1921, November 16th, Wednesday.
The sixteenth of November dawned over Constantinople like the drawing of a blade. This was Deadline Day. By evening, the seven-day ultimatum Sultan Murad VII's government had delivered to the Allied Powers regarding the corrupt administration of the Port Authority would expire. The city itself seemed to hold its breath, an unnatural quiet pervading its usually bustling streets. Within Yıldız Palace, the tension was a palpable force, yet Murad, outwardly at least, projected an aura of unwavering calm as he met with his Grand Vizier, Tevfik Pasha.
"Today, Your Highness," Murad stated, his voice devoid of tremor, "we will discover whether the Allied Powers choose the path of reason and justice, or the path of continued arrogance and exploitation. All our preparations are made. We are ready for either eventuality." "Indeed, Your Majesty," Tevfik Pasha replied, his aged face betraying the immense strain of the past week. "Reşid Akif Pasha is prepared to receive their response. Cavit Bey's dossier is sealed and ready for Esad Bey's dissemination channels. Ferik Fevzi Pasha has confirmed that all security measures are at their peak. We have done all that is within our power. The rest is in the hands of Allah, and in the choices our occupiers make."
The morning and early afternoon crawled by with agonizing slowness. Murad deliberately immersed himself in routine state matters, reviewing petitions from provincial governors, discussing with Tevfik Pasha long-term plans for famine relief in drought-stricken areas of Anatolia (a problem that existed irrespective of who controlled which territory), and even approving designs for new postage stamps – anything to maintain a semblance of normalcy and to prevent his mind from dwelling solely on the impending confrontation. Yet, beneath this veneer of routine, every minister, every palace official, was acutely aware of the ticking clock.
Hafız Bey, the Lord Chamberlain, provided quiet updates on the atmosphere within the palace and the city. "The Hassa Ordusu detachments are in place, Your Majesty, their presence discreet but reassuring. The regular palace guard is alert. There are… whispers in the city. Some fear Allied retaliation. Others pray for your government's success. Sheikh-ul-Islam Nuri Efendi's sermon last Friday continues to be discussed with fervor; it has bolstered the spirit of many who felt abandoned."
Late in the afternoon, as the sun began its descent towards the Marmara Sea, casting long, mournful shadows across the Golden Horn, the anticipated communication arrived. A sealed dispatch was delivered to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs by a grim-faced Allied courier. Reşid Akif Pasha was immediately summoned to Yıldız Palace, the unopened dispatch in his hand. Murad had convened his inner war council: Tevfik Pasha, Cavit Bey, Fevzi Pasha, and Esad Bey were already assembled in his private study when Reşid Akif arrived. The Foreign Minister's expression was unreadable. "The response from the Allied High Commissions, Your Majesty," Reşid Akif announced, his voice carefully neutral, as he presented the sealed envelope to Murad. Murad took it, his gaze steady. With a simple letter opener, he broke the seals – emblazoned with the crests of Great Britain, France, and Italy – and extracted the single sheet of heavy parchment within. He read it slowly, his expression unchanging. Then, he passed it to Tevfik Pasha. As the Grand Vizier read, his face grew visibly graver. He, in turn, passed it to Cavit Bey, whose eyes narrowed in contempt, then to Reşid Akif, who merely nodded, having anticipated its contents, and finally to Fevzi and Esad, who read it with the grimness of soldiers facing an unpalatable order.
"So," Murad said into the heavy silence when all had read it, "their collective wisdom, after a week of deliberation, is this." He gestured to the document. "They 'acknowledge' our concerns regarding the Port Authority. They propose the formation of a 'sub-committee' to 'review existing administrative procedures.' This sub-committee will consist of one junior representative from each High Commission and one… observer from the Ottoman Ministry of Finance, with no voting rights. This sub-committee will 'make recommendations' to the existing Allied-dominated Port Commission, which will retain full authority. There is no mention of a proper audit of past accounts, no mention of Ottoman partnership in genuine reform, no addressing of the specific evidence of corruption we presented." He paused, his voice hardening. "Furthermore, they conclude by 'strongly advising' the Ottoman government to 'refrain from any further agitation on this matter, which could jeopardize the cooperative spirit essential for the stability of Constantinople and the region,' and they 'expect' our government to focus on 'more pressing internal matters such as the suppression of Anatolian banditry.'" Cavit Bey slammed his fist onto the table. "An insult, Your Majesty! A contemptuous dismissal! This is not a proposal; it is a demand for our silent acquiescence to their continued plunder!" "It is precisely what we anticipated from General Harington's faction, though I had hoped Pellé or Garroni might have moderated it further," Reşid Akif said grimly. "They offer us nothing of substance." "They offer us a shackle disguised as a fig leaf," Fevzi Pasha growled. Tevfik Pasha sighed deeply. "They have chosen their path, Your Majesty. They believe us to be too weak, too cowed, to do anything but accept these crumbs from their table."
Murad looked at each of his ministers. Their faces, though grim, showed no sign of wavering, only a shared sense of outrage and resolve. The decision was clear, starkly so. "Gentlemen," Murad said, his voice ringing with a cold, clear authority that belied his eighteen years, "their response is not only unsatisfactory; it is an affront to the dignity of the Ottoman Sultanate and the intelligence of its people. We will not accept it. We will not be silenced. We will not be cowed." He stood. "Reşid Akif Pasha, you will take our final note – the one you prepared – and deliver it to each of the three High Commissions immediately. Let there be no ambiguity about our rejection of their insulting proposal and our intent to seek justice through other means." "At once, Your Majesty," the Foreign Minister replied, already gathering his composure for this final, defiant diplomatic act. "Cavit Bey," Murad continued, "your 'Ledger of Lies' is complete?" "Every page, every damning detail, Your Majesty. Cross-referenced and ready." "Esad Bey," Murad turned to his intelligence chief, "your channels for dissemination are primed?" "They are, Your Majesty. Secure couriers are standing by to deliver the sealed dossiers to our designated press contacts in Paris, London, Rome, and to the American Legation here in Constantinople, and to two other sympathetic neutral embassies known for their discretion and their governments'… complex relations with the Entente powers. The moment you give the word." Murad looked at the clock. It was nearing six in the evening. The official governmental day was ending. "The word is given, Esad Bey. Unleash the truth. Let the world see the kind of 'stability and order' the Allied Powers have brought to Constantinople." A spark of fierce energy seemed to pass through the room. This was it. The point of no return. "Fevzi Pasha," Murad concluded, "all our forces are at maximum alert?" "They are, Your Majesty. The Hassa Ordusu guards this palace and key ministries. The city garrison, though of uncertain full loyalty, is confined to barracks under officers we trust. We are as ready as we can be for any immediate… physical response from the Allies."
Reşid Akif Pasha departed on his solemn mission to deliver the Ottoman government's final rejection. Esad Bey slipped away to activate his network of couriers, initiating the process that would, within hours and days, spread Cavit Bey's meticulously compiled evidence of Allied corruption across the international stage. The remaining ministers – Tevfik, Cavit, Fevzi – stayed with Murad in his study. There was little more to say, little more to do but wait for the storm to break. The silence was heavy, broken only by the distant sounds of the city and the steady ticking of the clock, each tick a countdown to an unknown future. Murad walked to the window, looking out at the lights beginning to twinkle across the Bosphorus. He had taken the greatest gamble of his young reign, of this new life. He had defied the mightiest empires on earth, armed with little more than the truth and the courage of a few loyal men. He thought of Arif Efendi, the brave clerk who had risked everything to obtain those papers, now hidden away with his family. He thought of the Hassa Ordusu recruits, training in secret, soon perhaps to be tested in earnest. He thought of the people of Constantinople, who had responded with such hope to his Jumu'ah address and Nuri Efendi's sermon. He was fighting for them, for the dignity of his ancestors, for the future of his faith and his nation.
Within the hour, Esad Bey returned. "Your Majesty," he reported, his voice calm but his eyes alight, "the first set of dossiers has been delivered to the American Legation. Their chief political officer accepted it with… considerable interest. The couriers for Paris and London have departed via a neutral vessel that conveniently sailed with the evening tide. The Rome courier will depart by train under diplomatic cover from a friendly neutral embassy in the morning. The local press contacts and other legations will receive theirs within the next few hours, through untraceable means." The die was cast. There was no turning back. Almost simultaneously, Hafız Bey entered, his face paler than usual. "Your Imperial Majesty, Reşid Akif Pasha has returned from delivering the notes. He reports… extreme displeasure from all three High Commissioners. General Harington, in particular, is said to be in a state of barely suppressed fury. He has apparently ordered an immediate increase in Allied military patrols throughout the city and has placed all British forces on high alert. The Sublime Porte and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs are now… under heavy, overt Allied guard." Murad nodded slowly. The first tremors of the earthquake were beginning. "So, they choose intimidation. Fevzi Pasha, ensure our Hassa Ordusu units remain vigilant but do not provoke any incident. Our primary weapon, for now, is the truth that Esad Bey has just unleashed. Let us see how General Harington and his colleagues enjoy being scrutinized by the world's press and their own parliaments." Night fell on Constantinople, a city now perched on the very precipice of an unprecedented crisis. Sultan Murad VII, the boy-Emperor with an old soul, stood ready to face the consequences of his defiance, his heart a storm of apprehension, grim satisfaction, and an unyielding resolve to fight for the future of his Empire, armed with the potent, newly unsheathed, sword of truth.