Imperial Port Office, Stamboul
"So," the short man asked, not looking up from the papers he was going through, "Why, exactly, is a Danish Jew piloting a British Warship?"
"Come now, Herr Kassoulides," Josef Aronsen appealed, his smile as wide as his spread hands, "Surely a man of business like yourself has come across more than a few ex-military rigs since the Treaty was signed- British especially."
"Mmm," he replied, affirmative but unconvinced as he opened a draw in his wide desk to look for another piece of paperwork to add to the drift already obscuring its top.
“And it’s Norwegian, and non-practicing, you condescending little prick” Josef added silently, tempting as it was to lash out after what seemed like hours stuck in this muggy little office on the hill overlooking the harbour.
The heat in the port office was stifling, the air barely moving despite the slow rotations of the ceiling fan. Even the chug and tremor of the busy port outside was muted by the thick air and half-closed blinds, the sound bouncing from the peeling off-white wallpaper and stacks of documents and ledgers on the chairs to either side of the cramped, high ceilinged room until it became nothing but a background grumble, as uncomfortable and grating on the ears as the shafts of orange evening light were on the eyes. Josef ran a hand through his thick, dark hair, now slick with stale sweat. The most annoying thing about this bureaucratic nightmare was the fact that, for once, they were being completely above board. Only by chance, of course, but as soon as they had sorted out their cargoes and restocked the Paragon, they would be out of this hellhole quicker than an Austrian out of a brothel.
“And what brings the...” he had to check his notes again, “H.M.A.S. Paragon to Constantinople?”
Josef smiled again, silently vowing for the hundredth time that he would kill this slimy little bureaucrat if he took up any more of his day.
“As I explained earlier, the Paragon is no longer on active service. My crew and I have hired her from the British government as a trade vessel. We’re delivering a consignment of pressed metal sheeting for J. Stanforth & Assoc. Ltd. And as soon as we’ve done our business, it would be more than a pleasure to get out of your fine city.“
“There’s no need to get short with me, Mr. Aronsen,” Kassoulides looked up, the sun glinting off of his round spectacles, masking his dark eyes as he placed his hands slowly onto the shabby leather of the desktop. That ‘mister’, intended to be biting or dismissive, sounded more like a joke coming from the little Greek’s supercilious lips. Whatever his politics, whatever he thought of Britain- or of its role in the War- they were still speaking English.
“I was merely making myself clear. I’m sure your officers have had the chance to tear apart my vessel by now, and so you’ll know I have nothing to hide. No drugs, no orders for rebels, no designs for Top-Secret British armaments. Just a load of pressed sheet metal, some delivery orders, and a crew that are dying for some shore leave. So, if you’ll allow me?” he asked, his tone even, as he gestured toward the closed door behind him.
Kassoulides stood and placed his paperwork back on the table. He was barely taller upright as he walked around the large desk to stand in front of Captain Aronsen.
“Very well. You’re free to go. But don’t think you won’t be watched.”
“I’ll make sure to put on a performance” Josef replied, swinging his heavy coat over his shoulder and pacing out of the tiny office.
