Pixie Pt. 02 Ch. 06: A Discovery

Ekaterina's launch sped us across the expanses of the Black Sea speedily, at least until we approached the narrows of the Strait. I confess that the delights passed me by, as unlike Sarah and Emm, I suffered from sea-sickness. Emm took a huge delight in the whole business, and her one complaint was that she would not be in Transylvania sooner.

'Silly EU sanctions. I want to be a slave, why don't they understand? I am confused.'

As well she might be, I reflected, in an attempt to take my mind off my stomach. Emm seemed confused whenever the world did not give her what she wanted, when she wanted it; such were the results of her privileged upbringing. The ironies were multiple, and if they were lost on Emm, who tended to let her cunt take precedence; they were all too clear to me.

Ekaterina was a Russian oligarch, just the sort that the EU sanctions were designed to hit. But it was Anna, the Vampire Countess, not subject to sanctions, against whom the operation of which I was part, was directed. Recruited by the British anti-modern slavery group to infiltrate Countess Anna's organisation, I was doing so by accompanying my old friend Emm, who despite her privileged upbringing, wanted to be sold into slavery.

Sarah and I had gone out to the Crimea to see Emm and her Mistress, Ekaterina at their invitation. We had expected a holiday marked with plenty of kinks, courtesy of Emm, but instead, we found ourselves accompanying Emm to a new Mistress - a Vampire Countess. You could not make it up, I thought. Real life was infinitely odder than anything even the most imaginative author could envision.

Such thoughts occupied me until we arrived at a jetty in Istanbul.

We were met by Ekaterina's representatives, who, to my chagrin, had us booked at some clone hotel in Taksim Square. It was all very modern and chic, but it was not the Istanbul I loved. It was the sort of hotel that existed everywhere; the point of Istanbul is that it was unique. I loved its history, its architecture; it spoke to me in a way nowhere else I had ever been had ever done.

We lunched, Emm chattering away. She and my wife, Sarah, had enjoyed a brief, one-off fling, and there was still chemistry there. I did not mind. Emm was so loveable, and I was delighted that the two women I loved most got on so well.

They decided to spend the afternoon being crimped and primped at the hotel's beauty salon. As the only thing that would have improved my appearance was conversion to Islam and a full burka, I opted out. The idea of spending the afternoon being glammed up filled me with boredom. I opted for more interesting occupations.

I loved the bustle of Istanbul. Noting that there were more veiled women than last time I was there, I had opted for linen trousers and a headscarf. Hurrying across the Galatea bridge, I was soon in the old heart of the city. There was the pillar of Constantine, the last remnant of the old race track. Then, wandering down the side streets, I approached the glory that was the Hagia Sophia. As ever, it took my breath away. This, I knew in my heart, was the greatest city in the world.

I eschewed the usual tours, just wandering round, soaking up the atmosphere. I stood in silence, my eyes closed, and I crossed myself in the Orthodox manner.

'You do right, little one. That is how we have done it since the icon was drawn.'

I turned. The owner of the voice was a tall woman, whose red hair was covered with what looked like a mantilla.

'I am Alessandra, and you?'

I introduced myself.

Alessandra hailed from Syria, and her family were, she explained, Maronite Christians, whose ancestors had fled thence after the great city had fallen to the Muslims in 1453. She wondered if I would care for coffee and baklava; I said I would. That she had that ethereal beauty that some Syrian women possessed may, or may not have influenced me, but I wanted to know more about her.

Back out in the heat, she took me down a maze of alleys, until, near the Great Wall, we found the cafe for which she had been looking. The owner clearly knew her, and before long, we had two wonderful Turkish coffees and some delicious baklava. As we sipped our coffees she asked what brought me there.

I explained I was en route with friends to Transylvania.

'You take a dangerous route, little one.'

She looked sternly at me.

'You do not look like a Russian gangster.'

The penny dropped. She had been following me; this was a warning. I responded in kind, with more bravado than I actually felt, but it was important to keep up appearances.

'And you do not look like a Mossad agent, so perhaps we are each equipped for our task?'

I had taken a punt, but as she was clearly not Turkish, nor working for the Russians, I had taken an educated guess.

'For whom are you working, little one?'

'I am trying to discover more about the routes through which sex slaves reach Western Europe, and happen to have an opportunity to get close to its heart. I am, unofficially, working for the British Government.'

'That makes sense, more sense than you working for the Russians. I suggest, that as we are on the same quest, we cooperate. We leave on tonight's Express. I shall be two carriages from you, stay in touch. Here is how to reach me.'

She handed me a mobile phone.

'Keep it. It has other uses.'

She smiled.

'At least this time they sent an attractive woman and not some man.'

Not wanting to expose my ignorance by asking about the last time, I let it pass. We finished our coffee. She kissed me on the cheeks, then left. I felt bereft and bewildered so I sat, ordered another coffee, and pondered.

There was an icon in the cafe, I looked at it. I had never seen its like. It was old. Its subject a woman with dark hair, in the costume of the early Ottoman Empire. I pulled out my notepad and sketched it.

'You are the first tourist to show interest, Miss.'

It was the old woman who owned the cafe. She looked at my drawing.

'Is good, Miss, you draw well.'

I explained that my father was an artist who had taught me to draw from the moment I could hold a pencil, and that I loved old icons. But I had never seen the subject of this one before.

'You won't. Would you like the story as you seem interested in our history?'

As Emm and Sarah would not be properly primped for at least another hour, and as the icon intrigued me, I said I would be delighted; Ottoman history fascinated me.

The old woman, Elena, explained that her ancestors predated the Ottoman conquest. Like Alessandra, she was a Maronite Christian, and the icon was of a woman venerated by many Maronites, a Jewess called Rahab who had become a Christian. Elena outlined Rahab's story. It fascinated me. I wrote down as much as I could of the story of the so-called 'Little Vizier,' who had risen from slave to great heights in the old Ottoman Empire. I determined, one day, to tell it to a wider audience, if only I could find out more about her.

Elena explained that the story was almost forgotten, as it had suited neither the Ottomans, nor their successors, to tell it. But there were, she explained, 'old papers' in her family. She asked if I would care to see them?

Almost falling off my seat in excitement, I said I would.

She took me up the narrow stairs of what was a three storey Ottoman townhouse, which had clearly once known better days. There, in a dusty attic, she unlocked an ancient, worn, but once very grand chest. I took a manuscript bound in red leather, now worn and faded, but expensive in its day, and there, in an exquisite hand, was a Greek script. Recalling my schoolgirl Greek, I read:

'They came for me when I was of age.

That makes it sound dramatic. It wasn't. Rabbi Glickstein had prepared me. Poppa could not spare Rebekah. Tall and full-breasted, the Khan had his eye on her. She was seventeen. She was our family's promise of a better future. I was the runt of the litter. Poppa always complained that it was a trial that he should have such a daughter. I was just under four feet eleven inches, as the Greeks count it. The only boy who had ever shown an interest in such a creature was Reuben, the moneylender's son.'

It was a treasure trove. It appeared to be the memoirs of Rahab herself. There were ten volumes, plus some loose papers and a volume in a different binding.

'You can read it, yes?' She asked.

'Yes, just, but give me more time, and I can tell you more. Whence came this?'

'It has been here forever, Miss. it came with an ancestor who returned from Beirut in the 1700s. It is the chest of Rahab herself.'

My heart was beating fast. This was so exciting, and I felt somehow drawn to it. I wanted so much to sit and read it all, but I had no time for it now. I told Elena I had to go, but promised to return soon. She seemed pleased someone was interested, and we parted firm friends. I asked her to keep the chest safe and gave her my card.

I took a cab back to the hotel, my heart was still beating fast. I had discovered something special, and it somehow spoke to me. But I was on a mission, and fascinating though the Rahab chest was, I had to get back to Emm's.

Dashing upstairs, I put the keycard into the door, and rushing in, there was a sight indeed. Emm, naked on the bed, kneeling up, with Sarah, my Sarah, exploring her arse.

'What the fuck!'