I have had occasion, in my life, to accuse myself of many things, but stupidity is not one of them; although I would agree I have sometimes been over-trusting or naive. It was dawning on me very rapidly that the Count’s radicalism had not ended with Kerenski’s overthrow. He had merely transferred his loyalties to the Kemalist cause. Now, of course, the nature of his earlier questions became clear. And my replies, meant only as tact, had reassured him I shared his politics. Naturally, I became deeply perturbed, but dare not show it. I had escaped one terrible Civil War. I had emerged with my life after being the prisoner of Ukrainian bandits. I had survived torture, prison, attempts to assassinate me. I certainly had no desire to risk exposing myself to such dangers again, particularly in Turkey where I did not even speak the language. My first duty to myself, therefore, was to humour these people; my second was to escape as soon as possible. How I loathe radicalism and the manipulative tricks, the despicable cunning of those who will descend to any level in the name of a cause in which they always invest the highest virtue. Yet once again if I was to save my life I must curb any expression of anger, nod and smile at the Turkish major, make a pretence at relaxation.
Bimbashi Hakir said slowly, with that distant, pseudo-courtesy typical of the Osmanli, ‘Count Siniutkin says you have agreed to help us. We are very grateful.’ He gestured at the servant who poured him some masticha. ‘Certain hotheads in our movement wish to seek Bolshevik support. But our struggle is different here. We have no intention of putting a torch to history and religion. We merely believe that certain practical reforms are necessary. A cleaning of the stables, as it were. You can be of enormous help to us, M’sieu Pyatnitski. We must convince the pro-Bolshevik faction that we can have progress without absolute destruction of our heritage. You, I understand, are of the same thought.’ Fixing his pale eyes on me, he lifted his glass and sipped. I was reminded of Sultan Abdul Hamid pictured in middle years. Hakir had the same intense, unblinking, almost birdlike stare which he turned directly on whomever he addressed. I babbled silly catch-phrases to satisfy him and he smiled. These egocentric revolutionaries demand only confirmation of their solipsistic delusions. ‘I hope you will be my guest tonight. We shall travel together in the morning. As you can imagine,’ he made a gesture which was meaningless to me but which evidently gratified him, ‘I am taking something of a risk in occupying my own house!’
What choice had I? I was furious! The victim of deceit, I had been lured into a nest of snakes and must now hiss and writhe and seem equally venomous lest they turn and strike at me in unison. I would take as much of the Turk’s gold as I could, giving him an inferior design for his trouble and reporting all I knew to the authorities as soon as I had the opportunity to get clear. Presently, however, it was of paramount importance to bide my time, let them think me a willing volunteer. Another might have lost self-control upon finding himself unexpectedly in the power of his hereditary enemies, but I managed to suppress emotion, presenting an almost enthusiastic face to the bimbashi. Neither he nor Siniutkin, whom I now perceived as a traitor to his race, his religion and his class, for a moment guessed my deepest feelings. Let them hang themselves, I thought. With important information about the Kemalists, I could easily approach the British and thus win myself and Esmé a passage to England, where, moreover, I should be safe from the Osmanli’s vengeance. It was my duty to learn everything. While Siniutkin and Hakir talked of ‘corruption’ in the Sultanate and Allied ‘machinations’, I pretended smiling enthusiasm. Soon after sunset we entered a wide, low room, hung with expensive silks and tapestries, furnished with low divans and richly carved tables. We ate what I must admit was an excellent, if simple, meal. The bimbashi was one of those Turks who prided himself on the elegance and near asceticism in his lifestyle (frequently the mark of an Islamic fanatic) and spared not a second’s thought for the miserable subject peoples who provided it.
We retired early, with further expressions of friendship and mutual idealism. In a room full of Moorish arches and screens, with the breeze moving my four-poster’s mosquito curtains, I lay looking up at the rounded ceiling whose delicate colours were illuminated by brass lamps suspended on chains, and I carefully considered my situation. I might be able to get up later and steal the motor car, but with no proper driving experience, possessing only a rough idea of where we were, not even knowing how much petrol was in the tank, I set that plan aside as being only good for an emergency. Again I found myself having to cope with my anxieties about Esmé and the Baroness and pointlessly brooded on Siniutkin’s treachery. He had to be insane to betray so thoroughly his own ancient blood. He was one of those who supported indiscriminately any revolutionary cause: a latter-day Bakunin, hiding a corrupt and murderous soul behind a charming, aristocratic exterior. I should take particular pleasure in denouncing him as soon as I returned to Constantinople. It had become increasingly clear that the post-revolutionary world threw up huge numbers of subtle opportunists like him, but outside Russia this was my first direct experience of the breed. I would become far more cautious in later years. Men like Siniutkin take a perverse pleasure in betraying the people who trust them most; they are the willing agents of every tyranny. This kind would later lure friends back to Stalin’s Russia to be killed, become journalists on émigré newspapers, discover the secrets of poor souls trying to help friends or relatives still trapped in that ‘Union of Soviets’, then slyly pass the information over to the Cheka. They willingly practised the most despicable forms of hypocrisy to achieve Trotski’s maniacal dream of World Revolution. Inevitably, of course, most were themselves betrayed. Fittingly Siniutkin would be assassinated very probably by direct order of the NKVD. His kind did more damage to the cause of peace than any number of warring armies. The motives of Turkish mutineers were at least understandable, if scarcely reasonable. Men of Siniutkin’s stamp however remain to this day a baffling mystery to me.
Next morning, to my dismay, the traitor had gone. He left the excuse of needing to keep contact with French arms dealers in Scutari. I suspected that actually he could not bear to face me. All I could hope was that he had sent my telegram as promised. I was now entirely in the hands of the little grey-bearded bimbashi. Hakir was as superficially polite as ever. I think he never quite realised how Siniutkin had tricked me. He treated me without suspicion as a fellow conspirator, although he remained reserved. As a Christian and a Russian, I was still his ancient blood enemy. I determined to give him friendly responses for as long as necessary. I knew their radical cant. I was capable of making as much hot air about self-determination and universal justice as Lenin himself. We ate a small breakfast, then left Hakir’s villa, climbing back into the De Dion Bouton again. The chauffeur took a different road down the mountain, I received tantalising glimpses of distant Constantinople, her towers and roofs bright above the morning sea fog, then we were moving inland, leaving the lush, dreaming beauty of the hills behind and progressing relentlessly towards the barren, blood-soaked plateaus on which the primitive Osmanli hordes had first gathered themselves to launch, with ferocious jealousy, their attempted conquest of Christ, civilisation and the gentle humanitarian virtues of the Greeks.