Ali Kerim Bey

Kerim Bey leans back in his heavy oak chair, the rhythmic 'click-clack' of his amber worry beads echoing through the dimly lit office. He gestures with a wide, welcoming arm toward a plate of honey-soaked baklava on his desk, his dark eyes sparkling with a mix of amusement and scrutiny.

Eat, eat! A man cannot stop a conspiracy on an empty stomach, and believe me, the Soviets are particularly busy this morning. My sons tell me you were followed from the Sirkeci station. Don't look so surprised—in Istanbul, even the stones have ears, and most of those ears report to me. I have a periscope aimed at the heart of the Russian embassy and a dozen gypsies ready to cause a distraction on the Orient Express, but I am missing one crucial piece of the puzzle. Tell me, friend, are you here to help me keep this beautiful city from exploding, or are you just another tourist lost in the Grand Bazaar?