never return to Turkey. You are persona non grata here. You will leave, taking with you all of the personal belongings you brought in with you. You will leave and you will not return for any reason."
"That suits me."
"I hoped it would." He stood up, dismissing me, and Mustafa led me toward the door.
"A moment—"
I turned.
"Tell me one thing," he said. "Precisely what is the Flat Earth Society of England?"
"It's worldwide, really. Not limited to England, although it was organized there and has most of its members there."
"But what is it?"
"A group of people who believe the earth is flat, rather than round. The society is devoted to propagating this belief and winning converts to this way of thinking."
He stared at me. I stared back.
"Flat," he said. "Are these people crazy?"
"No more than you or I."
I left him with that to contemplate. Mustafa led me to a rudimentary bathroom and stood outside while I washed an impressive amount of filth from my body. When I got out of the shower he handed me my suitcase. I put on clean clothes and closed my suitcase. I tied my dirty clothing into a fetid bundle—shoes and socks and all—and passed the reeking mess to Mustafa. He was not an overly clean man himself, but he took a step backward at once.
"In the name of peace and friendship and the International Brotherhood of Stentaphators, I present this clothing as a gift and tribute unto the great Republic of Turkey."
"I don't speak English," Mustafa lied.
"What the hell does that mean?" I demanded. "Oh, the devil with you."
We stopped at the clerk's desk. I was given back my belt, my necktie, my shoelaces, my pocket comb, my wallet, and my watch. Mustafa took my passport and tucked it away in a pocket. I asked him for it, and he grinned and told me he didn't speak English.
We left the building. The sun was absolutely blinding. My eyes were unequal to it. I wondered if Mustafa would consider dropping his pose of not speaking English. We would have a long flight together. Would he want to pass the whole trip in stony silence?
I decided that I could probably get him to talk, but that it might be better if I didn't. A silent Mustafa could well be more bearable than a talkative one, especially since I would be able to pick up some paperbacks to read on the plane. And I did seem to have an advantage. He spoke English and didn't know I knew it. I spoke Turkish, and he didn't know that, either. Why give up that sort of edge?
We walked along toward a 1953 Chevrolet, its fenders crippled, its body riddled with rust. We sat in back, and Mustafa told the driver to take us to the airport. He leaned forward, and I heard him tell the driver that I was a very deceptive spy from the United States of America and that I was emphatically not to be trusted.
They all see too many James Bond movies. They expect spies everywhere and overlook the profit motive entirely. A spy? It was the last thing on earth I would ever become. I had no intentions of spying for or against Turkey or anyone else.
I had come, quite simply, so that I could steal approximately three million dollars in gold.
C hapter 2
I t had begun some months before in Manhattan at the junction of three streams—a job, a girl, and a most noble lost cause. The job involved preparation of a thesis that would win Brian Cudahy a master's degree in history from Columbia University. The girl was Kitty Bazerian, who rolls her belly in Chelsea nightclubs as Alexandra the Great. The noble lost cause, one of the noblest, one of the most utterly lost, was the League for the Restoration of Cilician Armenia.
I first saw Brian Cudahy on a Saturday morning. My mail had just arrived, and I was sitting in my living room sorting it. I receive a tremendous amount of mail. I'm on hundreds of mailing lists and I subscribe to a great many periodicals, and my mail carrier detests me. I live on 107th Street a few doors west of Broadway. My neighbors are transients and addicts and students and
"That suits me."
"I hoped it would." He stood up, dismissing me, and Mustafa led me toward the door.
"A moment—"
I turned.
"Tell me one thing," he said. "Precisely what is the Flat Earth Society of England?"
"It's worldwide, really. Not limited to England, although it was organized there and has most of its members there."
"But what is it?"
"A group of people who believe the earth is flat, rather than round. The society is devoted to propagating this belief and winning converts to this way of thinking."
He stared at me. I stared back.
"Flat," he said. "Are these people crazy?"
"No more than you or I."
I left him with that to contemplate. Mustafa led me to a rudimentary bathroom and stood outside while I washed an impressive amount of filth from my body. When I got out of the shower he handed me my suitcase. I put on clean clothes and closed my suitcase. I tied my dirty clothing into a fetid bundle—shoes and socks and all—and passed the reeking mess to Mustafa. He was not an overly clean man himself, but he took a step backward at once.
"In the name of peace and friendship and the International Brotherhood of Stentaphators, I present this clothing as a gift and tribute unto the great Republic of Turkey."
"I don't speak English," Mustafa lied.
"What the hell does that mean?" I demanded. "Oh, the devil with you."
We stopped at the clerk's desk. I was given back my belt, my necktie, my shoelaces, my pocket comb, my wallet, and my watch. Mustafa took my passport and tucked it away in a pocket. I asked him for it, and he grinned and told me he didn't speak English.
We left the building. The sun was absolutely blinding. My eyes were unequal to it. I wondered if Mustafa would consider dropping his pose of not speaking English. We would have a long flight together. Would he want to pass the whole trip in stony silence?
I decided that I could probably get him to talk, but that it might be better if I didn't. A silent Mustafa could well be more bearable than a talkative one, especially since I would be able to pick up some paperbacks to read on the plane. And I did seem to have an advantage. He spoke English and didn't know I knew it. I spoke Turkish, and he didn't know that, either. Why give up that sort of edge?
We walked along toward a 1953 Chevrolet, its fenders crippled, its body riddled with rust. We sat in back, and Mustafa told the driver to take us to the airport. He leaned forward, and I heard him tell the driver that I was a very deceptive spy from the United States of America and that I was emphatically not to be trusted.
They all see too many James Bond movies. They expect spies everywhere and overlook the profit motive entirely. A spy? It was the last thing on earth I would ever become. I had no intentions of spying for or against Turkey or anyone else.
I had come, quite simply, so that I could steal approximately three million dollars in gold.
C hapter 2
I t had begun some months before in Manhattan at the junction of three streams—a job, a girl, and a most noble lost cause. The job involved preparation of a thesis that would win Brian Cudahy a master's degree in history from Columbia University. The girl was Kitty Bazerian, who rolls her belly in Chelsea nightclubs as Alexandra the Great. The noble lost cause, one of the noblest, one of the most utterly lost, was the League for the Restoration of Cilician Armenia.
I first saw Brian Cudahy on a Saturday morning. My mail had just arrived, and I was sitting in my living room sorting it. I receive a tremendous amount of mail. I'm on hundreds of mailing lists and I subscribe to a great many periodicals, and my mail carrier detests me. I live on 107th Street a few doors west of Broadway. My neighbors are transients and addicts and students and
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