Destination Istanbul

By Clara Wesley

Destination Istanbul is set in Europe in 2011. Sir Damien Hardwycke, a Shakespearean actor, is also an undercover agent for Europol. His current mission is to discover who is distributing forged Euros to European locations. Lt. Luigi Fortini joins Damien and the St. Tropez Theater Company on a voyage from Venice to Istanbul. Tragedy strikes when an unknown male is thrown overboard in the Dardanelles. Later, Istanbul Police finds a second body in an old water cistern. The trail of the forged Euros seems to have petered out, the criminals having disappeared into the East European underworld.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984521576

Book preview

DESTINATION ISTANBUL

Clara Wesley

Copyright © 2018 by Clara Wesley.

Library of Congress Control Number:        2018904401

ISBN:        Hardcover                978-1-9845-2155-2

                  Softcover                  978-1-9845-2154-5

                   eBook                      978-1-9845-2157-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 04/12/2018

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Cast of Characters

St. Tropez

Venice

The Adriatic

Dubrovnik

On-Board Zephyr

In the Mediterranean

Istanbul

Sochi

Tallinn

St. Petersburg

In London

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I am greatly indebted to the following authors’ works:

• Susie Hodge’s The Great Artists

• Carol Drinkwater’s The Illustrated Olive Farm

• Michael Palin’s Sahara

• John Berendt’s The City of Falling Angels

• Rick Steves’s Croatia and Slovenia

• Frommer’s Provence and the Riviera, Athens Day by Day, and Istanbul

Any errors in the text are mine.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

ST. TROPEZ

Damien leisurely sipped his steaming triple espresso in its thick white cup. His waiter, in a dazzling white shirt and apron over tight-fitting black pants, deftly placed an order of crêpes sprinkled with lemon juice and brown sugar on the table. Le Pêcheur, Damien’s favourite St. Tropez cafe, was crowded with exuberant, sun-loving tourists, although it was only eight o’clock. The more sober locals would doubtless stop by later.

Damien’s attention was caught by a headline on the front page of the Times: HEATHROW’S MYSTERIOUS CORPSE. Damien read, A corpse has been found at Heathrow 5 in one of the labyrinthine tunnels that lead to the departure gates. The discovery occurred when a special assistance cart carrying three disabled male passengers to the gate of a British Airways plane bound for Toronto, Canada, broke down. The driver told his passengers to stay put while he went for assistance. One of the men, a Mr. Strachan, decided he needed to go to the toilet. He wandered off, opened an unlocked door, and was confronted by a body that was sprawled across the rear seat of a golf cart. An autopsy completed the following morning revealed that the body was that of a young teenager who had died of IFIS. Medical authorities have informed us that IFIS is a massive fungal infection. No further information is yet available.

How intriguing, thought Damien, as he sat, daydreaming.

Damien liked to fantasise that with a bit of good luck, he could have been a megasuccess like George Clooney, winning two Golden Globes and an Academy Award; achieving success as a director, producer, and screenwriter; and serving as a United Nations Messenger of Peace. Damien regularly rewatched Ocean’s Eleven and Syriana when he was back home in his London apartment. He really admired Clooney’s panache and made a point of observing him in action off-screen, then he tried to emulate his commanding but easy-going presence.

Of course, Damien liked to think that he’d given his life to the real theatre, and over the years, he had enjoyed successes in major roles at Stratford-upon-Avon and in Old Vic productions in London (some of which had funded his purchase of his Barbican apartment in London). And for years, he’d appeared with countless repertory companies throughout Britain. That was why in his senior years, he was in demand now on cruise ships in the Mediterranean and the Baltic and the Caribbean.

Despite the fact that today’s luxurious vessels seemed to have every possible amenity, from casinos to stage shows and from minigolf courses to climbing walls, the cruise line organisers seemed to be sold on the idea that passengers need celebrities to entertain them after a hard day relaxing on-board or viewing local sights on land. That explained Damien’s presence in St. Tropez today, although he knew in his heart of hearts that he was a pretty mediocre celebrity. Real theatrical celebrities were people like John Gielgud. For fifty years, according to Alec Guinness (another actor/celebrity), if one mentioned John to another actor in London, it was a given that you were referring to Gielgud. Of course, Damien knew he could never aspire to that kind of fame.

But one must count one’s blessings, and Damien was thankful that the St. Tropez Theatre Company had invited him to accompany them on the Zephyr, sailing from Venice to Istanbul, stopping at Dubrovnik and Athens. Damien and the cast were scheduled to perform scenes from The Merchant of Venice en route, and the director had arranged for the company to present a full-length Othello in Venice and in Istanbul at the beginning and end of the cruise. After that, Damien would fly home to London, and his Swiss bank account would have received a welcome euro boost.

Damien had flown business class to Nice Airport yesterday. He’d been picked up by Henri, M. Blanc’s chauffeur, and driven to the Hotel du Lac in St. Tropez. The estimable M. Blanc, a local banker, had arranged everything. That was the wonderful thing about these summer commitments. The locations were lovely, the weather idyllic, and the food and accommodation were delightful. The people were full of joie de vivre, and one could depend on wealthy patrons giving sumptuous parties.

Damien signalled for another cup of delicious espresso while he tuned in to a forty-something blonde in skimpy sky-blue top complain to an obvious toy boy—in white cargo pants and coffee-coloured shirt open to his navel—about the abuse she suffered at the hands of her wealthy stockbroker husband, Boris, who was presently in Moscow, or maybe in Dubai. She couldn’t really recall. Her grievances were given in a mix of French, English, and German. Damien was multilingual, so he had no problems in following. His facility in languages was just one of the reasons why Europol employed him occasionally to work undercover in exposing some of the many acts of villainy that were rife in the United Europe. And of course, he was a legitimate actor, so his cover as the leading man in a company of European thespians was perfect.

A gentle honk from a car that had just drawn into the parking lot broke Damien’s reverie. Probably Henri, my chauffeur for this morning, Damien thought as he gave a genteel wave to the driver. He heard a greeting from the passenger, Bonjour, Sir Damien.

Not Henri’s voice, thought Damien. Must be M. Blanc himself. How very gracious!

Damien left a twenty-euro note by his plate and exited gracefully. Nice car, he noted, as he approached the pearl-grey Audi 500. This must be M. Blanc’s personal car.

M. Blanc, attired in a trendy cream linen suit, introduced himself and shook hands formally, then he returned to his seat while Damien settled in his rear seat. As Henri drove carefully along the Quai Jean Jaurѐs, past a few grizzled fishermen mending their nets, then up a steep, winding road, M. Blanc and Damien exchanged pleasantries. Their previous communications had been via cell phone, and they had exchanged digitised images to avoid confusion when Damien arrived. Eventually, the conversation lapsed, and that gave Damien the opportunity to mentally assume his role of Othello, the tragic hero in the major play that the company would rehearse during his week’s stay in St. Tropez.

When Henri stopped at a large hall, Damien was gratified to note that on the big posters outside the building, he was billed as Sir Damien Hardwycke, the celebrated Shakespearean actor. Reminding himself that first impressions were vital, as he followed M. Blanc through the vestibule, Damien tried to assume the walk of a powerful Negro in his prime—a military leader very conscious of his responsibilities to the seventeenth-century city state of Venice. When they reached the stage, M. Blanc introduced Sir Damien to the seated company. Damien paid particular attention to Claire Marie, the attractive tall female lead who was cast as Desdemona and also as Portia in The Merchant of Venice. Her olive complexion, full red lips, and lustrous jet-black hair were just right for the role of Desdemona, even though she was a little old for Portia, in Damien’s opinion. Claire Marie was almost as tall as he was, and she gave him a steady appraising look. Damien felt a tingling in his loins as he envisaged the forthcoming affair he would enjoy with Desdemona. He always hoped for the right erotic chemistry between the Moor and his wife—a chemistry essential to the success of the play.

As he had grown older, Damien had found that the bard’s words alone failed to inspire him to the heights of pathological jealousy exhibited by a character such as Othello. He needed the spur of a highly sensual, if short-lived, liaison with his leading lady in order to appear convincing in his later portrayal of an enraged, cuckolded husband. He felt that passionate love, soon turned to hate by the wily insinuations of Iago, would enable Damien, as Othello, to display convincingly the insane jealousy that would climax in his smothering of Desdemona. Being cuckolded in the twenty-first century might not seem such a big deal to a contemporary audience, so it was incumbent on Damien, as Othello, to help them understand that to a hot-blooded Moor in seventeenth-century Venice, being betrayed by a wife was a mortal sin deserving of death.

As M. Blanc continued with the introductions, Damien was gratified to observe that most of the cast seemed to appreciate the honour bestowed on their company by his presence. One of the ladies even gave a slight curtsy, and Damien gave a gracious nod, suppressing a smile. Only Louis, who would play Iago, seemed less than deferential; there was even a hint of a sneer on his face when M. Blanc introduced him to Damien, as if he was thinking that Damien was just another ageing Shakespearean actor relegated to third-grade companies. Damien allowed himself a mental shrug. Just as he had tried to take on the mantle of Othello, Louis had perhaps adopted the characteristics of the devious, treacherous, slightly insolent Iago. Instinctively, Damien felt he would dislike Louis, but that would make his ambivalent reaction towards Iago in the play more credible to the audience.

As Damien exchanged pleasantries with each member of the cast in turn, Claire Marie was assessing the personality of her leading man. She had checked him out on the internet prior to his arrival and texted other actresses. The latter all labelled him a womaniser. One replied, I recall playing Jessica to his Shylock in Stratford some years ago, and he actually pinched my bottom onstage one night. A bit over the top to do that to your daughter, don’t you think?

What else is new? Claire Marie had texted back.

The male actors she knew had reported on Damien’s professionalism, and he had a long list of credits in his career, mainly in Britain. But like many others, he’d never made it to the top of his profession. He was probably a handsome man in his prime twenty years ago, if one liked the well-built, florid type. Vain about his appearance, she surmised. Probably worked out regularly in the gymnasium or the pool.

She’d try hard to be gracious; after all, she would be seeing a lot of him for the next two weeks. And if she were to carry out her own mission successfully during the cruise, she needed an untroubled relationship with her leading man. If that meant sleeping with Damien, so be it. A sexually satisfied man was usually a compliant man.

Once all the company had been introduced to Damien, Manager Bronovsky took command and organised a quick read through of the first two acts. The company had just finished a week’s performance of Othello, so the reading went very smoothly. Most of the cast were word-perfect, and Damien was very glad that he, too, could ignore his written text. He thought it created the right impression. Afterwards, most of the company dispersed immediately, presumably to their regular jobs. M. Blanc, who had listened attentively to the reading, invited Damien and Claire Marie to join him for a quick lunch at a local restaurant, and they both accepted enthusiastically.

They ate on the terra cotta–paved terrace, under the shade of a heavily tasselled mauve wisteria. Damien’s eyes feasted on the cobalt-blue sky and the dark-green olive groves that sloped down to the jade Mediterranean, and he took deep breaths of the sweetly pungent air, redolent of lemon and mimosa and orange blossoms. Surely, God created the Côte d’Azur, Damien reflected, paraphrasing the famous 1950s film And God Created Woman, starring Bardot.

M. Blanc had a meeting with the investors immediately after lunch, so they ate simply—a shared crudités platter followed by croque-monsieurs, accompanied by two bottles of Sauternes. After M. Blanc’s departure—Damien was pleased to note that his host settled the bill before leaving—Damien and Claire Marie exchanged information. She owned an art gallery in town, which she inherited from her late parents. She enjoyed travelling in Europe, Africa, and Asia, seeking up-and-coming artists. Her home was an apartment above the gallery, very convenient for dining out—she laughed—for she was no cook. Like many town dwellers in Europe, she didn’t own a car. She rented one when she needed one, and she admitted to having many male friends who were happy to act as chauffeur.

Damien reciprocated by briefly describing his apartment in the Barbican Centre, a ten-minute walk from St. Paul’s Cathedral. "Barbican means a towered outpost on city walls, he explained. And in Roman times, there was a fortification on the site. The centre is one of the largest multiarts developments in Europe, comprising cinemas, a theatre and hall, an art gallery, conference suites, restaurants, and flats for more than four thousand occupants. I bought my home in the late 1980s and have never regretted it.

But of course, he summed up, I envy your home in St. Tropez! Claire Marie gave him a dazzling smile, and soon afterwards, they shared a taxi to the centre of town. Claire Marie alighted first, outside her gallery. Damien kissed her hand as she left, murmuring pleasantries about meeting again for dinner at M. Blanc’s home, La Golandrina.

Later,