1921, December 8th, Thursday.
The eighth of December dawned cold and sharp over Constantinople, each gust of wind from the Sea of Marmara seeming to heighten the already palpable tension gripping Yıldız Palace. Sultan Murad VII felt himself standing on a precipice of truth, a precarious ridge where an avalanche of revelations could either bury his enemies or sweep away his own fragile government. His envoy, Behram Rıza Bey, was now five days into his journey, nearing Konya, the very heart of Anatolian nationalist sentiment, carrying with him the most delicate hopes for reconciliation. In Constantinople, Cavit Bey was preparing to confront the Allied Port Commission with evidence that threatened to expose corruption at the highest levels of the British military administration. Simultaneously, Esad Bey's intelligence directorate was closing in on proof of foreign complicity in Kara Davud's seditious internal plots.
Murad met with Cavit Bey first, the Minister of Finance's face a mask of grim resolve. "Today, Cavit Bey," Murad said, his voice low but firm, "you will demand the full truth regarding the 'Levantine Trading Syndicate' and its links to General Harington's staff. Colonel Hughes will undoubtedly resist with all his might. But the evidence Esad Bey has helped unearth is too specific, the sums too vast, for them to dismiss as mere 'administrative errors.' You have my full authority to escalate this to General Harington himself if Hughes remains intransigent, and to make it clear that our next step will be the international dissemination of this particular scandal if they do not provide immediate, honest answers and accountability." "They have built their house of cards on a foundation of lies, Your Majesty," Cavit replied, his eyes like chips of obsidian. "Today, we will see how it withstands the wind of truth."
The Joint Commission of Inquiry for the Port Authority convened in an atmosphere so charged it felt as if a spark could ignite an explosion. Cavit Bey, wasting no time on pleasantries, laid out his case. "Gentlemen," he began, addressing the Allied delegation, "our audit of the 'Special Projects Fund' has revealed a consistent pattern of extraordinarily large payments, amounting to hundreds of thousands of gold Lira over the past year alone, to an entity known as the 'Levantine Trading Syndicate.' This syndicate, registered in Malta to anonymous nominees, has no discernible legitimate business, yet its Constantinople address is a private residence known to be frequented by very senior British military officers directly associated with General Harington's High Commission." He then presented meticulously copied bank transfer records, obtained through Esad Bey's channels from a terrified but bribable clerk in a foreign bank branch in Galata, showing direct fund movements from the Port Authority's 'Special Projects Fund' to the Levantine Trading Syndicate's offshore accounts. "We demand," Cavit stated, his voice ringing with cold authority, "the immediate and full disclosure of the beneficial owners of this syndicate, a complete accounting of its alleged 'services' to the Port Authority, and the repatriation of all Ottoman funds demonstrably funneled into it." Colonel Hughes turned a deep, apoplectic purple. "This is an outrage! Scurrilous accusations based on stolen documents and malicious hearsay! I will not dignify this… this slander with a response! This Commission is exceeding its mandate!" Mr. Davies, the British Treasury official, looked as if he was about to faint. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly terrified. It was Monsieur Lacroix, the French diplomat, who spoke, his voice carefully neutral but his eyes glinting with something unreadable – perhaps a mixture of shock and a desire to distance France from this evidently British-centric scandal. "Colonel Hughes, while the accusations are indeed grave, Minister Cavit has presented… specific documentation. Perhaps, in the interest of Allied transparency and to refute these claims definitively, it would be prudent for the British delegation to provide the Commission with the information requested regarding this… syndicate?" Signor Valenti, the Italian, quickly added, "Indeed. Openness is the best defense against such unfortunate allegations. If there is a simple, legitimate explanation, let us hear it." Hughes looked from Lacroix to Valenti, then back at Cavit, his face a mask of fury. He was isolated. He knew that if Cavit Bey took this evidence public, directly implicating Harington's staff in such a massive fraud, the scandal would dwarf even the earlier "Ledger of Lies" revelations. His career, and perhaps Harington's, would be over. Just as Hughes was about to erupt further, a uniformed British aide entered the room and handed him a sealed note. Hughes read it, his face going from purple to a sickly grey. He crumpled the note in his fist. "Very well, Minister Cavit," Hughes ground out, his voice hoarse. "Information… regarding the Levantine Trading Syndicate's legitimate commercial activities… will be made available to this Commission… in due course… after necessary internal British military administrative review." It was a capitulation, however grudging, however delayed. Cavit Bey had struck at the heart of their corruption, and they had blinked. He knew "due course" and "internal review" were delaying tactics, but the admission that information would be provided was a monumental victory. He pressed further, "And the beneficial owners, Colonel? We require those names immediately." Hughes glared, then, after a tense silence, muttered, "That too… will be subject to review." Cavit knew he would have to keep hammering, but the first major crack in this high-level British shield had appeared.
While this drama unfolded, Kolağası Esad Bey was reporting to Murad on his own clandestine battles. "Your Majesty," he said, presenting a slim file, "we have secured irrefutable proof of the link between Dimitri Stefanopoulos, the merchant funding Kara Davud's seditious activities, and Major Hesketh of the British intelligence section." He laid out photographs of coded payment receipts from Stefanopoulos to known agents of Kara Davud, and, crucially, a copy of a ledger entry from Stefanopoulos's private office – obtained during a daring nocturnal search by Esad's ex-Teşkilat-ı Mahsusa operatives – detailing a 'political contribution' from 'our friends at the [British] Consulate, via M.H.' The sum matched a recent unexplained withdrawal from an account Hesketh was known to use for 'operational expenses.' "This is damning, Esad Bey," Murad said, his voice grim. "A British intelligence officer directly funding internal sedition against my government. This goes beyond even the Port corruption." "Indeed, Your Majesty. Stefanopoulos himself is now under our close surveillance. Major Hesketh is more difficult, due to his diplomatic status, but we are monitoring his known local contacts." Murad made a swift decision. "Prepare a comprehensive dossier on Major Hesketh, Stefanopoulos, and their links to Kara Davud. When it is complete and unshakeable, Reşid Akif Pasha will present it directly to General Pellé and Marquis Garroni. Not to Harington, initially. Let us see if the French and Italians are willing to tolerate their British 'ally' engaging in such blatant internal sabotage against a government with which they have just signed an agreement. This could be a powerful lever to further isolate Harington, or to force London to recall Hesketh and cease such activities."
Amidst these high-stakes confrontations, the most vital and nerve-wracking wait continued: for news of Behram Rıza Bey. Late that afternoon, Esad Bey entered Murad's study, his usually impassive face holding a rare flicker of intense emotion. "Your Imperial Majesty," he said, his voice hushed, "a priority coded message, relayed through three cut-outs from our Konya network. Behram Rıza Efendi… has arrived safely in Konya." Murad gripped the arms of his chair, his heart pounding. "He is safe? And?" "He is safe, Your Majesty. He made discreet contact with Hacı Shukri Efendi's designated intermediary upon arrival this morning. A meeting between Behram Rıza Efendi and Hacı Shukri Efendi himself has been arranged, with utmost secrecy, for tomorrow morning, at a secluded garden pavilion near Mevlana Rumi's tomb, rather than the public tomb itself, for greater privacy." A profound wave of relief, mingled with an almost unbearable suspense, washed over Murad. His envoy was there. The first, most perilous stage of the journey was complete. Tomorrow, the first fragile dialogue would begin. "Ensure every possible precaution is maintained for Behram Rıza's security in Konya, Esad Bey, however discreetly," Murad commanded, his voice hoarse. "And pray that Hacı Shukri Efendi is indeed a man of peace and wisdom, and that those 'influential ears' in Ankara he speaks for are genuinely seeking a path away from fratricide."
On the domestic front, progress continued. Tevfik Pasha reported that the Imperial Reconstruction Council had finalized its first set of project charters for the Izmit railway line and for establishing several small agricultural cooperatives in the Thracian hinterland to improve food supply to Constantinople. Funds were being released by Cavit Bey, with stringent new oversight mechanisms to prevent corruption. Ferik Fevzi Pasha confirmed that the first Hassa Ordusu regiment at Davutpaşa had commenced live-fire exercises with their new Mosin-Nagant rifles and Maxim guns in a newly secured, remote training range within the vast complex. "Their marksmanship is improving daily, Your Majesty," Fevzi reported with pride. "And their discipline is exemplary. I have also, as per your authorization, given the preliminary orders for the formation of the second regiment. We have a waiting list of veteran volunteers."
As Thursday, December eighth, drew to its close, Murad felt himself standing on a dizzying precipice of truth. The layers of Allied corruption were being peeled back, revealing a rotten core that threatened to engulf even the highest echelons of their command in Constantinople. The link between internal sedition and foreign interference was becoming chillingly clear. And in Konya, a city resonant with centuries of Islamic spirituality, his lone envoy stood ready to utter the first words of peace across a chasm of hostility. The risks were monumental on every front. But Murad, drawing on an inner strength he barely knew he possessed, felt a hardening of his resolve. The truth, however dangerous, was his weapon. And the hope for unity, however fragile, was his guiding star. Tomorrow would bring new battles, new revelations, and perhaps, the first faint whisper of a response from the heart of Anatolia. The city of secrets held its breath, waiting.