The Star of Istanbul

45

My hand was on the Mauser. I rose and quickly put on my suit coat and placed the pistol in the right-hand flap pocket, tucking the flap inside. As I crossed to the door, I thought to touch the bandage on my left cheek. It was secure. I could never show my Schmiss as Brauer.

I slid the chain lock from its track and let it fall. I opened the door.

He was not Turkish.

That was good.

What struck me was this: he could have been Hansen’s colleague at the embassy. He could have been Hansen’s cousin from Topeka. He had the same sack suit and the same dirty gold hair and, from the first moment on, he had the same steady look of a professional in a trade that he didn’t want to talk about.

But he spoke to me in German. “Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning,” I said in my best German.

He nodded.

And he waited.

But it took me only a brief moment to realize what for. “Gutenberg,” I said. The password from the coded Nuttall instructions.

He smiled. “Mr. Brauer,” he said.

I brought an empty hand from my Mauser pocket, with the option of a quick return.

He took my hand and pumped it as if the last time he’d been to this well it was dry. “Colonel Martin Ströder,” he said.

He didn’t look old enough to be a colonel, though I didn’t doubt him. He started young, was well connected, had some special, dirty talent.

He knew Brauer’s name—my name — and I replied only with a nod.

He said, “Your room would be good for speaking. Perhaps the balcony.”

I stepped to the side.

He came in and closed the door himself and slipped the security chain into place.

With seeming casualness I put my hand back in my pocket.

In the process of his turning around from the door, he gave the room a quick, efficient once-over.

This was either a precautionary reflex or a preparation for a bad intention. I slipped my hand around the grip and put my thumb on the safety.

He smiled at me. “They have put you in a nice place,” he said.

“I am sure it is for the sake of the woman,” I said.

He nodded an ain’t-it-the-truth little nod.

“So,” he said. “Let’s talk briefly.”

He led the way to the balcony.

Either that suggestion had to do with privacy or he planned to throw me over the railing.

I kept my hand in my pocket as we stepped outside.

There were two metal sidewalk café chairs. He sat in one and crossed his leg.

I pulled my hand out of my pocket and I sat on the other chair.

Ströder said, “I am an aide-de-camp of War Minister Enver Pasha.”

Enver had spent time as the Ottoman Empire’s military attaché in Berlin, and he spoke the language fluently. He was keeping his friends close even here. Ströder no doubt got a carefully stage-managed view of things. I understood the Germans’ impulse: they could well use Selene’s pillow talk.

“The plan has changed,” he said. “Enver Pasha is preoccupied. The Italians are negotiating with our enemies to enter the war. This is an imminent thing, if in fact it has not been agreed to already.”

He paused.

I said, “What does this mean for the woman?”

“The Pasha is very ardent about her.”

I knew that when the Turk’s feelings for Selene came up, I’d need to keep my face blank. I struggled now to do that.

The colonel went on, “But we must wait. Perhaps day after tomorrow.”

“I see.”

Though I did see that this was plausible, what I also saw was the more likely possibility that they were waiting for Der Wolf. The good Herr Gutenberg would perhaps hold off any suspicions about Brauer for the time being, but I didn’t know for how long. If things were unsettled in this whole affair, Der Wolf might want to consult with their agent closest to the woman before going ahead.

“Why are you bandaged?” Ströder asked. Abruptly. As if he were trying to make me reveal something. But he had no reason to be suspicious of what might be beneath my bandage. And if he doubted me at all, this would certainly not be his opening shot.

“Didn’t you know?” I said. “I was on the Lusitania.”

He straightened in unfeigned surprise.

I said, “Our U-boat captains were too efficient in this case.”

Ströder shook his head. “You saved the woman?”

I made a short, sharp laugh. “Have they told you about the man interfering with us?”

“Cobb?”

“Yes.”

“They say he is an American agent.”

“He saved her,” I said.

“Cobb?”

“Yes.”

“Was she compromised?”

“She left him at the first opportunity in Queenstown,” I said. “To my knowledge they had little or no contact on board. He must have sought her out when it was clear the ship would sink. To try to take advantage.”

Ströder, who had been sitting upright since his surprise, relaxed back into the chair. “This man,” he said. “I have respect for him as a foe. For him to have the presence of mind to think of his mission in such a circumstance.”

This was interesting to me, of course: the respect among the officer class of civilized fighting forces for their enemy counterparts. It was certain that Colonel Ströder himself had a spying mission. Cobb was his personal, respected foe.

I was.

“He’s a killer,” I said.

Ströder puffed faintly and nodded once. More respect. Of course he was a killer.

I said, “Is Cobb in Istanbul?”

“I do not know.”

I was about to say, Look, he could come after me. These words shaped themselves in my mouth instantly. The Walter Brauer I was portraying would have this worry. But I stopped myself. I did not want Ströder to get it in his head to give me a guard.

But I wanted to know more about Der Wolf.

I said, “I understand we have someone on the way to take care of Mr. Cobb.”

At this Ströder focused his eyes a bit more closely upon mine. He wasn’t sure I was supposed to know this.

“Herr Horst gave me the alert in Berlin,” I said.

Ströder let his eyes go casual as he nodded.

I said, “Have you met The Wolf?”

Ströder shrugged. “No one has,” he said. And he laughed.

It was a joke he expected me to get. I had to be careful what I asked. I didn’t know what exactly to make of the comment. Did it mean that Der Wolf was unlikely to have met Brauer or that he could have met him and Brauer didn’t realize who he was?

I said, “I wonder if he and Cobb have tangled before.”

Ströder shrugged. He didn’t know. “It would be very interesting,” he said.

“Very interesting,” I said.

And now Ströder rose from his chair.

I did likewise, even as he turned and stepped through the French windows.

He was halfway across the room when he stopped and began abruptly to turn to me.

My right hand went instantly into my pocket, clutched the grip, thumbed the safety, put my forefinger onto the trigger, and Ströder was facing me, taking a step toward me. My right arm started to flex.

But he opened his palms to me.

“I almost forgot,” Ströder said. “Enver Pasha said he was looking forward to seeing you again.”