We were drinking thick, bitter coffee in small cups. The radio was silent now. I had trouble paying attention to Father Gregor. My mind was grimly occupied with two problems-the impossibility of entering Turkey and the equal impossibility of leaving Turkey.
“I noticed, too, that one man was mentioned on both programs, though in different contexts. A Mr. Tanner. Did you notice that?”
“Yes.”
“Do you find this amusing?”
“I-”
He smiled gently. “May we halt this masquerade? Unless I am very much mistaken, which, I admit, is of course a possibility, I believe that you are the Evan Michael Tanner of whom they speak. Is that correct?”
I didn’t say anything.
His eyes glinted brightly. “The infinite variety of life, Mr. Tanner. Once, shortly after the war, I had two alternative courses of action. I could continue to lead a very fast-paced absorbing life. Or I could, so to speak, retire to Sofia. I selected the latter course. As I’ve mentioned, many persons questioned this decision. That American song-how does it go? About the difficulty of keeping boys on the farm after they’ve been to France. Do I have it right?”
“More or less.”
“Good. At any rate, I made my decision. The precise reasons for it are unimportant. A combination, perhaps, of self-preservation and the conservatism that comes with years. I have noticed, though, that life does not pass one by. When one lives in Sofia, excitement comes to Sofia.”
He picked up his coffee, studied it, then set the cup down untasted. “I suspected your identity from the first, if you are interested. You were referred by a member of IMRO, and of course that made me think of Macedonia, and I had heard of you in connection with the uprising. And we spoke in English. That was a test of mine, you see. Your Bulgar is better than my own English, actually. Quite unaccented. But your English has an American accent. This led me to the rather obvious conclusion that you were an American. And during the program I observed your reactions to the various reports upon your activities. But you do not really want to hear me boast of my prowess as a detective, do you? Hardly. At any rate, I know that you are you. Are you really going to Ankara? Or was the report correct?”
“I’m going to a small town. As they said.”
“Ah. You have friends there?”
“No.”
“None at all?”
“None.”
He stroked his chin. “I trust you have a very important reason for going there?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask you a delicate question?”
“Of course.”
“You need not answer it, and I need not add that you have the option to answer it untruthfully. Is there, perhaps, the opportunity for you of financial profit in Turkey?”
I hesitated for some time. He waited in respectful silence. Finally I said that there was an opportunity for financial profit.
“Substantial profit?”
“Quite.”
“So I suspected. I presume you would prefer not to tell me your precise destination in Turkey?”
Did it matter? The rest of the world already seemed to know. I said, “Balikesir.”
“I do not know it. In the northwest?”
“Yes.”
He took an atlas from a shelf, thumbed through it, located a map of Turkey, studied it, then looked up at me and nodded. “Balikesir,” he said.
“Yes.”
Father Gregor got to his feet and walked to the window. While looking out it he said, “In your position, Mr. Tanner, I would have a great advantage. I am, as you no doubt know, of the Left Hand. I would be able to enlist the aid of other members of the Left Hand. If I were attempting to bring something into Turkey, they might help me. If, on the other hand, I were bringing something out of Turkey, they again might be of assistance.”
I said nothing. I sipped my coffee. It was cold.
“Of course, there is a custom in the Society. I would be expected to give to the Left Hand a tithe of the proceeds of the venture. A tenth part of whatever gain I realized.”
“I see.”
“What sort of profit do you anticipate?”
“Perhaps a great deal if my information is correct. Perhaps none at all.”
“How large a sum if your information is right?”
I named a figure.
“A tenth part of that,” said Father Gregor, “would be a substantial sum. Sufficient, I am sure, to interest the Left Hand.”
I said nothing.
“But perhaps you would not care to part with a tithe?”
“That would depend.”
“On whether you need assistance? And on whether it can be supplied?”
“More or less.”
“Ah.” He put his hands together. “It would be possible to assemble a dozen very skillful men in Balikesir at whatever time you might designate. It would be possible to supply the materials you might need for a proper escape. It would be possible-”
“A plane?”
“Not without extreme difficulty. Would a boat do?”
“Yes.”
“A boat is easily arranged. How powerful a boat would you require?”
“One that could reach Lebanon.”
“Ah. It is gold, then?”
“How did-”
“What else does one sell in Lebanon? For many items Lebanon is where one buys. But if one has gold to sell, one sells it in Lebanon. One does not get the four hundred Swiss francs per ounce one might realize in Macao, but neither does one get the one hundred thirty francs one would obtain at the official rate. I suspect you might realize two hundred fifty Swiss francs an ounce for your gold. Is that what you had anticipated?”
“For a priest,” I said, “you’re rather worldly.”
He laughed happily. “There is only one thing.”
“Yes.”
“It would be necessary for you to join the Society of the Left Hand.”
“I would have to become a member?”
“Yes. You are willing?”
“I know nothing about the Society.”
He considered this for a few moments. “What must you know?”
“Its political aims.”
“The Left Hand is above politics.”
“Its general aims, then?”
“The good of its members.”
“Its nature?”
“Secret.”
“Its numerical strength?”
“Unknown.”
“The nature of its membership?”
“Diverse and scattered throughout the earth. Largely in the Balkans, but everywhere. Listen,” he said, “you wish to know what you are joining. This is understandable. But you have no…what is the expression? Ah. You have no need to know. Perhaps I can tell you simply that my membership in the Left Hand enables me, a simple priest, to live quite nicely in a city where priests rarely live too well. Enough? And I might add that I have only been a priest for a handful of years at that. And that I have few priestly duties. You would be astonished to learn how long it has been since I have seen the inside of a church.”
We sat looking at each other.
“You wish to join?”
“Yes.”
“That is good.” He went to another bookshelf, brought down a Bible, a ceremonial knife, and a piece of plain white cloth. I covered my head with the white cloth, gripped the knife in my right hand, and rested that hand atop the Bible.
“Now,” said Father Gregor, “raise your left hand…”