoming, warm and giving, almost to a fault.’ She stretched her arms above her head. ‘What happened to you I have never seen happen to any visitor here.’ She sipped at her coffee.

‘We’re very concerned, Sean.’ She put her coffee cup down. ‘Alek’s death has been linked to a threat against the United Kingdom.’

‘What?’ I recoiled.

She stared out to sea. The heat was growing stronger by the minute, as the sun climbed in the sky. Home felt a long way away.

‘There’s a video clip on the Internet already. It shows Alek’s beheading.’ She was talking fast now. ‘It also contains a threat to bring Armageddon to London.’ She paused, as if to give time for what she’d said to sink in.

‘We’ve had a lot of this stuff in the past year, what with everything that’s going on. The nuts like to come out together. So we won’t be panicking, but we have to follow up every threat. So I need to know if there’s anything else you can tell me, which might help us to find the people who murdered Alek.’ She turned to look at me.

I stared back at her. Was this for real? Had Alek gotten himself caught up in something totally stupid?

‘If I knew anything that might help, I’d tell you. I would.’

‘I hope so.’

She stood up, went inside. In less than half a minute she was back, holding some photographs.

She placed the prints on the glass-topped dining table.

‘These images were on that storage device,’ she said.

I bent over, looked at them. There was a page of thumbnails and two images printed out full size. The thumbnails were images of mosaics in Hagia Sophia. I scanned them quickly. The only ones not clearly from Hagia Sophia were the two that had been blown up and the photo of Alek with Isabel.

The two photos she had printed out full size were the ones I’d left in the hotel room, which had been in the envelope. They must have meant something for Alek to have had them printed out. But what?

‘Can you tell me anything about these photos?’ Isabel pointed at the two prints.

I looked at them closely. ‘They’re not part of our project. That’s all I can say.’

She pulled one of the chairs forward and sat down.

‘OK, let’s go back to the beginning,’ she said. ‘Did your project include work in any excavations or tunnels under Hagia Sophia?’

‘No, not all.’ I was sitting opposite her, facing the sun.

‘Then why does this picture look like it was taken under- ground?’

‘I have no idea. Our project is about the mosaics that are on public view. And anyway, we did a lot of research on Hagia Sophia and there are no crypts under it, nothing like this.’ I pointed at the pictures. ‘There’s just a few drainage tunnels. No one has ever found mosaics under Hagia Sophia.’

‘So where were these photos taken?’

I didn’t have an answer.

She stretched her arms up high, as if she was warming up for a yoga session.

‘I think Alek must have gone off and done some exploring, Sean.’

‘He couldn’t have done it in Hagia Sophia. The place is guarded day and night. It’s a museum housing priceless treasures. Their security is tight.’

I took a sip of my coffee, placed the cup on the table and picked up one of the pictures. It was of a floor mosaic, a representation of a Madonna with child in dull blues and pale greens. The faded IH letters near the baby represented the word Jesus. It was a classic and beautiful image, an archetype of Christian art. There was a giant Virgin and Child wall painting in Hagia Sophia, which was like it.

‘Did Alek tell you anything about what he was up to? You were friends weren’t you?’

‘Yeah, we were, but he never said anything about this.’ I motioned at the pictures again. ‘What about you, did he tell you anything? This is a picture of you, isn’t it?’ I pointed at the thumbnail.

‘We went for lunch, Sean. The Consulate likes to keep itself informed about what’s happening in this city. He was a nice guy, but he hardly spoke about his work. And he never said anything about taking pictures anywhere else, before you ask.’

Why hadn’t Alek told me he’d met her, and about these odd photos? Was he planning to when he got back? Or was I being naïve?

‘I’m sure you have experts who’ve examined this already,’ I said, pointing at the picture in my hand. ‘What do they make of it?’

‘It’s an almost classic representation of the Virgin, so I’m told.’

‘What do you mean, almost?’

She moved towards me. I caught a faint lemony perfume smell.

‘Look at the Virgin’s dress. It should have gold stars. And the colours are wrong too. It needs expert examination.’

‘Your people know their stuff.’

‘But not enough,’ she said. ‘We don’t know where the photo was taken.’

She was holding something back though. I could feel it.

‘In a few weeks I might have an answer,’ I said. ‘My Institute has access to a lot of people. Maybe we can figure this one out.’

‘You don’t have to go to all that trouble,’ she said. ‘The greatest living expert on early Christian mosaics of the Virgin is an Orthodox priest. We’re going to contact him, find out what kind of mosaic this is, where it might be found.’

‘We’ll do our own investigation too.’

She looked at me coolly. ‘You’ll get a copy of these images, I promise, Sean, but not yet. They’re part of our evidence chain. Alek’s death was a serious criminal act. We think these pictures have something to do with it.’

I knew where this was going. I’d be lucky if they gave me a copy of these in six months. My best friend had been murdered, I’d been shot at, and I was about to be cut out of what was going to happen next. I felt anger bubbling up inside me.

‘Do your superiors know that Alek and you were close?’ It was a long shot, but it was worth a try.

‘You’ve got to be joking, right?’ Her smile was gone. Her expression was glacier-like now.

I’d met some officials in the last two years who’d tried to protect me, tell me as little as possible, whenever I’d asked about Irene’s death. I wasn’t going to accept all that this time.

‘I bet the British tabloids would love to find out that one of Her Majesty’s Consular officials had been involved with a guy who was beheaded. Wasn’t there a campaign to discredit the Foreign Office a while back for bungling? I’m sure there’s plenty of journalists who’d run with this story.’

She looked calm, unmoved by my anger.

‘Alek was a good friend, not just a colleague. I will find out what happened to him. I’m not going to walk away from this. Neither is my Institute. Not now. Not ever.’

She shook her head slowly, indicating I was heading the wrong way. I didn’t care.

‘We consulted with the Greek Orthodox community when we planned this project. So it won’t be hard to find this expert of yours and a few of our own.’ I reached for the photo of the mosaic and picked it up.

‘And I’m sure the Turkish media would love to know about our research material being confiscated, an important UNESCO project being interfered with by the British government.’

Now she pointed a finger at me.

‘I don’t like being threatened, Sean. But I’ll put it down to what happened last night, for your sake.’

‘You can put it down to whatever you like, after I tell the media about this.’ I waved the photo in front of her face.

We looked at each other. Her expression was a mask of grim determination.

‘Your Institute is involved in something it shouldn’t have been,’ she said.

‘You’re talking crap. And you know it. But I don’t care what lies you make up about us. This is too personal.’ An annoying jingle from what sounded like an early morning TV show came up from the apartment below.

I felt a slight breeze on my skin. It barely alleviated the rising heat.

‘You’re upset,’ she said. ‘I’ll see what I can do. But I’m not making any promises.’ She stood up and went inside.

I waited. It was getting hotter by the minute and it was still only 8:30.

I shifted my chair around. A thick pad of lined green paper lay discarded under the table. I imagined Isabel or her colleagues sitting here taking notes.

She had a frown on her face when she came back half an hour later. ‘You can come with me, if you want. Someone thinks it might be a good idea to have you along.’

She sat down opposite me.

‘When are you going?’

‘You’ll see.’

‘I love being kept in the dark.’

She spoke slowly. ‘I can show you this.’ She placed a netbook on the table in front of me. The sound of a car beeping angrily echoed from the street below.

She pointed at the screen.

On it was an English language version of a Turkish newspaper’s website. The top of the screen read ‘Zamiyete – Breaking News’ in big letters.

Below the banner there was a picture of the iconic dome of Hagia Sophia. The headline underneath read:

‘Greek Plot to Steal Hagia Sophia’s Treasures.’ I pulled the screen towards me. The article was about Alek.

It claimed that a shadowy group of Greek businessmen had been trying for years to penetrate the tight security at Hagia Sophia, and that the man whose decapitated body had been found in its grounds was connected to them. It claimed that man had been murdered by fundamentalists who wanted Hagia Sophia to become a mosque again, against Atatürk’s explicit wishes.

The man who’d died, the article went on to say, had used the cover of working on an official UNESCO project to conduct unauthorised electronic tests at Hagia Sophia.

The article also claimed that there’d been speculation in the Greek media that the Labarum of Constantine, a banner used to rally the first Roman Christian legions, was one of the artefacts being sought by the Greek businessmen.

‘I thought you said your little project wasn’t controversial?’ She sounded tired.

What concerned me though was what they were saying about Alek.

‘I don’t know anything about Greek businessmen. And we weren’t doing any unauthorised electronic tests. How can they make this stuff up and get it published?’

A horrible sense of déjà vu came over me. There’d been speculation in the press in London too, after Irene had died. Some stories had claimed that she’d been killed by friendly fire. It had been totally unsettling. It was one of the reasons I’d gone out there.

‘You think they made it all up?’ Her tone was sceptical. ‘You know nothing about this Labarum thing?’

Her arms were folded.

‘I didn’t say that.’ There was no point in denying it. ‘Alek told me all about Constantine military standard, the Labarum thing, as you call it. He claimed …’ I hesitated. The craziness of what Alek had said when he was alive seemed spookier now that he was dead.

‘He claimed …’ Was this how he’d be remembered?

‘Do go on,’ said Isabel.

I sighed. ‘Alek said the Labarum of Constantine would reappear at a time of great change.’

That was enough for her. She raised her hands in the air as if she didn’t want to hear any more.

I shrugged. I’d always been a cynic when it came to Alek’s crazy theories. This one was only a bit stupider than the rest.

‘If he’d found even a part of this banner of Constantine, it’d be worth a mint, right?’ she said.

‘Yeah, but he wasn’t looking for it.’

‘Why do you think they’re talking about it?’ she said.

‘It’s one of the legends of Hagia Sophia. That’s enough reason for them to write this stuff. Some people like stirring things up. It sells newspapers. But whatever they say, there’s no way the Institute was part of a search for the Labarum. And whatever you say about him, I honestly don’t think Alek was either. He would have told me. We should sue that newspaper.’

She shook her head. ‘Not a good idea, unless you like spending a lot of time in hot court rooms.’

‘Well, their story is full of crap.’

‘So where did Alek take this photograph?’ She tapped her finger against the print lying on the table.

‘Like I said, I’ve no idea.’

I shaded my eyes. The sun was way too hot already. My skin was burning.

Despite my insistence that Alek was innocent, I knew I had to consider that there was a chance, if even an outside one, that he might have become involved in something he hadn’t told me about. Sure, he valued his job, but what about all the weird stuff he used to go on about?

Had he spread his crazy ideas about Constantine’s Labarum? Had someone persuaded him to look for it?

Isabel gazed out at sea. Then she turned to me.

‘Why did you go to Afghanistan after your wife died?’

Someone had been digging about me. But it was a question I’d answered many times before. I put my hands on the table, palms downward.

‘I went to Afghanistan because the Institute I work for got permission from the Ministry of Education there to do an aerial survey.’

‘You’re telling me it was a coincidence? Your wife had died out there six months before; then you get to go out there. Come on Sean, I’m not stupid.’

I pressed my palms down on the table. I’d heard this response before too. ‘What would you do if your husband was murdered, and no one was ever caught for it, never mind punished, and the whole incident ended up almost forgotten?’ I was getting louder, but I couldn’t help it, ‘If the whole thing is brushed away as if it never happened?

Her voice was softer when she responded. ‘I heard you almost got yourself killed. That you were lucky to be deported.’

I stared out to sea. We sat in silence.

‘I’m not going to argue with you,’ I said.

What she’d said was all true. I’d managed to visit the nearest village to where Irene had been murdered by a roadside bomb. I’d ended up in a room with ten armed men and a nervous translator. I’d been hoping to find out which group had killed her. To get closure. Put a name to the bastards.

An American patrol was called in by a local guy. I was taken into custody, handcuffed, put on a plane out within seventy-two hours. They’d threatened to charge me too, but my visa to get into Afghanistan had been legitimate. I must have had ten people shouting in my face before the plane doors closed. I’d put lives at risk. I had to accept I shouldn’t have done it.

I’d also put my own life at risk. But I didn’t care about that. My parents were dead. My beautiful wife was dead. We had no children. Who the hell would care if I was history?

I was a hollow human robot with a ghost haunting it. All I did most days were tasks I cared nothing about.

And going out to Afghanistan hadn’t cured me. It had just created more problems.

The fact that the Institute was banned from Afghanistan for ten years was one of the reasons I’d had to accept that my role at the Institute was going to change. I had to get approval from Beresford-Ellis before I went off on any project now, no matter what I thought of him. It irritated me – I’d co-founded the place – but I couldn’t argue with the logic of it.

‘You’ve definitely stepped on someone’s toes this time too,’ she said, softly, after a minute had passed. ‘Hagia Sophia is a big deal here. The oldest copy of the Koran in the world is in Istanbul, a few minutes’ walk from it.’ She went to the balcony.

‘Are you ready?’ she said.

‘For what?’

‘We’re going.’ She shaded her eyes. She was looking along the coastline. A low-flying white helicopter was coming towards us. I watched it approach.

‘I’ve just realised,’ she said, turning towards me. ‘That’s an upside down V.’ She pointed at the top corner of the mosaic in Alek’s photo. ‘That could be the Greek letter lambda, our letter L.’

‘L, what does that stand for?’

‘It could stand for Luna, the goddess of the moon. Maybe this isn’t Christian after all.’ She laughed, grabbed the photos off the table. She had a high-pitched laugh.

Her laughter was drowned out by the roar of the helicopter. It was almost level with us now.

‘It’s a bit noisy, isn’t it?’ she shouted in my ear.

The helicopter descended towards a patch of grass in front of the building, between the sea and the road.

‘Where are we going?’ I said.

‘To meet that expert I told you about.’

‘Is this the way you always travel?’ I shouted.

‘No, only when people’s lives are in danger.’