Istanbul: Dateline 1956

By Joseph W. Michels

Istanbul in 1956 was a city very much affected by the Cold War. It served as a destination for Eastern Europeans being smuggled through the Iron Curtain and was a transfer point for smuggling from the Middle East to Europe. Most importantly, the 1950’s was a time of growing American military and economic aid to Turkey.
Soviet and nationalist communist entities viewed the generous American support as a national security threat, leading to a heightened interest on their part in learning what steps the Americans were planning to take or the status of initiatives already underway.
In this novel’s fictional scenario the close knit American expat community of Istanbul, composed of U.S. Consulate personnel, undercover operatives of other U.S. agencies, retirees, businessmen, students and others, is rumored to have a spy in their midst.
After a CIA agent is murdered while investigating the rumor, Alan Harper, a young CIA operative fresh from an assignment in North Africa, is tasked with finding out who ordered the killing while also being asked to take up where the dead agent left off.
The young Alan Harper, only a few years out of journalism school and the completion of his CIA training, undertakes his third major assignment; his first being his undercover work in Calcutta in 1955 in connection with the city’s forthcoming municipal elections; his second being an assessment of the geopolitical status of the province of Cyrenaica, Libya, after Nasser’s nationalization of the Suez Canal in 1956.
Teaming up with Harper during this new and dangerous assignment is Anne Small, a CIA agent based in Beirut who ostensibly works for UNESCO. She poses as Harper’s girlfriend while Harper is purportedly in Istanbul to write a feature article on the growing popularity of Istanbul as an American tourist destination.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781663234674

Joseph W. Michels

JOSEPH W. MICHELS came to fiction writing after a long career as an archaeologist and cultural anthropologist. KAGNEW STATION: DATELINE 1956 is a sequel to the ALAN HARPER TRILOGY. The author became acquainted with Kagnew Station in 1974 while directing a large archaeological project in the region. The project’s headquarters was two blocks from the entrance to Kagnew Station and the project’s staff made extensive use of the base’s facilities.

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Copyright © 2022 Joseph W. Michels.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Credit for cover art photo:

Copyright © Yilmazsavaskandag/Shutterstock.com

Credit for author photo:

Copyright © 2021 Joseph W. Michels

Credit for Istanbul map:

Copyright © 2021 Joseph W. Michels

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-3466-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-3467-4 (e)

iUniverse rev. date:  01/10/2022

Contents

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

MAP-1950%27s%20Istanbul.jpg

Chapter One

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Harper was bone tired as he stepped off the ferry at the Eminonu Ferry Harbor in the Old City. It was late afternoon in early August of 1956. Harper had just endured a seven-hour drive from Izmir, Turkey, after disembarking from the USS Lavina, a Navy destroyer that had been tasked with extracting him from Benghazi as hostile elements in the Libyan security service were closing in.

He wearily shouldered his pack and walked over to the taxi stand on Abdulezel Pasha Avenue, The new American hotel, he said as he climbed into the rear seat of the taxi at the front of the queue. The driver nodded, then pulled away from the curb. A short distance later, the driver turned onto Galata Bridge and slowly navigated the crush of trams, other cars and people making their way across the famed waterway—the Golden Horn.

Their slow progress gave Harper the leisure to study the vessels tied up along the waterfront in the Karakoy Quarter on the opposite bank, as well as the hilly cityscape above with its iconic Galata Tower. It was his first visit to Istanbul, and despite his fatigue he was mesmerized by the city’s dense urban landscape.

Once off the bridge, the taxi took the winding Istiklal Street up the hill, passing through Taksim Square on its way. Reaching what appeared to be a point just short of the summit of the hill, the taxi driver turned off Cumhunyet Street and on to the long formal drive leading to the hotel’s entrance. It was then that Harper was able to take in the full grandeur of the year-old luxury hotel, with its spectacularly modern lines and its grand porte cochere roof that made one think of a flying carpet.

Harper climbed out of the taxi and handed his rucksack to the attendant who led him inside and over to the registration desk. I believe there’s a reservation in my name, said Harper, handing the desk clerk his American passport.

The clerk checked his listings, then nodded, Yes, Mr. Harper, I see here you’ve a room booked for tonight. If you’ll just fill out the registration form we’ll have you quickly on your way to your room, he added as he handed Harper the form and a pen.

Harper scanned the form, checking for questions he’d have difficulty answering, but found none. He gave his parent’s home address as his place of residence, indicated he was a freelance journalist traveling for business, and confirmed he planned staying in the hotel for only one night.

Well, have a pleasant stay, Mr. Harper, said the desk clerk as he handed Harper back his passport and signaled for a bellhop to escort Harper to his room.

After turning away from the registration desk, Harper paused for a moment to take in the dramatic view of the Bosphorus through the lobby’s floor-to-ceiling glass wall at the rear of the lobby.

* * *

When Harper reached his assigned room and had a chance to look around he was impressed with the elegant simplicity of the furnishings. Scandinavian-styled furniture and contemporary color treatments gave the space a refreshingly modern feel, especially notable in a city of old buildings where interior rooms tended to possess overly elaborate decorative embellishments.

He tipped the bellhop, then walked to the glass doors leading out to the room’s balcony. He paused for a moment, taking in the panoramic view. Below him was the city’s Dolmabahce Quarter; across the Bosphorus and clearly visible was the densely settled Uskudar Quarter—the heart of the city’s Asian sector.

Harper stepped through the glass door and stood at the rail, letting himself soak in the splendid view when all of a sudden a long ring emanating from the room’s telephone compelled him to step back inside. Yes? he responded once he’d picked up the receiver.

Sir, this is the front desk. I’ve been asked to inform you a Mr. Holmsby will be calling on you in about a half an hour. He requests you meet him in the hotel’s cocktail lounge.

Was there nothing else? Did the man identify himself? asked Harper, clearly mystified.

I’m sorry, sir. That is all…except to say you were expecting him.

Yes…well, thank you, said Harper, before putting down the phone.

It didn’t take Harper long to figure out his mystery caller had to be Istanbul’s CIA station chief. The cable he’d received from the CIA’s Directorate of Plans while onboard the USS Lavina had specifically mentioned to expect the man’s visit.

Harper, confident he had enough time, pulled from his rucksack the lightweight navy blue suit he’d packed, along with a white dress shirt, a striped tie, and fresh socks and briefs. Knowing the room had a large bathroom with a tub/shower, Harper quickly removed the clothing he’d been traveling in, grabbed his toiletry kit, then headed for the shower.

* * *

Harper adjusted his tie and checked in the mirror how well the crease folds in his suit had smoothed out after being hung on a hanger inside a steamy bathroom for a quarter hour. Not perfect, he thought, but more than presentable.

He left the room and headed for the elevators. As he walked he rolled his shoulders, getting the holster that held his silenced 22 caliber semi-automatic seated more comfortably under his left arm.

He nodded to the elevator operator who took him down, but didn’t engage in conversation. His mind preoccupied with thoughts of the forthcoming meeting where he suspected he’d at last learn the nature of his Istanbul assignment.

It was early evening—just past five o’clock—and the cocktail lounge was busy with guests winding down after a busy day or getting in a cocktail or two before heading for the hotel’s dining room. Harper didn’t attempt to spot the station chief, figuring the man had a photo of him and knew what to look for: a tall blond American, lean but muscular, in his late twenties, with a deep suntan from his recent assignment in North Africa. He sought out an empty table off in a corner, went over and sat down.

A cocktail waiter materialized almost immediately and asked to take his order.

Johnnie Walker Red Label scotch with ice, replied Harper.

Once the waiter was gone Harper scanned the room, curious whether he’d be able to spot the station chief before he made his move. Then he saw him; he was approaching Harper’s table with almost single minded resolve. Harper watched as the soberly dressed man reached his table—an intense, scrutinizing look in his gray eyes. Harper rose from his chair to greet him.

The name’s Holmsby…I take it you’re Alan Harper, said the man.

Harper nodded, studying his guest. He figured Holmsby to be in his early sixties given the heavy lines in the man’s face, his hair having gone almost completely gray, and the extent of his balding—only modestly concealed by a comb over. The man was of average height and build and projected little authority in his posture—a far cry from the military bearing of the Cairo Station chief he’d met with just before leaving for Cyrenaica.

Shall we sit? asked Harper, sensing Holmsby was still too preoccupied with taking the measure of his newly assigned agent to manage the conventional niceties.

The cocktail waiter arrived just as the two men were seating themselves. He placed Harper’s glass of scotch down, then looked inquiringly at Holmsby.

I’ll have the same, said Holmsby somewhat wearily, as if he’d long ago ceased finding drinks with colleagues at all pleasureful.

The waiter bowed, then headed back to the bar to put in the order.

That was some extraction, commented Holmsby, referring to Harper’s hitching a ride on an American destroyer to avoid further dealings with the Libyan security service or the anti-royalists furious with his meddling.

Yeah, replied Harper, stifling a yawn. It’s been an exhausting couple of days.

Well…I’ll get right to the point, began Holmsby, almost apologetically. One of my CIA officers…an agent named Bill Woods…was murdered last week. We believe Wood’s death was intended to prevent him from learning the identity of a particularly resourceful communist sympathizer within the American expat or diplomatic community.

Are you saying Woods suspected someone in the American community was supplying critical information to a foreign power? commented Harper, somewhat perplexed. How would he or she have come to possess such information…surely anything of any value would have been designated need-to-know, making it possible for your office to generate a short list of possible suspects.

Holmsby sighed, Ordinarily, I suppose, that would be true, but the American community here in Istanbul is fairly tight knit…with lots of socializing among consulate, military, business and professional folks. It makes for a fair amount of complacency in the sharing of work gossip…you know…as if they’re in some sort of self-contained security bubble.

So, that’s what you meant by referring to the suspect as particularly resourceful, commented Harper, the person has a special knack for getting others to share intel.

Yes…that’s a good way to put it, said Holmsby grudgingly.

So, how do I fit in? asked Harper.

I need a CIA officer from outside the Istanbul station to put a pair of fresh eyes on the problem…pick up the pieces and run with it.

I don’t get you, sir, said Harper cautiously, taking another sip of his scotch.

Holmsby hesitated for a moment, then said, Woods was a handler…had several key informants on his string. It’s likely one of those informants was the one who tipped Woods off to the existence of some sort of traitor in the American community. Somehow, our adversaries got wind of Woods’ interest in ferreting out the likely source of leaked intel, then killed him.

So, you want me to take over from Woods, observed Harper as he began thinking through the implications. But I was told this was to be a temporary assignment…CIA handlers, on the other hand, are generally thought of as persons who cultivate a long term relationship with their informants…allowing them time to become a reassuring presence.

Holmsby shrugged, Yeah, but not this time…this time you’ll be pressing Woods’ informants to produce intel regarding the matter quickly…as part of an effort to discover who ordered the hit on Woods as well as the identity of the covert source supplying our adversary with valuable American secrets.

What’s my cover? asked Harper, grudgingly reconciled to his new covert role, but curious how he was to be viewed by the American community.

That’s the beauty of it, said Holmsby, smiling for the first time. There’s a good reason why a freelance American journalist would wish to land in Istanbul at just this time.

I don’t get you, said Harper, confused.

Look around you, Harper…the lounge is full of Americans, said Holmsby. Ever since this hotel opened a year ago there’s been a noticeable uptick in Americans heading to Istanbul. Of course, there’d been growth in tourism, trade and the start of new businesses by American and European entrepreneurs even before the opening of the new American hotel, but with the city lacking enough luxury hotels of the sort Americans preferred growth was limited. Overnight, the opening of the new hotel doubled the number of rooms in the luxury category, leading to a spurt in the number of Americans and Europeans visiting Istanbul. The new American hotel has the reputation of being the largest luxury hotel anywhere in Eastern Europe or the Middle East and everyone wants to see it for themselves.

Harper leaned back in his chair, thinking. Finally, he sat up and looked at Holmsby, You want me to represent myself as doing a story…something along the lines of Americans rediscover Istanbul…that right?

Precisely, replied Holmsby. It’ll provide a pretext for you to interview members of the American community…see how they regard the fresh arrival of so many of their fellow countrymen. Knowing how vanity can motivate, I imagine you’ll be invited to numerous gatherings where your respective host or hostess will urge you to mention him or her in your piece.

How’ll I maintain contact with you? asked Harper.

Langley has temporarily assigned Anne Small to serve as both your backup and your contact person. From UNESCO’s point of view she’s simply on vacation…as she was when she worked with you in India. She’ll represent herself in Istanbul as your girlfriend…a cover that worked well previously, I take it.

Harper nodded, welcoming the news, then asked, Is she here already?

No, Langley thought it better if it appeared as if you initiated the request…she’s expecting a call from you urging her to join you here. She’s informed Langley that she has a girlfriend who’s employed at the consulate, so there’ll be no undue scrutiny should she happen to visit the consulate from time to time to gather information on your behalf.

Harper, seeing that Holmsby was about to get up, said, I guess we’re done…all except the matter of the informants I’m supposed to approach as their new handler.

Holmsby reached into the soft briefcase he had with him and handed Harper a 9 x 12 inch envelope, This is all we have on the three informants. It should be enough to get you started.

Harper took the envelope, then stood.

Holmsby also stood. Good luck, son, he said as he shook Harper’s hand. He then turned and walked away.

Harper sat back down and signaled for the waiter to bring another scotch. As he waited he thought about the briefing Holmsby had given him. Certainly, it made clear why he had been ordered to spend his first night at the new hotel—his cover was very much tied up with the impact the hotel had made on American tourism, if for no other reason. But more puzzling was why Holmsby wished for their conversation to occur in such a public setting. He didn’t imagine they’d been overheard; no one was seated at a table close enough to make that possible. Still, anyone privy to Holmsby’s true role as CIA station chief had to at least suspect Harper was in some way connected to the Company’s operations—if not in Istanbul, then elsewhere in the Middle East. And to argue the meet was simply an interview by Harper of Holmsby, ostensibly the consulate’s senior political affairs officer, simply didn’t wash. No, thought Harper grimly, the station chief had deliberately compromised him; his journalistic credentials would always be a bit suspect among those tasked with knowing such things.

After the waiter had returned with his second drink Harper turned to the matter of his plans for the coming day. It was clear from the initial booking of his room that Holmsby didn’t expect Harper to remain a guest of the hotel throughout his assignment, so he needed to find new lodgings…lodgings that would also work for Anne once she arrived. He had little to go on, just the hotels he’d seen as the taxi drove through Taksim Square en route to the new hotel earlier that day. He’d check them out first thing in the morning.

He finished his second drink quickly, then took a moment to sign the chit putting the drinks on his room bill. As inconspicuously as possible, he slipped the large envelope beneath his suit jacket, then stood and headed for the entrance to the cocktail lounge. As he walked he used his peripheral vision to monitor any special attention given him by persons seated in the lounge. Ironically, he thought, it seemed whatever head-turning he spotted had more to do with his youthful physical appearance than with any suspicions of clandestine intrigue.

* * *

Alan…is that you? asked Anne Small.

Yeah…I take it you’ve been briefed, replied Harper, now seated in his hotel room, his shoes off and his tie loosened.

I have…are you now in Istanbul?

I am…got in late this afternoon. I’ve already had a lengthy meeting with the man you’ll be reporting to, so we’ll want to get moving on the assignment as soon as possible. When can you get here?

I checked earlier…there’s a non-stop flight out of Beirut to Istanbul tomorrow…I can be on it.

Good…when would it have you arriving?

Around eleven o’clock in the morning…can you meet me?

Sure…what airline?

Turkish, replied Anne.

"Okay…I’ll