London, 1880.
Rain lashed against the windows of a gentleman's club on Pall Mall, but inside, the fire burned warm. Parliamentarians sipped their brandy, discussing colonies and railways with smug indifference. Among them sat Sir Henry Markham, an MP known for his hawkish calls to "contain the Ottoman menace." His speeches in Parliament had already stirred the Foreign Office toward more aggressive measures.
But that night, as he rose to leave, a figure brushed past him in the shadows of the entry hall. A gloved hand slipped something into his coat pocket. He did not notice until later, when he drew out a folded paper written in a hand he did not recognize.
It contained a single phrase: Your mistress's debt is known. Repay it, or your ruin will be public.
Markham paled. The fire of his anti-Ottoman zeal cooled at once. Somewhere in London, an Ottoman hand had reached him—and squeezed.
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Back in Istanbul, Abdulhamid listened to Selim's report with quiet satisfaction.
"Our agent in London has secured leverage over Sir Markham. His speeches will soften. Already, he hesitates."
The Sultan nodded slowly. "Good. The British lion roars loud, but cut its tongue and it becomes only a shadow of itself."
He tapped his finger against the map of Europe. "We need not defeat armies yet. We will silence voices, break pens, poison councils. Let Europe's will fracture before their armies ever march."
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In Vienna, a different drama unfolded. A French journalist, Jules Lefèvre, known for his scathing essays on "the Ottoman backwardness," was found dead in his lodgings. The coroner declared it a suicide, though whispers swirled that he had been silenced. What none could prove—but what Selim's report confirmed—was that Crescent Eyes had arranged the scene meticulously.
Abdulhamid read the dispatch without visible reaction. Yet inwardly, he felt no joy. I take no pleasure in death, but history has taught me: words can kill more surely than bullets. And if the empire must be defended, then words against us must be smothered.
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But Crescent Eyes did not operate only with knives and blackmail. In Paris, bribes flowed into the hands of deputies within the Chamber. Gold shifted votes, and suddenly French ministers found their anti-Ottoman fervor dampened by hesitation. Not all, of course—some still pushed hard against Istanbul—but others now counseled "restraint," their speeches curiously aligned with Ottoman interests.
Selim explained with a thin smile, "Not every enemy needs silencing, Majesty. Some can be bought. Some can be turned. A coin placed today buys silence tomorrow—and loyalty the day after."
Abdulhamid's reply was cold but approving. "Every man has a price. Find it, and he is ours."
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Meanwhile, Ottoman students abroad carried the empire's reach further still. In Berlin, young scholars drafted theses on rail technology and metallurgy, all while reporting back to Crescent Eyes on German military research. In St. Petersburg, Ottoman merchants frequented taverns where officers boasted too freely of troop movements. Even in Rome, whispers of Ottoman agents reached papal ears, though the Sultan himself had no need for the Vatican's approval.
What mattered was this: Europe, once confident the "sick man" could barely crawl, now felt his hands at their throats—long, invisible hands reaching into their parliaments, their newspapers, their very homes.
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One night, after Selim concluded another long report, Abdulhamid rose and paced the study. His brow furrowed, his steps measured.
"They believe the Eastern Accord will strangle us. But already, we strangle them. One deputy silenced, one journalist gone, one banker in our pocket—it spreads like roots. And roots, once planted, break stone."
He turned to Selim, his eyes burning. "Do not relent. Reach further. London, Paris, Moscow—every salon, every tavern, every court must feel my breath on their necks. Let them know the Sultan's long hand reaches them wherever they hide."
The chamber fell into stillness after his words, the only sound the crackle of the brazier and the slow scratch of Selim's quill recording names and orders. Outside, the Bosphorus groaned with winter winds, carrying the Sultan's thoughts eastward and westward both. The reach of his hand was long indeed—but Abdulhamid knew well that long hands cast long shadows. And where shadows fall, enemies are drawn to strike.
The ripples of the Sultan's reach were felt across Europe like tremors beneath a city's foundations. Ministers grew cautious in their rhetoric, journalists muted their pens, and bankers whispered nervously of Ottoman gold circulating in unexpected channels. Yet for every victory, the Crescent Eyes risked exposure.
Selim returned late one night, his cloak wet with rain. His face carried a shadow that Abdulhamid had come to recognize: the mask of bad news.
"Majesty," Selim began, bowing low, "two of our men in Paris are gone. Arrested by the Sureté. They were careless, Majesty—one drunk, one loose of tongue. The French know more than they should."
The Sultan did not raise his voice. He closed the ledger in front of him and set his hand flat upon it. "Did they break?"
Selim's silence was answer enough.
Abdulhamid turned to the window, the lamps flickering against the glass. "Then Paris bleeds us. From this day, no agent drinks, no agent boasts, no agent wanders. Every man who serves me must live as if he is already dead."
Selim bowed his head. "It will be so."
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The loss stung more than Abdulhamid admitted. Crescent Eyes was his creation, his unseen weapon. But the 21st century whispered its lesson to him: even the finest networks fray under pressure. Spies must expect death, but empires must not.
So he adjusted. Where France struck boldly, he shifted more weight to Britain and Russia. In St. Petersburg, Ottoman merchants planted rumors of famine in the south, spreading panic among officials. In London, blackmailed parliamentarians began voting strangely—no longer for warlike measures, but for colonial expenditures, conveniently diverting attention away from the Ottoman question.
It was subtle, invisible warfare. And though Abdulhamid knew each victory was small, together they formed a chain long enough to bind nations.
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But Europe did not sit idle.
One evening, as the Sultan reviewed reports in his study, Selim entered bearing a different kind of parchment—rough, bloodstained, and torn.
"Majesty," he said grimly, "this was carried by a dying courier we intercepted on the road to Edirne. It is a list of names."
Abdulhamid took it. His heart chilled. The names were his own men—Crescent Eyes agents, some already operating in Salonika and Bursa, others still training in Istanbul. At the top, scrawled in Latin script, were the words: Targets of the Eastern Accord.
Abdulhamid's hand tightened around the page. Europe had pierced the veil. Not only had they identified his agents, they had begun to hunt them.
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The next week brought worse. A fire tore through a safehouse in Salonika, killing three Crescent Eyes before they could escape. In Vienna, one of his finest couriers vanished, last seen stepping into a carriage with two gentlemen in Russian coats. And in Paris, the body of an Ottoman student was found floating in the Seine.
Selim's reports grew darker with each passing day. "Majesty," he confessed, "we are not only the hunters now. We are hunted."
Abdulhamid sat in silence. He thought of the future, of empires he had seen fall in the 20th century not by cannons, but by losing the shadow war first. This is their counterstroke. They believe if they cut my hands, the body will weaken. They forget—my will does not rest in one hand, but in the whole empire.
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Thus, he summoned his inner circle and made his decree.
"No more isolated cells. From this day, Crescent Eyes shall no longer be shadows scattered across Europe. They will be a web. Each agent bound to three others. Each safehouse tied to a node in Istanbul. If one thread breaks, the others will hold. If one man falls, three will rise. They think they strangle us; instead, they teach us to weave stronger."
The viziers nodded solemnly, Selim most of all. "It will be done, Majesty."
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And yet, even as he restructured his network, a more immediate threat rose from within his borders.
On a cold January night, Selim entered the Sultan's chambers without his usual calm. He placed a small metal tube upon the desk—blackened, twisted, reeking faintly of powder.
Abdulhamid raised an eyebrow. "What is this?"
Selim's reply was ice. "Majesty, it was found beneath the floorboards of the railway office in Istanbul. A bomb, hidden, timed for your next inspection. It failed only because the mechanism jammed. Crescent Eyes discovered it by chance."
For a moment, silence filled the room. The Sultan stared at the twisted tube. So they dare bring their war into my capital now. Not pamphlets. Not whispers. But bombs.
At last, Abdulhamid spoke, his voice low and terrible. "Then the shadow war is no longer distant. It walks our streets. Very well. We will meet it here—with fire sharper than theirs."