Later that same afternoon the ground began to rise sharply, then a high ridge appeared in the distance and behind it a range of tall mountains. Major Hakir seemed relieved and smiled at me (I believe now he had feared himself lost). He pointed ahead. ‘Ankara,’ he said.
The town came into sight on the crest of the ridge; a broken outline of weather-beaten roofs with a few minarets lifting above them. The outline ended abruptly at the southern edge where a huge, square featureless fortress stood. On the steep face of the ridge I saw fire-blackened ruins and took these as indication of recent attack. When I voiced my guess, Hakir was amused. He shook his head. ‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘It was the damned Armenians. They wouldn’t leave.’
Behind the ridge the peaks of jagged volcanic mountains formed a backdrop of intense blue for the brown and ochre of the pathetic town. Ankara was as timeless as any of the other settlements I had seen on the way. Here and there on the outskirts were ruins plainly Roman; elsewhere the remains of Anatolia’s ancient Greek conquerors. Below the original town modern buildings had been erected, but they were little more than two-storey shacks. Over the largest flew a red and yellow flag, standard of that modern Hannibal who even now gathered another horde from the plains and mountains of Asia Minor, to ride once more against Rome and all she stood for. I made out artillery emplacements, trenches, sandbags. Obviously the town was well defended. Half the weapons guarding Kemal’s New Carthage were of recent Christian manufacture. I saw neat rows of army tents, then makeshift shelters, large marquees, pavilions of silk and cotton which might have come straight from some Arabian desert. There were lorries, motor cars, at least two dismantled aeroplanes, yet horses still predominated.
The camp was chaotic, evidently in preparation for battle. Large mounted bands of brightly clad bazhi-bazouks raced in every direction, whooping and yelling; over this were the ululations of the imams and an occasional shot, fired into the air. For all its immediate confusion the camp was well run. It had the air of discipline I only once witnessed before, in the anarchist stronghold of Nestor Makhno. The odour of woodsmoke was pervasive, mingling with the stink of oil and cordite, issuing from hundreds of small fires burning in dugouts on the outskirts of Ankara. Bimbashi Hakir was awkwardly proud of his citadel but the force still looked far too small to withstand the Greeks. Again I consoled myself that perhaps all I had to do was sit tight and wait to be captured. Guards allowed us through the first ring of defences and into the town until, on the northern side, we arrived at the large nondescript wooden villa flying Kemal’s standard. It stood on its own, some distance from a cluster of barrack-houses, had evidently been painted recently and was in considerably better condition than most. We dismounted. With his hand on my elbow, Hakir led me inside.
We were not stopped by the uniformed guards at the first archway. Coming to attention, they saluted Bimbashi Hakir, staring curiously at me. They looked like men who had been fighting for too long yet were neurotically impatient to begin again. My dark overcoat was layered with dust and mud. My Homburg hat was wrecked. It was impossible to see anything of my patent-leather spats. I had set off dressed carefully, to meet a great financier, but would have been more suitably costumed in the rags and Phrygian cap of the Mob. I was not happy with the condition of my clothing, though I continued to curb my temper, smiling enthusiastically at whoever was introduced to me, nodding here, bowing there. We must have shaken hands with half the bimbashis in the Kemalist army before we got to a little anteroom and closed the door. A large, yellow-bladed fan cooled the air overhead. At first I was surprised, assuming it to be electric. Then I realised it was worked by a hidden slave: an apt image of their new ‘modern’ Turkey. The room was whitewashed and had lattices at the windows, but no glass. On the wall furthest from the door was a large map of Anatolia, one corner of which flapped in the draft of the erratically turning blades. It was almost twilight, but still miserably hot. In front of the map several tables had been arranged, like school desks, and at the nearest of these, his chair turned to face us, sat a tall, slender individual smoking a cigarette in a holder. He had discarded his fez in favour of a French-style képi, but otherwise his uniform, though stylishly cut, was Turkish. He apologised in Parisian accents that he had never learned Russian and smiled ironically to acknowledge his people’s ancient feud with mine. Then he got up quickly, shook hands, and offered me a chair. I was impressed by his manners, if not his attitude, and in other circumstances might have found him charming. His green eyes betrayed far more intelligence than those of Bimbashi Hakir who saluted, murmured something in Turkish, then bowing to me said he was at my service but in the meantime would leave me with this gentleman. He closed the door carefully behind him as he went out and I was alone with the elegant Turk.
‘Are you hungry or thirsty, sir?’ he asked.
I shook my head. ‘Not particularly. But you have the advantage of me. Am I in the presence of Kemal Pasha?’
This amused him. ‘Unfortunately the great general is still on his way to Ankara. His time is increasingly taken up with civilian politics rather than military matters. I am Orkhan Pasha. You know my friend Count Siniutkin, I believe?’
I agreed I was acquainted with the Count, ‘I am very flattered by your interest in my designs.’
‘I must apologise for having to ask you to travel all this way, and in such rough company. But we are in the middle of a war, m’sieu. As I’m sure you understand, it is not as easy for me to come and go in Constantinople as I would wish. Our friends in the city have not yet achieved the necessary power. However, like our President and Commander-in-Chief, I am dedicated to modernising my backward country. When Turkey is restored to her proper dignity, we shall be able to invite men of science from all over the world, to help us fulfil our great dream.’
In honesty, I was able to tell him it was a dream I shared. I did not add that I was sceptical of Kemal or any of his other lieutenants, however well cut their uniforms, ever making reality of their dream. (As it happened, I was quite correct. Giving the vote to women is not necessarily a mark of progress.) ‘Do you wish me to show my plans to your Commander?’ I asked.
‘The interest in your invention, M. Pyatnitski, comes directly from myself and from a certain Çerkes Ethem, who commands our largest force of irregulars. I think you might actually find us more representative of the nationalist cause than Kemal himself.’ Swinging his legs over a bench he moved towards the window, almost as if he expected someone to be listening there. His boots were as brightly polished as the rest of his accoutrements. I recognised a dandy, just as I was quick to scent internal politics, jealousies and plots within the camp. These I might exploit to my advantage.