‘You are plainly a far-sighted man, Orkhan Pasha.’ I hesitated. ‘I’m surprised a peasant irregular like Çerkes Ethem should support your ideas, however.’
The Turkish officer shrugged, lighting a fresh cigarette, ‘It’s probably accurate to say he supports me rather than my ideas, m’sieu. He is primarily a soldier. He wants to see this business accomplished as swiftly and efficiently as possible. What is more -’ he hesitated in some embarrassment, clearing his throat - ‘his gold will finance your planes. I suppose we should discuss such things. I have no head at all for business, I fear. Are you a practical man? I have never had to deal with the commercial aspects of soldiering.’
I recognised this typical Turkish attitude. To him the very idea of bargaining and discussing money was distasteful. Coming as I did from noble Cossack stock, I shared a little of his attitude. ‘There is no need for immediate discussion, Orkhan Pasha. I would prefer to bathe, as my first priority, if that is possible. I should also like my clothes cleaned. There was a misunderstanding earlier. As a result I brought no changes with me.’
Much relieved, he became solicitous. ‘Excellent. And then we shall dine.’ He clapped his hands. When an orderly appeared he gave rapid instructions in Turkish. ‘Very well, m’sieu. We shall look forward to enjoying your company in a little while!’
I was escorted to a decently equipped bathroom, with huge fixtures all in marble and gilt, where the orderly took my clothes away. I spent some time in the bath, collecting my thoughts and reviewing what I had learned. In these days, amongst most bandits and rebels, a good engineer or mechanic was regarded as a valuable asset, not to be too easily disposed of. I had become a commodity again, as I had been amongst Hrihorieff’s rabble, and at least knew I would not be quite so vulnerable to the arbitrary decisions of a petty warlord. I finished bathing as the orderly returned with my suit and fresh European linen in my sizes. Feeling considerably refreshed, I allowed myself to be led down a passage, up a short flight of stairs, to a long room on the second storey where hot food was being served from large dishes on a kind of massive sideboard. This appeared to be the officers’ mess. There was only one other present and he was already helping himself to aromatic sausages, stews and sauces which, if properly prepared, can be amongst the tastiest in the world. My mouth was watering as I greeted this stranger. He was evidently the bandit leader, Çerkes Ethem, whom Siniutkin had called the Zapata of Turkey: one of those charismatic ‘Robin Hood’ figures produced by almost every national revolution. His swarthy Mongolian features, his glittering narrow eyes, black beard and rough, brutish manners identified him. That such a creature should consider using any kind of aeroplane was astonishing. Orkhan Pasha appeared behind me soon after I had entered, leading me towards the brigand chief and introducing us. Next he removed the plate gently from Çerkes Ethem’s hand and waved us both towards a table, which had been laid for three in the European fashion. He clapped and signalled to servants standing ready against the far wall, speaking in rapid, humorous tones to Çerkes Ethem and then, turning to me, said in French: ‘The stewards feel very hurt if we did not require their services.’
Çerkes Ethem shrugged and put himself in his chair rather as if he were mounting a half-trained pony, but he was smiling, too. His Turkish was slower and easier to understand. He thought these men should be out fighting, not waiting on tables. It soon emerged that his hatred of Mustafa Kemal was greater than any dislike he had of Greeks, Armenians, Bulgarians, Georgians, British or Albanians. Evidently Kemal had tried to enforce discipline on the bandit, who resented it. His men lived off booty. Part of their prize was the privilege of taking any captured village’s women, Turkish or otherwise. Kemal was being stupid about that tradition. What was more, he demanded large shares of any treasure they found. As I listened to these criticisms, I began to suspect Ethem of being the likeliest man responsible for the recent burning of Ankara’s Armenian quarter. His wholehearted contempt for that persecuted race was almost admirable in its dedication, like a Cossack’s fierce, purified hatred of the Jew. As the meal progressed I found myself quite enjoying the bandit’s company, perhaps more than that of the sophisticated dandy seated next to him. Orkhan Pasha leaned back in his chair, eating little, smoking a great deal, listening with amused relish to his ally’s ravings. In other circumstances I might have grown to like Ethem, notwithstanding his dedication to Allah and his unselfconscious anti-Christian bias. He was then, I later learned, a much greater hero in Nationalist circles than Kemal himself. If he had succeeded in his bid for power, Çerkes Ethem would have withdrawn entirely from Constantinople. He told me he had no use for the place and was willing to trade her for an Allied pledge to recall the Greeks. He knew of Lord Curzon’s plan to expel all Turks from Stamboul, Galata and Pera, an idea supported by Winston Churchill and a handful of other visionaries in the English cabinet. He had nothing against the scheme, he said. ‘Then those people would have to bring all their wealth and knowledge to Ankara. It seems the only way you would get them out of their harems, eh?’ He revealed a knowledge of German, a little French, and a smattering of Russian from his pre-war ‘private expeditions’ across the border, so I had no trouble in following him. Orkhan Pasha, on the other hand, sometimes used such convoluted sentences, with such an affected Parisian accent. I frequently failed to grasp his meaning. However, the situation itself was clear enough to me. While Kemal busily prepared for a big campaign against the Greeks, these two intended to build my planes. At a critical moment they intended to unleash the machines upon the enemy, proving themselves not only ‘better Turks’ than Kemal (who was disliked for his Westernising notions) but also men with a practical command of modern technology. They needed to impress the politicians as well as their troops. By building the planes, I saw immediately, I would actually be driving a wedge between two parties of Nationalists and so rendering the whole force weaker. I could, in clear conscience, help Çerkes Ethem, if I so desired. I should be able to see my machines tested in the air while at the same time striking a blow at the Kemalist cause.
Orkhan Pasha asked when I could begin. I said I could start at once, given proper materials. I had unrolled my sheets of linen paper and was explaining likely unit costs and potential problems, when we were interrupted by a distant booming from the western perimeter. Strolling to the shutters, Orkhan Pasha opened them and peered through the lattice. Flashes of fire turned his face red and made his eyes as animated as a devil’s. ‘A Greek air attack,’ he said. ‘They’ve had wind of our mobilisation and are trying to slow us down. Now you can see how urgently we need your aircraft, M. Pyatnitski.’
‘They’re damned cowards.’ Çerkes Ethem wiped soft bread over his empty plate. ‘Like all Greeks. They hate to fight man-to-man. But what can you expect of British lapdogs?’ He grinned. ‘Not that it’s Greeks attacking us now. Do you think those flyers were born in Athens?’ He stuffed the bread in his mouth, chewed for a moment, then swallowed. He shook with amusement at his own wit. ‘The only way to get a Greek into the air is in a vulture’s beak!’
The guns of Ankara were firing back, but it was field artillery, useless as anti-aircraft defence. I heard the whistle of bombs. I had hoped never to be so close to another battle in my life and for a moment felt sick. I made myself go to the window. This attack was nearer than most I had experienced in Russia. In the flashes from bombs and shells, from flares which seemed to cut across the sky at random, I saw horsemen galloping hell-for-leather through the roiling smoke. I never discovered what they hoped to achieve, unless they simply dared the planes to hit them. Turks love to die. Death must be so much preferable to most of them, I suppose.