Stopping World War Three Read online

  He led me to a black car opening the door and motioning me into the back seat after which he placed my suitcase in the boot.

  ‘Never been here before, eh?’ he repeated. ‘Well you have some Turkish delights ahead of you. Perhaps I ought to tell you a few things about the place... other than the belly-dancing at the leading nightclubs. You can get a boat trip along the Bosphorus which is really the best way to see the city. No hustle, no bustle! The passenger ferries zig-zag all the way along the coast. The old imperial centre of Stamboul is a colourful place where you can find many of the main sightseeing attractions. The Ottoman Topkapi Palace and archaeological museums, the Sultan Ahmet mosque, the Blue mosque, amd Aya Sofya, the Byzantine church. The area is also famous for its covered bazaar... the world’s biggest bazaar. Nearly five thousand shops covering ninety-two streets. If you get fed up with the minarets and mosques, you can always visit the sixteenth century tiled baths on Itfaiye Caddesi.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I replied with little enthusiasm. I had business to attend to in the city... there would be no time for sightseeing!

  ‘You may be interested to learn that they elected Turkey’s first woman Prime Minister way back... Tansu Ciller... an American trained economist. The whole economy’s gone screwy over the last twenty years. Crazy! Too much influence from the West. The government freed foreign exchange controls, floated the Turkish lira, reformed tax, and introduce Value Added Tax which I can tell you didn’t go down very well. Then they liberalised banking and started to privatise everything. Inflation’s gone mad... absolutely mad! Unfortunately, seven of the ten top companies are still owned by the government and they’re very inefficient. But... we survive!’

  ‘Fascinating!’ I returned, trying not to show my disinterest in his commentary.

  ‘I’ve arranged for you to stay at the Istanbul Sheraton at Taksim. You’ll like it there... it’s a really good hotel. The other bridge players are staying there too. They told me you play bridge. Practically everyone’s a Muslim here and the religion forbids gambling. Playing cards are considered to be so. Only foreigners are allowed to play roulette or cards. It seems crazy that someone has arranged for Istanbul to be the venue of an international bridge tournament. But then everyone in the world is mad except for you and me... and I’m not sure about you.’ He burst out laughing at his own joke.

  ‘Who’s paying for your service, Turgut?’

  ‘I told you. They paid the fees straight into my back account. Some company called Dandy Advanced Electronics. Do you work for them?’

  It was a clever move by someone wishing to hide their tracks. They had contact Turgut pretending to be Dandy Advanced Electronics and had paid him directly by remitting cash into his back account. It was a means by which the 21st Century Crusaders could make the payment and remain undetected. As far as Turgut was concerned, he had been given an assignment and had been paid in advance. Any other details were of no consequence to him whatsoever!

  ***

  It took us over half-an-hour to reach the hotel. Turgut was right... it was first-class. He took my suitcase to the reception desk, put it down, and stared at me flashing his white teeth.

  ‘Well thanks for the ride,’ I told him gratefully. ‘You’ve done your part. No doubt we shall meet at some time again.’ 236

  His face registered surprise. ‘You don’t understand,’ he explained. ‘The arrangement was for me to look after you all the time while you are in Turkey. I have to do many things for you.’

  ‘What else have you got to do?’

  ‘I was asked not to discuss details. I shall wait for you in the hotel lounge until you’re ready to leave My job is to be your chauffeur and guide at all times. That’s what I was paid for.’

  I snorted with frustration and collected my room key at reception before taking the lift to the fourth floor. The arrangement was for him to do many things for me. What did he mean by that? I shrugged my shoulders as I reached the door of my room. Turning the key in the lock, I entered and laid my suitcase on the bed. Before I could undo the zip, however, I had an uncanny feeling that someone else was in the room. I heard a slight rustle behind me and turned slowly to face a man wearing a white jacket whom I presumed was a waiter working in the hotel.

  ‘I don’t need anything at the moment,’ I stated clearly, feeling somewhat uncomfortable by his presence. His eyes blazed as he took a deep breath and then produce a knife with a curved blade from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ I challenged with fear welling up inside me. 237

  He released a sharp sound, which could be described only as something between a battle-cry and a muffled scream, and charged at me with his arm raised, intending to bury the blade into a vital part of my body. The blood drained to my legs as fear raged through me rampantly. Who was this assassin? Why did he want to kill me? It was then I recalled the note placed under my door at home. ‘Don’t fly to Turkey if you value your life. Don’t fly to Turkey if you value your wife!’ Now was the moment it started to fall into place. Someone had paid this man to kill me. But why? I was listed as an international bridge player not as a political spy! Then the adrenalin pumped into my veins and I jerked into action. At first, I kept retreating backwards across the room as he made his way slashing the space in front of me. On occasion, the blade missed me by only a few centimetres; at other times he was wide of the mark. Fortunately, his lack of accuracy proved that he was not a professional assassin or I would not have lasted very long. After a number of near misses, I managed to seize his arm and attempted to force him to drop the weapon, but he surprised me with a vicious kick to my abdomen, causing me to retreat clutching my stomach in agony.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ I shouted. ‘Why are you doing this? Who paid you to kill me?’ His eyelids flickered as I spoke but I doubted whether he spoke English. ‘Look... you’ve got to stop this nonsense! Do you understand?’

  He hesitated for a few moments trying to interpret my words which gave me time to stand up straight and remove my wallet, flicking it open to show a wad of Turkish lira. He seemed surprised by my actions in the middle of a fight to the death and paused for a moment to consider how he could benefit from my generosity. Then it occurred to him that if he killed me he could have all the money anyway so he decided to continue with his assignment. With a sudden thrust forward, he lunged at me with the knife. I caught hold of his arm forcing it upwards which had the effect of keeping the blade from doing me any damage. He struggled for a short while as I increased the pressure on his arm trying to compel him to drop the weapon. He soon realised that he was going to lose the contest for he was unequal to me in a wrestling match. Only five feet two inches in height, it was his misfortune to give me the benefit of some thirty pounds in weight. The only advantages on his side were the weapon and the element of surp- rise... the latter of which had now been lost. He still maintained his hold on the knife but after establishing my superiority I turned his arm sharply and thrust him forward intending to push his body into the settee in front of the window. However he broke away from my grip and stepped back a couple of paces to put some space between us. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that the maid had left an aerosol can of mosquito repellent on the coffee table. In an instant, I gathered the canister with one scoop, pointed the nozzle at the face of my assailant, and pressed the button firmly. A jet of spray squirted out at tremendous speed directly into the other man’s eyes. He stepped back sharply clutching his face, and stepped on to the settee which tipped over so that he fell backwards with great force. Before I could do anything to prevent it, he had fallen through the window which shattered on impact and sailing through the opening yelling at the top of his voice. There were screams from below and I hurried to the opening, staring past the jagged slivers, expecting to find the man laying dead on a mass of concrete. Instead I could see that he had landed in a swimming pool making his escape under cover
of the hotel guests lazing in the sun. I sighed with relief that the man was still alive. I may have been obstinate in many of my views but the last thing I wanted to do was to kill someone. It was a blessing in disguise as well for the police would not be involved and there would be no investigation. He had got away scot free. Had he been caught he would almost certain have come up with the same story as Turgut... that he had been employed by a telephone call and the fees had been paid directly into his bank account! The hotel would believe that a robber, in the guise of a waiter, had broken into the room, jumping out of the window when he was discovered and trapped. Drastic measures for crisis situations. No one had known about my visit to Turkey for any other reason than to play bridge... except Schmuel Musaphia. Why then should anyone be waiting here to kill me? I recalled that it was the second time death had come close to me after meeting the old man. The first time had been the incident with the black car which tried to ram Penny and me. Perhaps it was advisable to avoid the octagenarian in the future if I wanted to enjoy a longer life. Of course, Turgut knew of my arrival. Perhaps he had something to do with the attack but such speculation was merely grasping at straws.

  Suddenly, all hell broke loose. People started shouting in Turkish, French and German in the corridor. After brushing down my jacket I let them in, explaining to the hotel manager that a burglar had been hiding in my room. He was appalled that such a thing had happened at his hotel and ushered everyone out before making profuse apologies. Without delay, he contacted the reception desk to make new arrangements. Ultimately, I found myself being led to a different room with a page-boy carrying my suitcase. By this time, Turgut had heard the news and came looking for me.

  ‘Tell me,’ he whispered with concern as we walked along the corridor. ‘What are we into here? Why should anyone be in your room trying to kill you. This isn’t the kind of hotel that has that sort of reputation. Have you done something very bad?’

  I smile at him having stopped my limbs from shaking. ‘Turgut, it would be helpful if someone told me what was going on. I don’t suppose for a moment you’d admit to having a hand in it.’

  ‘Me?’ His black eyes widened like saucers. ‘What do you take me for? I’m a simple guide in Istanbul. I never get involved in the affairs of my clients. Why should I? There’s no gain in it for me. In any case, how would I know the number of the room allocated to you?’

  He convinced me with his final comment but I was unwilling to concede my suspicion to him. ‘I don’t think that’s a problem,’ I went on easily. ‘Money can make all kinds of things happen. Anyone can bribe a desk clerk to reserve a certain room for a client. And it would be easy to make certain that an assailant was waiting there beforehand.’

  ‘I don’t do things like that, Mr. Scott,’ he bleated adamantly. ‘I like to sleep at night with a clear conscience.’ His white teeth flashed showing the gold filling and he left me to go back to the hotel lounge.

  I shortly discovered which maid had cleaned the room I had just vacated and handed her a handsome tip. She was confused by my gesture but she would never know how grateful I was that she had left that aerosol can of mosquito repellent in the room. Had she not done so, I might have been in very serious trouble... or extremely dead!

  When everyone had left, I closed the door and crept into the bathroom after looking in the wardrobe and under the bed. Paran- oia was becoming rampant but I had no need to fear for I was completely alone. I telephoned the hotel restaurant, ordering some sandwiches, fruit and coffee to be sent to my new room. Time was speeding along and I wanted to visit the Mahdi as soon as possible. Ten minutes later there was a knock on the door and I admitted a waiter wheeling a trolley with my sandwiches, fruit and coffee. He picked up a knife and I froze like a block of ice. Surely it wasn’t another man with a contract to kill me! He stared at me with a menacing look in his eyes.

  ‘If you wish,’ he said meekly, ‘I will peel the fruit for you.’

  I breathed a sigh of relief, took the knife from his hand, pressed a few lira into his pocket, and ushered him out of the room. I had had enough of knives and waiters for one day!

  ***

  I ate lunch reading the notes I had written in a book in my study at home. The Mahdi, which meant the divinely guided one in Arabic, was the term for a messianic deliverer able to fill the Earth with justice and equity. He would restore true religion and herald a short golden age lasting between seven and nine years. Thereafter the world would end. One could almost say the same about Hitler. He claimed to be a kind of Mahdi although the Reich he predicted was supposed to last for a thousand years. However it ended within a very short time. He became President and Director of Germany in 1932 but his plans did not really come to fruition until 1936. By mid-1945 his world had ended. Yet the Islam religion was in contradiction with regard to a divine deliverer. The sacred scriptures of Islam, the Quran, failed to mention anything about a Mahdi, nor did the Hadith, the sayings attributed to the Prophet Mohammed. It was the Shias who introduced the idea while the Sunnis continued to question such beliefs. The Shias saw the Mahdi as a restorer of political power and the religious purity of Islam. The doctrine appears to have gained ground during the confusion and insecurity of the religious and political upheavals of earlier times. The leaders of a revolt on non-Arab Muslims in Iraq in the seventh century used the doctrine in respect of Mohammed’s son-in-law. It was claimed that his body remained alive in the tomb in a state of occulation and would reappear to vanquish his enemies. The body was supposed to rise and return to the world carrying a black banner. Every time a crisis arose in history, The Mahdi tended to receive new emphasis. After the battle of Las Navas de Tolosa in 1212, when Islam lost most of Spain, Muslims circulated prophesies ascribed to Mohammed foretelling a re-conquest of Spain by the Mahdi. Over the centuries, the title was claimed by a number of social revolutionaries in the Islamic world. During Napoleon’s invasion of Egypt, someone claiming to be the Mahdi appeared for a while in Lower Egypt North Africa has seen many self-styled Mahdis including the found of the Fatimid dynasty, which encompassed the Almohad movement in Morocco. There was also the Mahdi of Sudan who besieged General Gordon in 1881 and overthrew Egyptian power in the Sudan. In essence, the Mahdi is a complete myth devised by human-beings for their own use. It ws similar to the analogy of the large vicious-looking dog whose owner told a stranger that the animal was harmless. ‘I know that and you know that,’ replied the stranger, ‘but does the dog know it?’ The situation with the Mahdi was no different. He was the divinely guided one , to administer justice and restore religion. I knew that, everyone else knew that, but did the Mahdi know it? History had often proved otherwise!

  ***

  After lunch, I pocketed my second passport to become Mushtaq Hussein and went to the hotel lounge to find Turgut.

  ‘I want to go to this address,’ I told him, showing him the information that Schmuel Musaphia had given me at the Dorchester Hotel.

  ‘Ah,’ he responded hesitantly. ‘That’s one of the things I’ve been asked to arrange. That address is incorrect. I have a new one for you.’

  ‘A new one?’

  ‘Yes... they’ve probably done it for security reasons... in case someone steals the information from you on the way here. Had they stolen it, they would have the wrong address.’ He led me out of the hotel lounge to the car park and we got back into the vehicle. ‘We have to travel to the old section of Istanbul. The walled city.’ He started the engine and drove off. ‘We leave this modern part, cross the Golden Horn on the Galata Bridge, and enter that part of the city which is still fairly free of bulldozers, although it won’t be long before the developers get their way. The address I have is in the Stamboul section... a place where time seems to have stood still for centuries.

  It was only a short distance away from our destination when he stopped the vehicle just a few hundred yards past the Column of Arcadius. He pointed ahead with the index
finger of his right hand. ‘If you go down that street, you’ll find it’s the third house on the right. I daren’t drive you to the door. There are thousand of watching eyes around here.’

  I got out of the car and walked down the street with an uneasy feeling in my bones. This was yet another horrendous venture into the unknown, only this time I was carrying a false passport, using a false name, and assuming an identity in relation to a religion of which I knew so little. I reached the third house on the right. It wasn’t as miserable as Menel’s house in Jaffa but it came very close. There was a small knocker on the door which I use forcefully to be shortly welcomed by a man in Western clothes.

  ‘I’ve come to interview Mustapha Ozal,’ I announced bravely. ‘I’m Mushtaq Hussein from Britain.’

  He bade me enter with a sweep of his hand but as soon as I had crossed the threshold he placed a hand on my shoulder preventing me from going further. Before I could speak, he ran his hands over my body and down my legs checking that I was carrying no weapons.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said insincerely in a clipped English accent. ‘It’s just a formality. We all have a multitude of tasks to perform in these troubled times. One of them is security. One can never be too careful. Please come with me.’ I followed him down a short passage which had a number of doors. He opened one of them and ushered me inside. ‘You’ll be called shortly,’ he said, closing the door behind him, leaving me alone in the room.

  I sat down on a modern chair and look around. There were three comfortable chairs and a round table made of mahogany. On a coffee-table lay a miscellany of Turkish newspapers and magazines. A few pictures adorned the walls but some were surrealistic and beyond my comprehension. In the far corner, on a small desk sat a computer and monitor. I had imagined that the man and the place was going to be mystical and strange. I was wrong! After five minutes had passed, just as my nerves were becoming frayed as a result of my deception, the door opened and a man of medium height, dressed in a dark blue suit, entered the room.