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The Honourable Thief
The Honourable Thief Read online
About The Honourable Thief
‘Achilles? Because . . .?’
‘Obsession of mine. Half man, half god – and his own worst enemy. My kind of man.’ He laughed.
Istanbul, Turkey 1955
Benedict Hitchens, once a world-renowned archaeologist, is now a discredited – but still rather charming – shell of his former self.
Once full of optimism and adventure, his determination to prove that Achilles was a real historical figure led him to his greatest love, Karina, on the island of Crete and to his greatest downfall, following the disappearance of an enigmatic stranger, Eris.
He has one last chance to restore his reputation, solve the mystery of Eris and prove his Achilles theory. But it is full of risk, and possibly fatal consequences . . .
In her breakout novel, Meaghan Wilson Anastasios weaves an action-packed tale of honour, passion, heroes and thieves across an epic backdrop of history.
Contents
About The Honourable Thief
Title Page
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Part Two
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Epilogue
Sources
Acknowledgements
About Meaghan Wilson Anastasios
Also by Meaghan Wilson Anastasios
To Andrew.
For the history we have made together.
Prologue
A trickle of earth from the vaulted stone ceiling showers down, the tranquil chamber echoing with a sound like rain on a tin roof.
As Benedict Hitchens scratches and hacks at the soil in the world above, he pictures it in his mind’s eye, as if he might conjure it from thin air by will alone. He has been searching for it his entire life and knows its contours better than the face of a loved one.
It is said to have been born in the fires of the club-footed god’s forge. Ingots of silver, brass, tin and solid gold rolled and beaten, turned and shaped by hammer upon anvil. The giant disc is a cosmology showing the earth, the heaven and ocean; the blazing sun, the full moon’s orb; every starry light above the earth’s curved surface. In delicate tracery it tells the tales of the world of men, played out beneath the arching heavens. A city at peace; a city at war. A harvest – ploughshares cleaving the soil. A hunt – dogs and men tearing flesh from bone. A marriage – the joyous groom leading his bride to bed.
Legend holds that no one who carries it into battle can be felled by mortal means. Yet the man who carried it had perished in the war that would be remembered for all time. For three thousand years, poets have sung of his valour.
The sepulchre preserves his secrets.
A beam of light cuts through the darkness. The hero’s slumber is disturbed.
1
Istanbul, Turkey, 1955
The man sat on a rush-bottomed chair, long legs crossed and extended in front of him. He leant back against the lime-washed stone wall and waited. A lifetime of experience had taught him the value of patience. Feline eyes squinting in the midday sunlight, he held a hand-rolled cigarette between two spider-leg fingers and lifted it to his lips, inhaling deeply then exhaling, watching the whorls of smoke twirl towards the ceiling.
Something caught his eye in the crowd outside. There. Leaning forward, the man took stock of an approaching couple. They couldn’t be more obvious if they had a neon sign above their heads, he thought to himself. With a swift move, he snuffed out his cigarette and leapt to his feet, whipping around and shouting over his shoulder.
‘Yilmaz! Come!’
From the back of the shop came a sudden thud and the soft-shoe shuffle of leather soles on stone paving. His assistant swept back the beaded curtain and stumbled into the sulphurous light, betrayed by his bleary eyes. It wasn’t the first time Yilmaz had sought refuge from the stuffy, shoebox-sized shop by indulging in a nap on the cushiony piles of kilims and carpets in the back storeroom.
He stood, blinking, bracing for the expected onslaught. ‘Ilhan Bey . . . I’m sorry . . . the inventory. It’s difficult. There are many artefacts I don’t . . .’
‘Shush. It doesn’t matter now. Time to test what you have learnt. Out there.’ Ilhan Aslan tilted his chin towards the two foreigners negotiating their way through the lunchtime melee in the open square.
‘Quickly. What do you see?’
The sixteen-year-old boy sidled towards the plate-glass window and peered out.
‘Tailored clothes. Very well cut. And his Panama . . . from a milliner. Made to measure. Her heels – she can’t walk far in those . . . they came in a car. No parking nearby, so it was a chauffeured one. Money. Lots of it. They are wealthy.’
Unsatisfied, Ilhan clipped the boy over the back of the head. ‘You’re wasting my time. Anyone can see that. I need more. Quickly! Where are they from?’
The boy squinted, taking stock. ‘Lipstick – red. Too much makeup. And long fingernails painted red. Her dress – flashy. She wants to be noticed . . . admired. His suit – blue linen. New. Open-necked shirt. But not Savile Row . . . no tie. And he walks with a swagger. Certainly not British. Italian? No – too tall. And too broad. And she has that blonde hair. But they are not pale enough for Germans.’ Yilmaz paused, weighing the options. ‘They walk as if everyone around is watching them. They are American. Yes – definitely American.’
The older man prodded the boy’s shoulder. ‘East or West Coast? It’s important. To seduce them, you must know them. Quickly, boy. In one minute they’ll be on our doorstep.’
‘Pale hair but brown skin. Her smile – so wide. And those teeth – white and square. Like tavla tiles. So much gold jewellery. And those sunglasses the size of ducks’ eggs . . . she swirls her hips and wiggles as she walks – like a movie star. And his shoes – no laces. Boat shoes . . . West Coast. Or Texas. Maybe . . . oil money?’ Yilmaz looked up at his patron hesitantly.
Ilhan nodded, biting the inside of his cheeks to disguise the smile of pride that rose to his lips. An ability to measure up
a potential customer meant everything in his business. What tone of voice would be most effective – familiar or respectful? Which vocabulary would they respond to – colloquial or formal? Were the visitors looking to be wooed – seduced – by the salesman, or would they prefer a swift and efficient transaction? Most important of all, how much could they afford to spend – or, as was so often the case, how much would they be willing to part with? Ilhan was a chameleon who became exactly what each of his customers needed the minute they walked in the door. As his apprentice, one day he would need Yilmaz to do the same. And the boy was a natural. But Ilhan never left anything to chance when he could avoid it. Thanks to Umut’s phone call that morning, he already knew everything there was to know about the American couple short of their birth weight. But he wasn’t about to let the boy know that.
He clapped Yilmaz affectionately on the back. ‘Good. But they are not oil money. See the man’s eyes? No wrinkles. If he was an oil man, he’d have crow’s feet around his eyes from the sun. No . . .’ Ilhan paused for dramatic effect. ‘The movie business.’
The couple paused on the opposite side of the road, peering nervously at the shopfronts like spring lambs on market day. Along the cobbled street, small clusters of men sat on low stools outside their stores, flicking tesbih beads between manicured fingers and gossiping. Spotting the new arrivals, they rose as one; half-smoked cigarettes stubbed out and stored for later use, beads tucked into trouser pockets, and heavily pomaded hair patted down.
Ilhan lightly pushed Yilmaz between the shoulder blades, urging him towards the front door. ‘Go! Now! They have come here to see us. So get out there and grab them before those vultures swoop and steal our prey!’
Spreading his hands in an expansive gesture, Ilhan took a step forward and bowed his head gracefully: a conductor acknowledging the audience’s applause. He addressed his visitors in impeccable English. ‘Sir. Madam. My name is Ilhan Aslan. It is an honour to welcome you to my humble gallery. To have come here such a distance . . . Los Angeles is a world away.’
He was pleased to see their eyes widen with surprise. Startled, the woman turned towards her husband. ‘But, how did you . . .?’
‘If you’ll excuse me, madam, one of my favourite pastimes is to visit the movie cinema. And the minute I saw you crossing the square, I knew at once that you must be a Hollywood star of the screen.’
The woman flushed, raising her hand in protest but obviously pleased by the compliment. ‘Oh, no. Not me. You must be mistaking me for someone else. Though my husband is in the business.’
Teeth on edge and with broad shoulders squared, the tall man took his wife’s hand and hooked it through the crook of his elbow. ‘Now, sweetie. That’s enough of that. Don’t need to share all our secrets with the locals.’
Ilhan smiled and nodded his head. ‘You must both be weary. And it is so hot in Istanbul at this time of year. The boy will get you a refreshment. Çay . . . Turkish tea? Or a cold soda?’
The statuesque blonde woman glanced at her husband, who answered for her. ‘Er . . . something cold would be super. Thank you.’
‘Yilmaz!’ Ilhan clapped his hands. ‘Iki soda!’
The bell above the door jangled as Yilmaz bolted up the road to the tiny büfe that supplied the myriad stores lining the street with the obligatory hot and cold drinks that lubricated the Turkish commercial world. Without these beverages, the wheels of business in Istanbul would grind to a shuddering halt.
For all their outward confidence, the stately couple were unsettled, unsure where to position themselves in the tiny, and very cluttered, space. Countless ornate brass lamps hung from the ceiling like grapes from a vine. Teetering piles of lustrously painted ceramics were stored along narrow shelves, and stacks of folded carpets and kilims leaning against each wall reduced the already restricted floor space. The air was hot and heavy, and the greasy scent of raw wool in the rugs made the room stuffier still. A languidly spinning ceiling fan did little to dispel the heat.
Sensing his guests’ discomfort, Ilhan indicated an upholstered banquette at the end of the shop. ‘Please. Do you wish to take a seat? The boy will be here with your drinks in a minute.’ He drew aside a curtain and lifted out an electric fan that he turned on and directed towards the seat. ‘This will help.’
The woman looked to her husband for direction. He nodded, and she lowered herself onto the banquette with evident relief. Her husband took a seat beside her, taking a silk kerchief from his breast pocket to mop a sweaty brow.
Ilhan’s customers could be as skittish as nervous young colts or as aggressive and suspicious as sacrificial rams being led off to the imam at Bayram. This couple, he suspected, would be a challenging combination of both. Conditions were less than ideal. Ilhan could tell already that the man would be the one making the decisions. He would determine whether or not the Turk would turn a profit today. But the American was hot and out of sorts. This was going to require a deft touch.
The doorbell jangled again as Yilmaz returned bearing a copper tray carrying two small, clear bottles of gazoz with striped paper straws, and for Ilhan, a tiny, waisted glass full to the brim with tannin-dark tea. The two Americans reached eagerly for the bottles of Turkish lemonade. Ilhan held the scarlet red and gilt-painted saucer delicately in one hand, and dropped one small sugar cube into his tea, stirring it with a silver spoon.
‘If I may ask,’ Ilhan spoke gently, soothingly, ‘what brings you to my city, Mr and Mrs . . .?’ He paused, brow furrowed. Of course Umut had already provided him with this information. But this was all part of the act.
The man leant forward, extending his hand. ‘Van Buren, Mr Aslan. Charles Van Buren. And this is my wife, Marilyn.’
Ilhan grasped his hand, careful not to exert too much pressure. Or too little, for that matter. ‘Please. Call me Ilhan.’
He turned to Marilyn Van Buren and took her hand, raising it gently to his lips. ‘Charmed.’ He raised his gaze, aware of the effect of his exotic good looks on foreign women, and looked deeply into her startlingly blue eyes. ‘Maşallah,’ he exclaimed. He turned to Van Buren. ‘Forgive me . . . it’s your wife’s eyes.’
Marilyn’s high cheekbones flushed pink. ‘Maşallah? It’s the darnedest thing – you can’t imagine how many times I’ve heard that word since we arrived. What on earth does it mean?’
Reaching into a wooden box that rested on the counter, Ilhan took out a small charm and held it aloft. An indigo-blue circular disc no more than a quarter of an inch in diameter was set with a small white glass circle with a tiny black droplet at its centre. It was surrounded by a hand-beaten rim of silver surmounted by a tiny loop through which was threaded a turquoise ribbon and a small silver pin. ‘This is the nazar boncuk . . . an amulet to ward off the evil eye.’ He stood and moved towards Marilyn, glancing at Van Buren as he indicated his intent to pin it on Marilyn’s yellow sundress. ‘May I?’
The American nodded. ‘Of course.’
Ilhan continued his explanation. ‘The evil eye amulet is always blue. And so, in Turkey, to have blue eyes is very lucky. Maşallah – a blessing from God.’ As he slid the pin through the shoulder strap of Marilyn’s dress, his fingertips brushed her bare skin. She shivered imperceptibly, and he could see tiny goose bumps form on her nut-brown shoulder. She glanced up at him through thick black lashes.
Van Buren was reaching into his pocket for his wallet. ‘OK – how much?’
Raising his hand in protest, Ilhan shook his head. ‘Please. No. You are blessed to have such a beautiful wife. It is my good fortune to bestow a gift upon her.’
Head cocked to one side, Van Buren looked proudly at his wife. ‘Yup. She’s a doll. Thanks, Ilhan. Appreciate it.’
And, just like that, he knew he had them. He smiled to himself. It was too easy.
Seating himself on a low wooden stool, deliberately placing himself at a level lower than his customers, Ilhan rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands before him. Van Buren and his wife reclined
comfortably on the banquette, visibly relaxed.
‘Now. Mr and Mrs Van Buren. How did you hear about my humble store?’
‘Well, it’s a long story. Marilyn here has been at me for years every time we travel to Europe. “I just gotta see Constantinople, Charlie”,’ he mimicked. ‘Isn’t that right, sweetie?’
Marilyn leant forward, extending an elegantly turned ankle towards Ilhan and displaying her generous cleavage to excellent effect. ‘When I was a little girl, my favourite story was Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. There’s just something about Arabian stories. And this place is even more romantic than I ever imagined. We went up to Topkapi yesterday to have a look around, and, gee, I’ll tell you what. That place is something! If my dreams came true, I’d be a princess in the Sultan’s harem.’
Laughing loudly, Van Buren patted his wife’s knee. ‘Well, honey. That’d never do.’ He turned to Ilhan. ‘So, seeing as how I’m not going to let this little lady become a sultan’s concubine, I figure I’d better buy her something special to remember the place. We have a private guide showing us round the city – Umut Atalar – and he recommended you as a man who could show us some unusual treasures.’
‘Umut is – in my humble opinion – the best in the city. He is a very capable guide. You chose well.’ And, thought Ilhan to himself, Umut is also very capable when it comes to lining his own pockets. ‘It would be an honour to help your beautiful wife find a souvenir from our city. I have many exquisite things worthy of such a woman.’ Ilhan clapped his hands. ‘Yilmaz!’ His assistant entered the room and bobbed his head. Ilhan addressed him brusquely in Turkish. ‘Don’t bother with the rubbish. Start with the good silk carpets and a few of the large antique kilims. But no antiquities. Not yet.’
Yilmaz nodded his head. ‘Evet, efendim.’ He turned and hefted a folded carpet from a pile at the back of the shop. With a practised flick of his wrists, Ilhan’s assistant unfurled it with a flourish so that it billowed like a silk parachute across the floor. The intensity of the colours and intricacy of its design were breathtaking. Whorls of cobalt blue entwined with ruby red danced across a surface as lustrous as burnished copper. Intending to dazzle the Americans with the display, Yilmaz unfolded carpet after carpet, each more beautiful than the last.