Strange Music (29 page)

‘But now?' Anderson prompted, looking at Alex.

‘Well . . . writers who previously wouldn't have dreamed of writing for
TV
. . . and actors and actresses who wouldn't have stooped to appearing on it . . . they're all beginning to change their minds. Not en masse but . . . straws in the wind, don't-you-know. I give it a couple of years before radio will be fighting for its share – not struggling but certainly fighting.'

‘We should let Eric know,' Faith commented.

‘Eric Brandon?' Anderson asked.

‘You know him?' Faith was intrigued.

‘Of
him.'

In the corner of her eye she saw Alex shaking his head at Anderson. ‘What's going on here?' she asked.

Neither man answered. She turned to her husband. ‘Why are we entertaining Mister Anderson?' She turned to him. ‘Not that I'm anything other than enchanted by your company, dear sir, but it was all arranged quite suddenly and Alex hinted very strongly that you'd be delighted to see me, especially as I'm about to go to Tehran. And actually I'm—'

‘And now Israel,' Anderson said, turning to Alex. ‘The ball's in your court, chum.'

Reluctantly Alex explained: ‘Philip works for a branch of the Civil Service that—'

‘The . . . er . . . “Ministry of Education” just round the corner. Yes, I know all about that. What I want to—'

‘You do?' Both men were surprised.

‘Of course! Everyone in London knows. I'm just interested to know how he' – again she turned to Anderson – ‘how
you
come to know Eric Brandon.'

‘Know
of
him,' he replied. ‘I used to work at the
BBC,
in the legal department, vetting scripts for possible . . . difficulties.' He smiled. ‘I don't think I need tell
you
which particular script fastened
his
name in my memory!'

The waiters brought their main-course dishes. By the time they withdrew, the tension around the table had subsided.

‘Iran,' Faith prompted. ‘And now Israel.'

‘Oh, it's very simple,' Anderson assured her. ‘So trivial it's hardly worth mentioning. But I have a document – this is in connection with a family trust – that needs to be signed by a colleague in our embassy in Tehran. So . . . I was wondering—'

‘Hold on! I was about to tell you a moment ago that I'm not actually going to Tehran now.'

Anderson's face fell, but so, too, did Alex's, she noticed as she went on to explain: ‘We got a cable today saying that our contact on this book project would prefer – for various unspecified reasons – that we should meet in Istanbul instead. Fogel suspects there are half-a-dozen factions in the Shah's court, all jockeying to honour the top man with some grand scheme, and our particular man there doesn't want the others to know about the book project just yet. But if I were seen meeting him in Tehran, the cat would be out of the bag. Byzantine courts aren't exclusive to Constantinople – which is where, appropriately enough, I shall now be meeting Mister Rowhani.'

Anderson did a double-take. ‘Baqer Rowhani?' he said.

Alex began to laugh.

She looked from one to the other in bewilderment. ‘You know him?'

‘Quite well,' Alex said. ‘He's a pearl merchant – Iranian, but he lives in Istanbul – or, rather, he maintains a magnificent . . . almost a palace there.'

‘More than that,' Anderson added, ‘his well-greased palm was the ultimate destination of the family papers I mentioned.' He paused before adding, ‘And actually, now that things are more or less out in the open . . . it occurs to me . . . you're going to Tel Aviv, you say?'

‘More family papers?'

‘No.' He laughed. ‘Scholarly interest, really. The history of the Middle East is a bit of a hobby with me. The heart of your book will, of course, be Zionism, which is about ten times older than the new Zionist state of Israel. I just wonder what sort of questions you'll be raising with Ben Gurion. Or his associates.'

Faith was not fooled for an instant, but she was interested to see how persistent Anderson would be. ‘I'm a sales person, not an editor,' she assured him.

But two could play that game. ‘Ah!' Anderson dropped the subject with a very Middle Eastern shrug.

‘I've no doubt that the content of the book would form an important part of my discussions,' Faith went on. ‘But I wouldn't make any detailed editorial comments or suggestions. I'd be more interested to know how many copies
they
will guarantee, because
our
profit will come from the run-on.'

‘But you're almost bound to conclude with a chapter that looks toward the future. I'd be interested to hear how they think Zionism's going to develop now it has roots. Ben Gurion would like it to be secular, of course, but he's just spent the best part of a year learning to live with its religious incarnation—'

‘Learning?' Alex interposed. ‘Scheming, surely.'

‘In politics . . . is there a difference? I'd contend there's no such thing as
pure
Zionism. Some Zionists would say it exists to return
all
of the Promised Land to the Jewish people and kick out whoever's living there now. Others will say it's to promote and enforce the religious laws. Idealists would say it's to repair the world and reconcile the West and the East. In general those on the left want a Jewish state that is nonetheless democratic and secular. But those on the right would happily sacrifice the secular bit and really don't want democracy if it dilutes the Jewishness.'

‘Quite a tall order!' Faith commented.

Anderson's smile narrowed his eyes to slits. ‘Perhaps you'd prefer – at this stage – to let them think they have carte blanche over what to put in the book and what to leave out?'

‘That might very well be true,' Faith allowed. ‘But I'd still like to know all the
potential
points I might make, even if I keep my powder dry when it comes to the crunch.'

He grinned at Alex. ‘No flies on her, eh!' Then, turning again to Faith, ‘If they answer your questions about what flavours of Zionism they want to cover, you might follow it up with a discussion of the wider . . . or external aspects. What will the diaspora make of the developing Zionist state? At the moment I think they see it as a safe haven for
all
the world's Jews. But if Israel gets attacked again and becomes aggressive . . . tension feeding tension . . . the diaspora will start to think it's better off where it is. How will Israel then expand, as it must in order to survive? But the question I'd most like to hear them answer is: do they think Arab-Israelis will always feel
Arab-
Israeli or will they one day feel as Israeli as our Jews feel British, or American Jews feel they're American? That's at the very heart of their future there and, I hope, it's at the heart of their book and yours.'

‘Is that all?' Faith asked with a laugh.

‘Not quite,' he replied evenly. ‘If you wouldn't mind awfully, I'd love to hear their responses to whichever of these questions you choose to raise. It's a hobby of mine, as I say. Our friends at the
FO
do raise them at the diplomatic level, of course, but the replies are also rather . . .'

‘Diplomatic?' she suggested.

‘Quite so.'

In the taxi on their way back to King's Cross, Faith said, ‘You wouldn't be putting me in any sort of danger, darling? I don't for one moment suppose you are, but I feel I have to ask.'

‘We're in danger now,' he said. ‘We're in danger crossing the road . . . taking a train . . . cutting our fingernails. But what Anderson was asking of you puts you in no greater danger than that.'

‘But it's not just Anderson who's asking this of me, is it?'

After a pause he said, ‘Sometimes it's
knowledge
that offers the greatest danger. The less one knows, the safer one is. To be genuinely innocent is easier than having to act innocence.' When she remained silent, he added, ‘Don't you agree?'

‘I wasn't thinking of innocence so much as of ignorance.'

‘For example?'

She drew a deep breath. ‘All right. I suppose the question has to be asked sooner or later: our meeting in Paris? Was that entirely a matter of chance? And your telling Marianne about falling in love with me years back at a meet of the—'

‘Of course! Of
course
it was a matter of chance. Dear God, how Machiavellian do you think I am?'

She started to laugh. ‘Dear, sweet Alex! I think
every
one and
every
thing is Machiavellian, until proved otherwise. My suspicion isn't something I just cooked up this evening. It crossed my mind the moment you spoke to me in Paris that night, back in April last year. I thought you were just too, too wonderful to have come into my life by chance.'

‘Oh, yeah?' He, too, laughed.

‘Now drop the other boot.'

He made no reply.

She continued: ‘Well . . . when you said you were at the
BBC
, and it was only one month after Eric had sent in that Wannsee conference play . . . and there had been all that trouble Angela had with British Intelligence – losing or claiming to have lost her transcript . . . I was bound to wonder, wasn't I?' When he continued to hold his silence she repeated, ‘Wasn't I?'

‘All right,' he said. ‘Here's what really happened in Paris. I saw your name in the register, and everything I've ever told you about falling in love at that hunt meeting all those years ago is all true. So of course I was overjoyed. And the address you gave was for Manutius Books, which made it rather easy for me to check on you . . . that led to the Dower House . . . and that led someone at the
BBC
to recall Eric's submission—'

‘Anderson?'

‘Oh, no – that play, or whatever it was, ruffled quite a few feathers. There are plenty of people, at Auntie's and elsewhere, who, if you just mentioned Eric's name, would say, “Ah yes – the Wannsee script wallah!” And don't you go telling him this – you're on our side of the fence now. Talking of which, it might be an idea for you to drop into my office and swear to the Official Secrets Act.'

‘At Broadcasting House?'

‘No. My other office. I'll give you a pass.'

Tuesday, 30 October 1951

Baqer Rowhani was a short, slim, dynamic man in his early forties who dressed in Paris, manicured in Rome, lived in Tehran . . . and blossomed in Istanbul – or rather, as he explained to Faith, in Constantinople. ‘Istanbul,' he pointed out, ‘is three cities, bound together by a paradox. Pera and Scutari are its Oriental components while Constantinople is supposed to be its European counterweight, and yet it is the most Oriental of the three. All that “Mysterious East” stuff that Europeans come here to discover – it's all in Constantinople, give or take the odd Dervish and the Old Seraglio. Talking of which . . . I thought we might spend the afternoon there, now that this morning's discussions have been so very satisfactory.'

His English was impeccable – as one might expect from someone who had completed his education at Eton in the thirties. She accepted with pleasure, glad that the most intense morning of questioning and planning she had ever experienced was now behind them. The Shah – or the court faction that was going to make him a present of this book – was surely going to get his (or their) money's worth.

They drove in his Silver Wraith down to the Top Haneh landing stage. When she admired the car he told her it had come off the assembly line at Derby immediately ahead of the one bought by George Bernard Shaw, which had recently been sold after the great man's death to ‘my London stockbroker, Charles Goff.'

‘I'll bet
he
doesn't travel in front, beside his chauffeur,' Faith commented primly.

Rowhani shot her a penetrating glance. ‘I hope you don't object to my hauling you out of the Pera,' he said. ‘Socialists who are compelled to stay there usually find it distressingly enjoyable.'

She smiled sweetly. ‘Don't leap to conclusions, Mister Rowhani. As for the Pera, they told me I had the room where Agatha Christie wrote
Murder on the Orient Express
but even if it was true, I don't think much survived from her time, not even the wallpaper. And besides, your palace is . . . well . . . beyond any socialist's dreams.'

‘Or reach, I hope. The Orient Express, eh – such a pity the Bulgarians have closed the border with Turkey.'

‘I enjoyed it as far as Athens, anyway. It still is one of the great railway journeys of Europe.'

‘Of the
world
.'

When was he going to mention Anderson? Her instructions were to keep the ‘family papers' by her until he asked if she knew Philip Anderson. Then there was a little rigmarole before she handed over the papers – all very exciting in a childish fashion.

At Top Haneh they boarded a ferry headed along the Bosporus toward the Seraglio Point.

‘That's Scutari, over there across the water.' He pointed it out. ‘Üsküdar, nowadays. It's where Florence Nightingale had her hospital.'

‘Goodness! That must be quite a way from the Crimea?'

‘About five-fifty kilometres. I suppose it made sure they weren't troubled by the really hopeless cases.'

They stopped at the Kaik Haneh landing stage, where other visitors to the Old Seraglio trooped off toward the official entrance; but Rowhani led her away from them, around the foot of the ancient fortifications to an enceinte on its western flank, something like a medieval fortress. There, he tapped his silver-knobbed cane lightly on a small, iron-studded door, which was opened immediately to let them in.

He smiled at Faith. ‘The administrator is a kinsman.'

But Faith was simply bowled over by the vista that now spread out before them, for this was once the ancient palace of the caliphs of Turkey. It was a world within a world, and a hidden one at that, for high walls excluded not just the sight of the three teeming cities that make up Istanbul but even their noise and their bustle – tugboat hooters, the sirens of larger vessels negotiating the narrow passage to and from the Black Sea, the hooting of taxis . . . instead, a sudden and profound silence reigned. Cypresses as tall as minarets, and of a green so dark it was almost black, towered over ancient plane trees, grotesquely withered and contorted with age. Around their feet tall, dry grasses shivered between the untrodden flagstones. And beyond – steeped in shadow – were the galleries of the Seraglio itself, long colonnades in the ancient Turkish style whose verandahs were still covered in their medieval frescoes.