PROLOGUE

Ankara – December 21, 1942

When he saw Hans Wehr slumped dead in his car, the blood still running down his forehead, Hassan knew he had to act fast. He slipped into the apartment through a back window and quickly walked to the study. The German diplomat had been a good man, thought Hassan, but now he was dead and there was no point in the money ending up in the pocket of some overfed, greedy Turkish policeman.

He went straight to the desk and felt underneath for the lever that opened the secret drawer. Hassan’s hand hit on a small piece of wood. He fiddled with it and a panel dropped open. He stuck his hand as far as it would go and pulled out a wad of British pounds and a sack of gold coins. With a smile he shoved the panel back in place and stood up.

Hassan’s eyes traveled over the wall of framed pictures that showed the attaché’s beloved Bavaria and his even more beloved Fuhrer. Wehr had been at the German Embassy in Ankara for nearly a year and he never stopped talking about the wonders of the Fatherland. When he hired Hassan he remarked that with hard work and the right connections, perhaps one day the glories of the Third Reich would extend over Turkey as well.

Hassan walked over to the bookcase and ran his hand across a row of books. Wehr’s passion had been the theater and he had told Hassan the leather-bound books stamped in gold contained the works of Germany’s greatest playwrights and poets. Hassan could barely read Turkish -– where he came from schools were few and work more important than learning — but he loved the way the books looked lined up neatly on the shelves.

Hassan’s eye was caught by one book, bigger than the rest and ready to topple off the shelf. It was so unlike Wehr to be careless with his books. Hassan pulled the book off the shelf and looked admiringly at the cover. The rich burgundy leather was encrusted with shiny pieces of crystal. Hassan opened it and was surprised to see the Arabic lettering he knew so well. He did not think Wehr was the sort of man to have a Koran in his bookshelf. With a sigh Hassan slipped the book back in place. It seemed unfair that a gavur who owned the holy book should be murdered so callously. Hassan paused and turned back to the bookcase. He reached for the book and dropped it in his bag. After all, what did Wehr need with the Koran now? And, thought Hassan, opening the apartment’s back door, it was better that such a holy book not fall into the hands of the heathen Turkish police.

By the time the neighbor’s husband had gone out an hour later to buy a loaf of bread, discovered Wehr dead in his car and called the police, Hassan was already on a bus to his village in southeast Turkey. He had decided to give his family the Koran and make arrangements to take his uncle’s 15-year-old daughter as his second wife. Fondling the gold, he figured he had enough money to keep his first wife satisfied and, he grinned, enough vitality for the second.

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