(Photo: BBC.co.uk)

But then, Kaufman winced, the company’s representative in Algeria was shot dead by Islamic militants the same day that Kaufman arrived in London. The project was over before it even started. Lichtmann & Paneth was very displeased about stopping work on a deal that promised many billable hours. The partner in charge expressed his frustration by blaming the world in general and Kaufman in particular for the rise of religious radicalism.

Kaufman was unceremoniously shoved on the next plane to New York. His biggest project to date had been the contract for a Hungarian company that wanted to build a plant to recycle cow manure in Bulgaria.

To think that thanks to Algeria he had been reading about cow shit for months. He looked out the window at the Bosphorus. This was his chance. It was bound to be simple. A few official meetings, a few fish restaurants, maybe a boat trip on the Bosphorus, a dash through the Grand Bazaar and his work would be done. Markiz International would be happy, Lichtmann & Paneth would be thrilled and maybe, just maybe, everyone would forget that he had been part of the ill-fated Algerian contract.

The driver had turned down the static and raised his voice, breaking into Kaufman’s thoughts.

“We are now in very important place. Sultanahmet. Old home of the Sultans. When Turkey was big, big power. We will be big again, but we have many enemies.” The taxi driver’s voice dropped sadly. “I love America, but why do you help our enemies?”

“Enemies?” Kaufman looked quizzically at the back of the driver’s head. “America is Turkey’s strongest supporter,” he said. “We sell you arms, give you money.”

“Yes, but you also help the terrorists. We know you want to build a Kurdish state in north Iraq.”

Kaufman tried to remember what was happening in north Iraq.

“Why would we want a Kurdish state?” He asked cautiously, not sure that he really wanted to further the discussion.

“To keep Turkey weak. Otherwise, we will be superpower like America and America is afraid of a superpower Turkey. What you think? Is America afraid of Turkey?”

“Well,” Kaufman paused, “I don’t really think so, but of course I’m not in the government.”

“You see.” The driver sounded triumphant, pulling the taxi to a stop near a turn-of-the-century building painted in pale green and cream. “Your government hides the truth because it know it is doing a bad thing.”

The driver turned around in his seat and looked at Kaufman. “You see why it is dangerous to help the Kurds? It doesn’t matter where they are, Turkey, Iraq. You must tell your government to stop helping the terrorists.”

“Of course I will,” said Kaufman distractedly. “Is this the hotel?”

The driver poked his finger over the backseat. “Why do your government and Europe not understand that we are fighting a war?”

“A war?” Kaufman shook his head. He began to despair of ever getting to his hotel. “Look, is this the Pera Palas?”

“Yes, but,” the driver shook his head and reluctantly motioned to a young man in a red cap who had emerged from the building. “You must not let yourself be deceived.”

“I am sure I won’t be,” Kaufman said, pulling out his wallet. “But right now I really have to get to the hotel. How much was it?”
“Thirty-five dollars,” said the driver, his eyes wavering between the wallet and his clear desire to keep talking. “You understand what I am saying?”

Kaufman looked up. “You were saying thirty dollars before.”

The driver shrugged. “Petrol costs very much here.” Kaufman hesitated and then pulled out thirty-five dollars. There seemed little point in arguing when his goal was to be asleep as quickly as possible.

The driver, mollified for the moment, got out of the taxi and unlocked the trunk. He silently watched the porter unload Kaufman’s one bag. “You know,” he said, shaking Kaufman’s hand, “Turkey is a very beautiful country. But I wish when you get home you tell people that it is bad to believe the terrorists, they are trying to divide Turkey.”

As Kaufman walked into the hotel he wondered just what exactly the driver had been talking about. He hoped not everyone in Turkey would insist on giving him a lecture on some detail of Turkish politics. Still, something nagged at him. Nobody had mentioned a war to him. He shook his head and pushed the conversation out of his mind. The man was probably exaggerating. This time, he was certain that nothing could go wrong. He would not let it.

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Photo: BBC.co.uk

Harry Mays, whose reputation around the office was of a hard-assed partner who disliked even acknowledging the existence of those working below him, did not disappoint this time. He barely looked up from his desk when Kaufman entered the partner’s office. Nor did Mays offer Kaufman a seat on the leather couch that faced the view of Central Park. Instead, he kept one eye on his watch while he spoke.

“Kaufman, I’ve got a little problem here.” Mays said. “We’ve got a contract to check out for Markiz International and Cathy, whose been handling them for me lately, is apparently sick.” Mays grimaced. “The day before she’s supposed to leave. Anyway, the point is, I need someone to go and I thought of you.”

“Thank you,” Kaufman began, wondering how much more work he would have to do before he too was referred to by his first name. “I am sure—“

“Of course, it would be better if Cathy went, she is familiar with Markiz’ plans, but…” Mays said, waving his hand. “Never mind, I am sure you can do it.”

“You don’t need to worry, I will read up on the file and then—“

“You’ve got everything you need in that brown file,” Mays said. “And I’m sure you’ll be able to handle everything, it’s a simple due diligence. You’ve done international work before,” he paused and looked at Kaufman. “Weren’t you involved in the Algeria contract?”

Kaufman hesitated. “Yes, but of course it wasn’t—“

“That was a major fuck-up, Kaufman. It cost the firm a lot of money.” Mays paused and looked at his watch. “Listen, I have a meeting in a few minutes. Let’s get to the point.”

Kaufman nodded. There was clearly no use trying to say anything.

“You know that Markiz is one of our biggest clients, so it’s important to me that it goes through just perfectly.” Mays paused.

“It’s all in the folder but to be brief, they’re planning on buying some oil rigs from a Dutch company that’s been operating them in Turkey. There’s also a government drilling concession that’s being offered along with a production and sale deal via a state company.

Like I said, it’s the usual due diligence. Make sure everything is as the government and seller says it is, check the site and that’s it. All your meetings are in the folder, along with copies of the proposed contracts and some background material. If everything checks out OK, and there’s no reason why it shouldn’t, you’ll initial copies of the contract with the foreign ministry and bring one back here for the final signing.”

Kaufman nodded again.

Mays pursed his lips for a moment as if thinking and then continued. “We’re particularly interested that this go through as quickly as possible. Turkey has had some Kurdish terrorism problem in the region where the oil installations are located. But that’s more or less finished. You’ll find an analysis in the file. Still, it’s one reason Turkish officials are being so helpful in negotiating a good concession for Markiz. If Markiz International invests in that part of Turkey, you can imagine what sort of signal that will send.”

“A signal to others that it is safe to invest there?” Kaufman said quickly, intent on getting at least one full sentence out.

Mays looked at George. “Exactly.” He paused for a second. “That’s exactly the point. In fact—but keep this to yourself— there’s a little issue of a very big pipeline that the Turks hope to have built to get oil from the Caspian Sea. Markiz would love to get its hands on that multi-billion dollar contract, which means so would we. I am sure that Turkey will be grateful for Markiz’ investment, which could go along way when it comes time for Turkey to decide who will build the pipeline.”

Kaufman had a clear picture of what was expected of him. It was simple. He was to pave the way for a deal that would pave the way for the real deal. “So I should give this a quick going over, check the figures and equipment and—“

Mays waved his hand. “Yes, yes, just do the normal due diligence. It’s not rocket science.” He picked up a paper, the meeting clearly over. “My secretary has the tickets and everything else you’ll need, money vouchers, whatever. See her on the way out.”

Kaufman nodded again. He had his hand on the door when he heard Mays’ voice.

“Just do what you’re supposed to do there and leave. We don’t want another Algeria.”

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Two days earlier, George Kaufman had returned from lunch to find an overstuffed brown folder on his desk. The documents inside did not look familiar and he was about to send it back to the mail room when his secretary looked up from the magazine she was reading.

“That’s yours. Harry Mays sent it down.”

“Mays?” Kaufman looked puzzled. “I’m not working with him on anything.”

“Now you are. Something about Turkey, I think.” She flipped another page in the magazine. “Harry Mays phoned and said you should read it. I think he said you’re going to Turkey tomorrow night.”

“Turkey?” Kaufman was sure he had not heard her correctly. “What am I supposed to do in Turkey? You know I have meetings all this week with the new IPO, plus I’ve got to finish the contract for that factory in Bulgaria.”

“That smelly cow manure place?” She closed her magazine and made a face. “I’d think you’d like a chance to go to Turkey. I hear it’s just lovely.” She pointed to the stack of Travel & Leisure magazines on her desk. “I can tell you, as soon as I finish my graphic arts degree I am going to get a job on that magazine. Working in a law firm is so boring.”

“Susan, please, could we just focus on me for a second?” He hefted the brown folder. “Whose project is this and why in god’s name was it dumped on me?”

“Cathy Norton was supposed to leave for Turkey this week for the due diligence on the Markiz International contract,” Susan said. “But she called in sick yesterday, and today she called again, saying her doctor told her she has a bad ear infection and can’t fly.”

Susan leaned forward and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “My friend Kevin, the one who works upstairs for Harry Mays? Kevin says Hays flipped out when he heard Cathy was sick. Mays thinks Cathy made this all up because there’s a rumor that Cathy’s being wooed by another law firm. They want to make her a partner in two years and she’ll get to work on high-tech mergers, which is exactly what she –“

“Susan, spare me any stories about Cathy Norton, please.”

As of late Kaufman had tried to avoid hearing about Norton’s meteoric rise in the world of corporate law. The two had finished Columbia Law School the same year and were hired together at Lichtmann & Paneth, a large New York corporate law firm. The first two years they even shared an office in the midtown Manhattan building that housed the firm, but after that their paths diverged. Cathy Norton was now a favorite third-year associate, handling those big contracts that the partners did not have time for but still wanted to oversee.

But Kaufman had not managed to keep his favored status in the third year and he was still trudging through the same bond offerings of utility companies that he had been working on his first two years. Or at least, that’s what the situation had been like since the Algeria debacle.

Kaufman winced as he remembered the contract in Algeria. He pushed it out of his mind and suddenly thought of something. “This is one of Cathy Norton’s deals, right?”

Susan shook her head. “Haven’t you heard anything I said?”

“Of course I did, but…” Kaufman nodded slowly. “If this is one of her projects, then this means it’s a big deal. It means I’m being given another chance, it means –“

“It means that Cathy is sick and they can’t find another chump to take on some piddling contract due diligence and drop everything at the last minute and fly to Turkey. That’s what it means,” said Susan.

Kaufman gave her a dirty look. “Thanks Susan. I’ll remember this when it’s time for your Christmas bonus.”

“Don’t worry, by Christmas I’ll be at Travel & Leisure. That’s for sure.” She matched his dirty look. “But for all you know, you’ll be stuck in a Turkish prison. Ever see Midnight Express?” She nodded her head. “Fuck up this deal, and it won’t be like Algeria. No way. You’ll be sitting in a Turkish prison, rotting away. I saw the movie. It wasn’t pretty.”

“Give me a break,” he said. “It’s due diligence, not drug running. It’ll be a breeze. Besides, I heard that the film exaggerated everything.”

He turned towards the elevator. “Do me a favor. Instead of planning my prison visits, please just call Kevin and tell him I’ll be up in a few minutes to see Harry Mays about the trip.”

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Istanbul – November 8, 2007

George Kaufman walked out of the airport and into the hazy glare that was Istanbul in the afternoon. The 34-year-old lawyer had just flown in from New York and he was in desperate need of both a shower and a bed. But first there was the small problem of his suitcase.

The wheels, George ruefully noted as he tried to pull the suitcase, seemed to be pointing at each other. They certainly had been working when he arrived at the New York airport. But now, no matter what he did, he went one way and the suitcase veered another. A woman swathed in a black chador collided with the errant suitcase, sending it crashing to the ground. A teenaged girl in a miniskirt and bright red lips shot him a shy smile and disappeared into the arms of the woman in black.

George kicked the suitcase and ran his hand through his short brown hair. The lawyer was of medium-build, with an intelligent look and an even-tempered approach to both successes and problems. But as of late, he had begun to notice a distressing phenomenon, one that was increasingly worrying him: It seemed that if something could go wrong in his life, it did. First there was the incident with the Algerian contract, then he ended up drawing the short stick for this routine due diligence and, he kicked his suitcase again, now this. Granted, it was not a major problem but, George thought as he bent down to try to jam the wheels back in place, it was symptomatic. George twisted the wheels one more time. When that didn’t work, he hefted the suitcase on his shoulder and slowly pushed his way through the crowd of people waiting for the newest arrivals.

Across the street was a line of yellow cars, the drivers leaning against their cars, spitting out sunflower seeds and exchanging raucous laughter. A fat man squatting against the second taxi caught George’s eye and motioned him over. The man’s meaty arms grabbed the suitcase from George and threw it in the trunk. George stumbled slightly and grabbed the back door handle to steady himself. When he removed his hand, he was still clutching the handle. The driver grunted inexpressively and motioned George around to the other side. The lawyer arranged himself on the sticky seat and again wished the business trip had been to Paris, Berlin or even Brussels.

“I’m going to the Pera Palas Hotel,” he said as the taxi lurched to a start.

The driver grunted and flicked his cigarette butt out the window. “You sure you want to go Pera Palas? Why you not pick the Swisshotel? Much nicer. Pera Palas hotel is old, like Turkey. Very old. Too old.” The driver shook his head in a manner that did not seem reassuring.

George sighed. He had been given less than 24 hours to prepare for the trip. The secretary who handled travel arrangements was on holiday and the travel agency across the street was busy booking cruises. A woman at the firm insisted he stay at her “absolutely favorite” hotel. It was a charming, turn-of-the-century hotel with big windows, small balconies and an amazing history. George assured her that he had enough history in college and that the Hilton would be just fine, but she was already on the phone booking him a room. George now realized he should have been more wary. The woman took holidays in remote places and returned with unusual diseases that spread panic in the office. With his luck, the hotel would be put under quarantine.

The driver adjusted his rearview mirror to take a better look at George. “Many tourists come to Turkey now. Two days ago I drive a German man from airport. Are you German?”

“No, I’m American.” George looked out the window and saw dull concrete buildings and some patches of brown grass. He closed his eyes and wondered when the reported beauties of the city would become apparent.

“American.” The driver said this with a certain weightiness. “America. I would like to see your country. But nobody gives me a visa.” He paused for a moment as to give George time to consider the injustice of it all. “You know, I have a cousin in Texas. Maybe you know him? His name is Mehmet, Mehmet Uzunlu.”

Kaufman opened his eyes. “America is a very big place, and Texas is very far from where I live. I live in New York.”

“Ah, New York.” The driver nodded to himself. “New York. I have an uncle in New York.” He turned and glanced at Kaufman. “My uncle. He is Ahmet. His last name, I don’t remember. But he drives a taxi like me. You know him?”

“Your uncle Ahmet?” Kaufman could not believe he was having this conversation. “I really don’t think so. New York is a very big place.”

The driver grunted and reached for the pack of cigarettes on the dashboard. “Maybe Ahmet moved. Maybe he not in New York. You want to smoke?” He held up the pack. Kaufman shook his head.

“You don’t smoke? Very good, very good,” the man said, pausing to pull a cigarette out of the pack with his teeth. “But here in Turkey, we all smoke. We don’t care about tomorrow, we smoke, we play, we like the girls.” He turned and winked at Kaufman. “You maybe like some fun as well?”

Kaufman rubbed his head, trying to subdue what felt like the start of a raging headache. “No, I mean yes, of course I like girls, but no, that’s not why I’m here.” He readjusted his eyeglasses to reduce the pressure that was building behind his forehead. “I’m here to work. I’m a lawyer. We don’t have time for fun.” Lately, Kaufman had started to believe that being a corporate lawyer left little time for normal human pleasures like watching movies, reading novels and eating anything that was not delivered to the office.

The driver considered this for a few seconds. “Oh, very sad, you Americans work too much.”

George nodded, he couldn’t have agreed more. He rested his head on the window and stared tiredly outside.

The taxi turned and veered along the winding highway. The scenery changed from high concrete buildings to low ones, and the spotted patches of brown and green grass gave way to a mass of blue water that swelled and glittered in the afternoon sunlight.

“Look at the Bosphorus. So beautiful. But maybe the Black Sea is more beautiful. The most brave Turks come from the Black Sea. My family, we come from the Black Sea. You heard of it maybe?” The driver turned again to look at Kaufman in the backseat, a habit that was making the lawyer very nervous.

“The Black Sea, yes, of course I’ve heard of it, it’s supposed to be very beautiful.” Kaufman’s main recollection of the Black Sea was newspaper articles detailing how polluted the waterway was, but he did not think this was the time to mention it.

“Yes, the Black Sea is maybe the most beautiful place in the world.” The driver’s voice dropped sadly. “But we come here many years ago, my family very poor.” The small man smiled again. “We work very hard and now I have five children and a big house and many pretty girlfriends,” he winked at Kaufman in the mirror. “They like my car. They also like my music. Here, I play for you.” He turned on a radio station that was more static than music and started humming along.

Kaufman slumped in the seat and tried to block out the noise pouring out of the pink, fur-covered speakers behind him. Would he ever get a chance to sleep? He had been flying for nearly nine hours, not including the unexpected five hour layover in Frankfurt for reasons that nobody ever made clear. On top of that, the trip had come as a total surprise and he had to break a date with that pretty city reporter he had met at the bookstore club.

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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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