Letter from a Stranger. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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to Yorkshire, in the north of England. But why do you ask?’
‘Because there are many foreign consulates here. Often foreign residents visit their consulates just to say hello, leave their names for future reference. Or for social events the consulate might give. There are also other organizations that foreign residents can join. I could make enquiries.’
‘Thanks, Iffet, that’s great, and I have a couple of ideas myself. My grandmother seems to have past connections to Turkey, buying ceramics, antiquities and carpets for a showroom in New York which she and my father ran. They sold to interior designers. I was wondering if you knew any dealers… one of them could have known Gran, might still know her.’
A dark brow lifted, and Iffet asked, ‘What kind of carpets? Kilims?’
Justine shook her head. ‘No, not kilims – they were woven silk carpets from Hereke.’
‘This is a good thought of yours, Justine,’ Iffet said, sounding enthusiastic. ‘I know one excellent carpet dealer; we could go to the shop whenever you want. It’s not far from here.’
‘Let’s do that. But here’s my other idea, and I know you’ll be able to help. Last night I was watching television, going to different news stations. When I clicked onto the network I work with, Cable News International, I was taken aback when I saw my own face. I couldn’t believe it. There I was on Turkish television. The network had made a promo for my new documentary. That’s what gave me the idea – to be interviewed on a local show. Anita or Gran might just happen to see me.’
The worried expression on Iffet’s face had dissolved and she was smiling. ‘Brilliant. I can arrange a television interview. What about a newspaper story? We have a Turkish daily newspaper called Zaman Daily English. I can phone them.’
‘You’ve brightened my day, given me hope!’ Justine exclaimed, a smile lighting up her face. ‘Let’s forget about the Spice Market today, head for the carpet shop instead.’
‘We’re going to Punto,’ Iffet explained. ‘It’s close to the Grand Bazaar over there. It won’t take long.’ Five minutes later she was ushering Justine down a narrow street and through a heavy wooden door which stood open. ‘The carpet dealer is located in this han. It is called the Vezir Han.’
‘What’s a han?’ Justine asked, always curious about everything.
‘A han is a big courtyard with several buildings around it, and originally, centuries ago, the han provided accommodation for travellers, their pack animals, plus their wares. At night the heavy door was locked for safety. Today these courtyards house workshops, and there are many of them all over Istanbul. Now, we must go around this corner and we will be there.’
A moment later, Iffet was leading her into a small, ancient shop called Punto. As they entered a young man came forward, smiling broadly. He bowed to Iffet, shook her hand, still smiling, and Iffet introduced him as Kemal, youngest son of the owner. After shaking Justine’s hand he immediately led them down a flight of steps, and Iffet said in a low voice, ‘He’s taking us to the private room reserved for special customers.’
‘I’m not a customer,’ Justine whispered back.
‘I know. And he knows we are mostly seeking information about Gabriele Hardwicke. I told him on the phone. He wants this to be done in private, and you will be shown rugs, as a matter of courtesy.’
‘I understand,’ Justine responded.
Kemal led them to a banquette, and said in English, ‘Please be seated, ladies. Comfortable, yes?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ Iffet said, also speaking English. She then reverted to Turkish for a moment or two. Justine guessed she was explaining things to him. Kemal nodded, and disappeared, hurrying across the showroom, entering an office.
Turning to Iffet sitting next to her, Justine asked, ‘What did you tell him?’
‘I asked him if he could telephone his father, who is not here today, to enquire if he knows your grandmother. And then I spelled her name for him. He is sending out an assistant called Mustafa, who is going to show us some of the best Hereke silk carpets, and later a weaver will demonstrate how she works on a loom. I hope you don’t mind, but we must show politeness.’
‘I understand, and I don’t mind at all.’
Mustafa arrived, introduced himself, shook their hands, bowed, and then brought out the first carpet. It was beautiful, as were the next two, but when he presented the fourth, throwing it down and pulling it across the floor, Justine caught her breath in surprise. It was a mixture of various blues, on a deeper blue background, and it was gorgeous, that was the only word to describe it.
‘It’s breathtaking!’ she exclaimed to Iffet, and smiled up at Mustafa. ‘I’ve never seen such a wonderful carpet,’ she said, and it was obvious she meant this.
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