The Double Eagle (30 page)
Authors: James Twining
ISTANBUL, TURKEY
29 July—5:43
P.M.
T
he
Behind the garden’s thick walls the clattering of the trams, the incessant sounding of car horns and the fierce cries of the street traders gave way to a cool, stony stillness and the gentle rattle of dice on large and elaborately inlaid backgammon boards. Several enterprising locals had arranged brightly covered cushions and kilims on the benches and hung rugs from the walls. These were subtle traps, designed to tempt a few of the garden’s many guests into one of the stalls that had been set up in the small cells that had served as classrooms when the garden still housed the
medrese,
or Islamic school, of the neighboring mosque.
As always, the air was thick with smoke from the water pipes, a sickly sweet concoction of apple-flavored tobacco laid on top of an endless supply of red-hot coals dispensed by a leathered old man who shuffled between the tables with sepulchral resignation. As the tobacco smoke was drawn down through the clear water, the gentle rumble of bursting bubbles rippled through the air like a large purring cat.
“Why do they do that?” asked Jennifer, as they sat down in the far corner of the garden, waving away the rug sellers who had immediately zeroed in on them as possible buyers of “genuine” Turkish kilims.
“It cleans the smoke. Cools it down,” Tom explained.
“You’ve been here before?”
“I spent some time here once,” said Tom, trying to attract the waiter’s attention.
“You’ve spent time in a lot of places,” Jennifer observed.
“More than is healthy,” Tom agreed. “What do you want? Apple tea or coffee? Just so you know, the apple tea is so sweet that it makes your teeth feel like they’re about to fall out. But on the other hand, the coffee is so bitter that it will make you grind your teeth together.”
“Oh, my, what a choice.” She rolled her eyes. “The coffee, I think.” Tom ordered a tea and a coffee and they appeared moments later, the tea steaming in a small curved glass, the viscous coffee bubbling like molten lead in its porcelain crucible.
“So why are we here?” asked Jennifer, sipping her coffee and looking around her, gratefully feeling the hard slap of the caffeine against her brain. The garden was busy but far from full, and she was aware of suspicious glances from the small groups of Turks who had gathered around the low tables to drink and smoke.
“Because we need information and this is the place to get it,” Tom explained, stretching his feet out on the bench.
Jennifer had called Corbett first thing that morning, insisting that the call be patched through to his house even though it was about three
A.M
. She’d told him what Tom had found out. That there was an illegal auction taking place in Istanbul and that they were both headed out there in case the coins surfaced. He had agreed with her plans and told her to be careful. They had caught an eleven
A.M
. flight out from Amsterdam that morning. It had been an awkward journey, both of them aware that what had happened at the museum had changed the relationship between them, yet neither of them quite yet able to understand how.
There was a sudden commotion near the garden entrance. Two large men clad in mirrored sunglasses and shiny gray suits, the material embroidered with silvery specks, strode into the garden and quickly scanned its occupants. Seemingly satisfied, they looked over their shoulders and nodded.
In swept a little barrel of a man that Jennifer took to be their boss. His face was almost entirely taken up by a thick bulbous nose and a wild black beard that matched his wavy jet black hair. She thought they both looked dyed. His eyes were hidden under thick-rimmed tortoiseshell Ray Bans, the maker’s logo printed on the corner of the left-hand lens so that their designer pedigree could not be doubted. He wore a heavy black leather jacket, the top three buttons of his black silk shirt left undone, his wrists and open-shirted neck glinting with thick knots of gold chains.
Two more men followed him in, each taking up strategic positions around him, their left armpits bulging tellingly. The waiter fussed nervously around their boss, showing him to the largest, most shaded table and unceremoniously shooing its objecting occupants across the floor, a well-aimed kick sending one of the more vocal protesters sprawling.
“Who’s that?” Jennifer hissed.
“Amin Madhavy. A liar and a thief,” said Tom quickly.
“Friend of yours, then?”
“How did you guess?” Tom winked. “Come on. We’re on.”
5:52
P.M.
T
he bodyguards, too busy ordering their own drinks, did not see Tom until he was only a few feet away.
“Madhavy-bey.”
Tom used the respectful epithet that Turks reserved for formal greetings. “Have you returned for another lesson?”
A frown flickered across the man’s face. He did not look up, instead stirring first one, then two, then three spoons of sugar into his coffee.
“Kirk-bey,”
he said eventually, mirroring the polite greeting, his high-pitched voice heavily accented. He looked up and the frown melted into a smile. “Welcome.”
The bodyguards, who had spun round at the unexpected sound of Tom’s voice, reaching inside their jackets, relaxed. Madhavy waved them away contemptuously.
“It’s too late now, you incompetent fools,” he snarled. “I would already be dead if he’d wanted to kill me.” He relaxed into a smile again. “I don’t know why I bother.” He shrugged, indicating the padded bench opposite him to Tom. “Come. Join me.”
He eyed Tom carefully as he sat down, his coffee cup dwarfed by his thick brown hands, gold rings glittering on each finger like expensive armor.
“So what brings you back to Istanbul?” He took his sunglasses off and his dark brown eyes twinkled mischievously. “Which poor soul will have the misfortune of your visit this time around?” Tom shook his head.
“Haven’t you heard? I’ve retired.”
“Ha! You must think me a fool.”
“I’m serious.”
“What are you doing here, then?”
“Actually, I’m looking for something. Well, somewhere really.”
“Ah!” Understanding flashed across Madhavy’s face. “And you need my help.”
“This is your city, Amin. Who else can I ask?” Madhavy nodded his agreement, his eyebrows rising.
“This is true.”
“Do you know anything about a sale that is taking place tonight? An auction of art.” Tom leaned forward. “Expensive art.”
Madhavy set his cup down.
“So.” He rested his hands on his wide stomach. “That is what brings you back. I know of it, of course, but the location is secret. Very secret. No one really knows where it is taking place. Not even I.” He clasped his hand to his chest to illustrate his hurt. “I would love to be able to help you, old friend, but…” He shrugged his shoulders. Tom knew Madhavy well enough to see where this was leading.
“Okay,
old friend.
What do you want? Name your price.”
“My price! You think that Amin Madhavy can be bought?” He raised his voice and looked around him in indignation. Satisfied that enough people had heard him, he leaned forward and whispered, “A rematch.” Madhavy’s tone had an urgent edge now and he shuffled forward to the edge of his seat. “Last time, I couldn’t show my face for months. People were laughing at me. At
me
.” Madhavy flashed an incredulous look around the garden. “This time you will not be so lucky.”
Madhavy motioned with his hand and a large backgammon board appeared from nowhere and was placed on the low table between them. Tom smiled.
“Very well. First to five points, given I’m in a hurry. I win, you tell me the location. You win and…what happens if you win?”
Madhavy pointed at Tom’s wrist.
“I win, I get your watch.”
Tom hesitated. His watch. The watch his mother had left him. But what choice did he have? The auction was that evening, only hours away.
“Fine,” Tom conceded.
As they had been talking, Jennifer had drawn close to the table, and the bodyguards—clearly stung by Madhavy’s earlier criticism—responded this time with drawn weapons and loud shouts.
“She’s with me,” said Tom without looking up as he quickly arranged his pieces on the board. Madhavy grunted a few words and the bodyguards let Jennifer through to the table.
“Thanks for nothing,” she said reproachfully to Tom.
Madhavy laughed at her obvious annoyance.
“Woman trouble?” he asked, his voice tinged with mock concern. “I hope you won’t get distracted.”
“Don’t get your hopes up. It’ll take more than that for you to beat me. Let’s play.”
6:00
P.M.
A
n eerie quiet had descended around them as the game started. The bodyguards, sensing Madhavy’s tension, had drawn closer to the table, trying to keep one eye on the game and one eye on the rest of the garden.
They both played in the Arab style, violently flicking the tiny dice with their thumbs across the board, flashing the pieces around before most people would have had a chance to even see what they had rolled, let alone work out the best move.
Backgammon, or
shesh-besh
, as the Arabs call it, is one of the world’s oldest board games. To the inexperienced player, it is a game of luck, the dice cruelly dictating your moves, strategy a hostage to fortune. But to a player like Tom, the role of chance was relegated to that of willing accomplice. Where Tom drew his tactical advantage was by allying his mathematical mind and his understanding of probability with his ability to bluff.
The modern game is played with a doubling dice, allowing you to double the stake or points in play. Failure to bear off any pieces by the time your opponent has finished is known as a
gammon
and further doubles whatever has been staked on the game. Leaving a piece on the bar by the time your opponent has finished is known as a
backgammon
and triples the stake. Knowing when to accept, reject or even double back—the equivalent of raising in poker—is therefore as important as the positioning of your pieces. If not more so.
Madhavy started well, rolling a six and a one to form a vital point just outside his home board. Then on his next throw he got a double six, the double entitling him to four moves of six rather than the usual two, allowing him to move his two pieces out of Tom’s home board and close off another point.
Given Madhavy’s strong start, Tom was not surprised when he doubled him on his next turn. Normally, he would probably have refused the double, preferring to lose the one point rather than risk two. But this wasn’t a normal game.
To Madhavy’s thinly concealed delight, therefore, he accepted the double and a few moves later lost the game. Usually each game was worth a point, but with Tom having accepted the double this one was worth two.
“I win,” crowed Madhavy, punching the air. “Two points. You have lost your touch.”
“You were lucky,” said Tom, swiftly rearranging his pieces. “It’s first to five, don’t forget.”
Madhavy bent his head back down toward the board and his earlier jubilation seemed to evaporate as a swift exchange of pieces raised the excited murmur of the growing crowd of onlookers. Mindful of how the game was evolving, Tom quickly settled on a back game, placing his pieces in blocking positions and then waiting for an opportunity to hit Madhavy as he tried to bear off. It was a risky but potentially devastating strategy.
As Tom had planned, it wasn’t long before Madhavy, cursing his misfortune in rapid-fire Turkish, was forced to leave a piece exposed. Sensing his opportunity, Tom doubled him, but Madhavy, clearly fancying his odds, immediately doubled Tom back. In a few seconds it had gone from a one-point to a four-point game.
Tom stared Madhavy in the eye as he flicked the dice, not bothering to look down to see what he had rolled. The gasps from the enthralled crowd and Jennifer’s low whistle were sufficient. He had hit him.
With Tom having blocked all the points in his home board, Madhavy was now frozen out of the game, his piece stranded on the bar. All he could do was watch stonily as Tom swiftly bore off almost half his pieces before he was able to get back on the board and begin to bear off himself. Madhavy angrily conceded the game. Four-two to Tom.