Chapter One Constantinople, 1913

2 0 0
                                    

Malcomb Ridley peered carefully around the corner. He had met the informer at the corner of the French embassy near the French Tribunal of Justice building. He was standing in a doorway near the streetlamp on the corner. It was a hissing gaslit streetlamp that flickered and did little to dispel the gloom that crept in on little cat feet with the fog that rolled in off the Bosporus. A full moon played peek-a-boo behind the roiling threads of mist. Out on the water a foghorn bellowed mournfully.

The informant had gestured with the glowing end of his lit cigarette as he passed. This was not Ridley's normal course or method of obtaining information. He gathered information of all kinds. But the kind that sold for the highest price was one that might be of interest to His Majesty's government. Or any of the governments represented in embassy row.

Normally he could easily obtain juicy tidbits for resale to the highest bidder; or bidders if he could manage a double shakedown. Of course if the customer were a government, he had to give assurances that it was an exclusive sale. But that just meant he had to be a little careful who else he sold it too.

Sometimes he picked up snippets of gossip in a friendly card game at his club. The members included representatives of all three of the great embassies: English, German and French. The Italian and Russian embassies were close by as well. A happy little circumstance , he thought. After a couple of tumblers of whiskey and a good cigar, tongues would loosen; especially if he were careful to lose frequently enough. Which simply proved, that it could definitely pay to sit and listen to hedonistic bombast until your ears were aching with it.

At other times he could gather useful information by simply watching to see who emerged from whom's boudoir and then blackmailing the participants. A bit unsavory of course, but highly lucrative.

But this opportunity was a little different. His informant was well aware that he was more than a card table gossip; he was passing on secrets and wanted compensation in cold, hard currency.

Ridley followed the informant around the brick corner and entered an alley that was redolent with the stench of sewage lying in an open gutter. A mangy dog nosed among refuse. Ridley hesitated before venturing any deeper into the ally. This sort of thing was definitely beneath the behavior of a gentleman like himself; going on for twelve years in this game. He was tempted to just walk away. He could not see the other man as he stopped and looked around. Hissing came from his left and he turned that way to see a shadow in a doorway. He moved over, hooking his umbrella over his left wrist. In his left hand was a roll of currency. In his right was a derringer, just in case.

In a low voice, he murmured, "You have the information, I presume?"

"As promised, Monsieur." The informant held a flat buff envelope bulging with documents.

"How do I know this isn't a ruse? Those letters could be anything. Your wife's shopping list, for all I know."

The shadowed face in the doorway evinced a pained expression. "Amatrices." He said with poorly concealed disdain. With his thumb, he separated the flap enough so that Ridley could see the letterhead of the first document.

Ridley squinted fiercely in the piss-poor lighting, but could eventually make out the embossed seal of the German Reich on the letterhead.

"Good enough Monsieur?" his informant asked, amused. "Or do you also need my firstborn enfant as surity?"

Ridley let that pass. "If it doesn't click I always know where to find you."

"As I am sure you will, Monsieur." The Frenchman replied smoothly.

After the exchange, he stuffed the envelope into his waistcoat pocket and rebuttoned the shawl lapel lounge jacket he wore over it. He crept out of the alley and continued down the Cadde Istlakal, considering possible customers for this new tidbit. If it was what he thought it was, some one was going to find it most interesting. It was well after midnight, but the Muezzin on his tower would not call for Fajr for some time yet.

COIN OF ANGELSWhere stories live. Discover now