The Sultan's Seal: A Novel (Kamil Pasha Novels)

by Jenny White

  I looked up at her. “Why me? It was an accident.”

  “They always blame the weakest person. The cracked vessel shatters first.” Her face, lit from below, was distorted by the lamplight.

  I rocked back and forth, eyes on the black window of water.

  Violet submerged again. After a while, her hands pushed a shoe onto the platform, then another, Mary’s skirt, shirt, and undergarments. I crouched by the pitifully small pile.

  “The clothes would make the body float,” she explained, gasping, climbing out of the water. “I couldn’t get the jewelry. I’ll try again.” The bracelet of woven gold from the Bedestan where we first met. The silver pendant I unclasped in childish greed from Hannah Simmons’s neck and gave many years later to Mary, who adored Ottoman jewelry. The necklace of a drowned woman was clinging to Mary, who had suffered her same fate.

  Appalled, I stayed Violet with my hand on her thigh. “Leave it.”

  She explained in a calming voice, as if to a child, “I’m going outside now. There’s a landing in the front. If I jump in there, I can pull her through from the outside. There’s a strong current just a short way out. Stay here.” She disappeared into the shadowy corridor. A dog barked, then was abruptly silent.

  I sat on the wet quilt, its satin stained by seawater, regarding the garments of my friend whom I had meant tonight to join in living. They lay before me like the remnants of a lifeless sea creature. I pulled the lamp closer. The pool’s black eye regarded me malevolently. The sound of a splash tore through the silence. A thin line moved across the water.

  53

  Chaos in the Tapestry of Life

  They move cautiously through the opulent rooms, listening for a reply to their calls.

  Bernie looks around at the man-high china vases, the cabinets of china, gilded screens, statues, wall hangings. “The person who collected all this is obsessed by China. These are all Chinese antiques, extraordinary antiques.”

  “Asma Sultan?”

  “That’s what it looks like.”

  Bernie stops at a shelf containing rows of scrolls. He unrolls one and holds it close to the lamp. He beckons Kamil over.

  “Look at this—a Chinese manuscript. Someone here can read this stuff.”

  “Asma Sultan is your contact inside the palace?” Kamil asks incredulously.

  “That’s what it looks like.” Bernie shakes his head in wonder. “Why would she want to overthrow Abdulhamid? Her husband is his grand vizier.”

  “Perhaps she is unhappy with her husband.”

  “That would give half the women in the world a motive, but they don’t go around scheming with foreign governments to overthrow their husband’s employer just to get him fired. Besides, she’d be undermining her own welfare.”

  “Not really. As daughter of a sultan, Asma Sultan is wealthy in her own right.”

  “Well, her father was deposed and then killed himself, so I guess that could leave a chip on your shoulder about whoever replaced him.”

  They move from room to room, calling Sybil’s name.

  Kamil emerges from one of a series of bedrooms along a corridor. “It’s an enormous house, but it looks abandoned. Perhaps it belonged to Asma Sultan’s mother. She would have moved to the Old Palace after her husband’s death.”

  “So maybe it’s her mother who’s out for revenge. Angry at being booted out of the palace after her husband is deposed. It fits the poem. Is her mother still alive?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Bernie swings the lamp around the room and calls out Sybil’s name again. “We have to find her. I wonder if Asma Sultan killed Hannah. Once the secret police started sniffing around, she might have eliminated anyone who could lead them to her. She probably thinks Sybil knows something that could give her away.”

  He holds the lamp up to Kamil’s face. “Can you have her arrested?”

  “Arrest a member of the royal household?” He doesn’t meet Bernie’s eye. “No, my friend. My jurisdiction doesn’t extend that far,” Kamil answers slowly, shielding his eyes from the light.

  He remembers Ferhat Bey’s evasiveness that he had interpreted as incompetence. Perhaps the old superintendent had more courage than he, Kamil, the rational bureaucrat who cuts his morality to fit his jurisdiction. He reaches into his pocket for his beads, but they offer no comfort.

  “In any case, I might no longer have a post. My superior, Nizam Efendi, will be delighted to hold me responsible for executing Hamza without a trial.”

  “Thanks to our friend Michel.” He casts a sidelong glance at Kamil’s grave face. “Anyway, I’d put my money on the secret police being behind all of these killings, not Asma Sultan. They probably wanted to find out from the girls who their contact inside the palace was. Problem is, they didn’t know anything. I wish I knew who ratted on them.”

  There is a sound of glass grating under his boots.

  “What’s this?” Bernie brings his light closer to a broken object on the floor. “Well, this sure doesn’t belong in here.” He touches it with his toe.

  “What is it?”

  “Wax flowers under glass—the latest obsession in England. Looks like someone dropped it here. A bit incongruous in a house full of Chinese art, wouldn’t you say?”

  They look at each other’s faces, grim in the lamplight.

  “Sybil would have brought a gift.”

  Bernie calls out, “Sybil!” his voice lost in the cavernous room.

  “We’ve checked the whole house. She’s not here.”

  “Let’s look outside.” Bernie pulls open the glass doors and unlatches the shutters. They step out onto the patio.

  Kamil gestures that they should stop and listen. There is the low boom of water echoing, but no other sound.

  “What’s that?” Bernie walks to the edge of the patio and looks over the balustrade. “Look. The water comes right under the house.”

  “That’s so the residents can get into their boats directly from the house.” Kamil peers into the darkness below the balustrade. “There might be some kind of boathouse down there.”

  Footsteps cause them to whirl around, hands on their weapons.

  The embassy driver, Sami, emerges from the house with another lamp.

  “Well met, Sami,” Bernie greets him with a nod. “Glad you found us. Are the others coming?”

  “Yes, efendi. They’ll be here soon. I rode ahead.”

  They walk along the patio, shining their lamps in all directions.

  “Over here.” Kamil holds his lamp over a small table still set with food. “It’s fresh.” He reaches into his boot with his other hand and slides out the long, thin blade.

  “Damnation. I’ll bet the other guest was Sybil. Where the heck is she?” He calls out, “Sybil!”

  “Help! Get me out! Help!” Sybil’s voice is faint and curiously distorted. It is followed by splashing, then silence.

  Kamil shouts, “Sybil, keep talking. Where are you?” He looks over at Bernie, whose mouth is set in a thin line. “It came from over there.” He points toward the far end of the patio. “Be careful.”

  Bernie calls again, but there is no answer. He pulls out his revolver.

  The men fan out and move slowly across the tiles toward the wall at the end of the patio. When they get closer, Kamil whispers, “Look. This isn’t a wall; it’s a carved screen. There must be something behind it.”

  He holds up his lamp and peers around the screen.

  “Allah protect us. There’s a hole in the floor. It’s a good thing we have lamps.”

  “She’s in there,” Bernie says, and throws himself to the ground. “How deep is this? Jesus, if she fell down this…”

  Kamil and Sami also lie on their stomachs peering into the dark square below them. Their lamps pick up the glint of water around what appears to be a central island. The island is empty.

  “Look.” The others move their lamps in the direction Kamil is pointing. Far below, a figure in a white turban is struggling th
rough waist-deep water toward something lost in shadow. Sami hangs over the lip of the opening and dangles his lamp lower. The shadows flee, revealing Sybil, standing in a small boat bobbing against the wall, an oar in her hand. The figure is moving inexorably toward her, though gingerly, as if afraid of the water.

  Sybil screams. They can see her face, the O of her open mouth.

  “Put the light out,” she shouts. “He can see me by your light. Get me out of here.”

  She had been hiding in the absolute darkness, afraid that any sound would reveal her position to the eunuch.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll get you out.” Bernie calls down. “But we need the light.”

  Bernie aims his gun at the eunuch, but hesitates. Sybil is too close.

  Kamil pulls Bernie back. “The bullet might ricochet.”

  Bernie peers appraisingly at the water far below. “We can’t jump in. It’s too shallow.” He turns to Sami. “Do you have a rope?”

  “No, efendi. I’ll go look for one.”

  “Sybil, how do we get down there?”

  “The lever. There’s a lever in the screen.” The figure is close to her now and she stands, back against the wall, oar raised.

  “Keep an eye on her,” Bernie tells Sami. He and Kamil begin systematically to check the screen.

  “Wait,” they hear Sybil shout. “If you pull the lever the floor will go up and trap me down here. I think he doesn’t understand English, so try this. Tell me when you’ve found the lever, but don’t do anything until I say, ‘Pull.’”

  “Yes,” Kamil shouts back. “We’ll do that.”

  “I think I found it,” Bernie grips the end of a stone protrusion, disguised as a tree in the stone carving. He pulls it slightly. They hear a grinding sound.

  “Not yet,” Sybil screams.

  “We found it,” Bernie calls to her. “Tell us when you’re ready.”

  “Put your lights away,” she calls.

  “Are you sure?” Kamil asks anxiously.

  “Do it!” Sybil shouts. Below them, they see her aim the oar at the white turban. Then all is dark. Sami has swung the lamps, still lit, out of range.

  They listen intently, but hear only water splashing.

  “Now.” The word echoes. Bernie pulls the lever and the grinding noise begins again. They hear scuffling and a splash.

  When the island comes into view, Sybil is lying face down on the tiles in wet bloomers and chemise, her hand still grasping the oar. As soon as the floor is flush with the platform, Bernie rushes to her and turns her over. Her eyes are open.

  “Well, cousin,” she gasps, smiling. “Wait until Maitlin hears about this.”

  Kamil keeps his face turned until Bernie has wrapped a cloak around Sybil, then takes her shoulders in his hands.

  “Sybil Hanoum.” It is all he can manage. His eyes linger on her plump neck bisected by two folds like a baby’s wrist. He does not meet her eye. She is still smiling but has begun to shake violently. Under the pretext of adjusting the cloak, he wraps her in his arms for a moment, then hands her to Bernie. The English, he knows, consider their cousins too close for marriage, unlike the Ottomans. Still, he feels bereft when Bernie settles her in the phaeton inside the circumference of his arms.

  Kamil climbs up front and takes up the reins. He is jealous, he realizes. He feels momentarily disloyal to his father, that a trivial emotion like jealousy could grow in the field of his grief.

  On the road, they encounter the headman, his sons, and a group of armed gendarmes on their way to Asma Sultan’s villa. Kamil stops to give them instructions for finding Sami, left to guard the hidden chamber, then snaps the reins.

  “That was Arif Agha, Asma Sultan’s eunuch,” Sybil explains between chattering teeth. “The one who reported Hannah’s trips to the police.”

  Kamil and Bernie exchange looks.

  “He probably snitched to the secret police back then too.”

  “The police superintendent hinted that Arif Agha took bribes. I assumed it was just from the municipal police. It didn’t occur to me that he also sold information to the Sultan’s spies. A eunuch who knows too much and talks too much,” Kamil muses.

  “A rat by any other name.”

  To Kamil’s puzzled look, he replies, “Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet.”

  “A fool.”

  “Why did he attack you like that?” Bernie asks Sybil, rubbing her shoulders.

  She shrugs. “It doesn’t make any sense. After all, we were both in the same predicament down there. I told him if he helped get me out, I’d protect him against Asma Sultan by telling everyone he had saved my life. He’d be a hero. That’s when he jumped at me. The poor man,” she whispers. “He’s had his tongue cut out. He’s probably terrified.”

  Sybil’s eyes wander toward the shimmering sheet of water appearing and disappearing below them as they move through the wooded hills.

  After a while, she continues, “Asma Sultan called something down to him just before she left. She told him his fate was tied to hers, and that he knew what he had to do. Maybe she was telling him to attack me.”

  “Could be.” Bernie rubs Sybil’s hands to warm them. “Did you see all that Chinese stuff?”

  “Yes, I did. It belonged to Asma Sultan’s mother. I meant to tell you about it.”

  Surprised, Kamil turns and asks, “You knew about it?”

  “I heard about it at Leyla’s the other day. I had planned to tell you over dinner tonight. Yesterday, you were too worried about me to listen.” She smiles happily.

  “As you can see, I had good cause to worry.” But Kamil is smiling too. Bernie looks from one to the other, amused.

  “The Chinese collection was the missing piece,” he says.

  “Of what?”

  “Asma Sultan had that pendant made. She is our correspondent inside the palace.”

  “Your correspondent?” Sybil is confused.

  “It’s a long story, cousin. I’ll tell you when we’re warm and cozy in front of a fire.”

  Kamil turns to Bernie. “I wonder if her daughter is involved.”

  “Is this a plot?” Sybil asks excitedly. “There really was a plot?” She claps her hands with pleasure. “Oh, wait until Maitlin hears about this.”

  “Sybil Hanoum,” Bernie says with mock seriousness, “may I remind you that you were almost killed?”

  “Yes, isn’t it marvelous?” They all burst out laughing. Kamil turns away to hide the tears of relief, mixed with sorrow, blurring his sight.

  “Perihan and her mother are very close,” Sybil explains. “I can’t imagine one would do something without the other knowing.” She thinks a moment. “Asma Sultan said an odd thing this afternoon. We were talking about Perihan and Leyla being friends, and she said Perihan was keeping an eye on her. Do you think she was spying on Leyla?”

  “They watch Leyla,” Kamil muses aloud. “They try to incriminate her sister Shukriye in Sybil Hanoum’s disappearance.” He realizes with a shock that he almost said death. “Why?”

  “Leyla reports to the secret police?” Bernie ventures.

  “That would make her very dangerous to Asma Sultan.”

  They ride for a while in silence. Bernie keeps his arm around Sybil’s shoulder. A filigree of moonlight illuminates the road’s dark tunnel through the trees. The horses’ backs shudder with light. Kamil counts his accomplishments like a child warding off the darkness. Sybil is safe. He allows himself a glance over his shoulder. Her hair has tumbled out of its pins. Her eyes meet his and he looks quickly away, but not before she has seen his smile. Hamza, a traitor, responsible for seducing and possibly killing young women, has been stopped. If instead the secret police killed Hannah and Mary, these, like Asma Sultan, are beyond his reach and he must defer to Allah for their judgment.

  But Baba, Baba, whose dream he had stolen.

  Perhaps it is true that only Allah is perfect and human endeavors intrinsically flawed. In an otherwise orderly and rational universe, Allah has wo
ven chaos into the corner of every man’s life as a reminder.

  After a while, the carriage emerges on a hillside overlooking vineyards and the vast sparkling waters of the strait. The upper side of the road is tangled with raspberry bushes. Fireflies throb in the vineyards below, exhaling light. Far in the distance, night fishermen row across the silver water.

  54

  Death Is Too Easy

  The river Seine is frozen. I cannot see it from my window, but I have walked on its back. The snow reminds me of Istanbul, the long cypress shadows, the brilliant glint of icicles hanging from all the eaves, a gerdanlouk for our house at Chamyeri. White chunks like common sea glass melting. I hadn’t expected Hamza to die, not in that way, not in any. It is true what philosophers say, that words have the heft of a sword and must be wielded as carefully. In my anger, I hurled words into the world, spoke Hamza’s name, and impaled him on it. How was I to know that my words would put him together in that pond with Hannah, he embracing from above, she from below? Never can I believe that he read fairy tales to me in the afternoon and killed her in the evening. But it doesn’t matter now. I have killed him. And Mary has given me life. Mary. My friend, my love, yellow-haired queen of the dolphins. It is because of her that I am now here in the world.

  Vengeance. Another word. Perhaps you say I have wielded enough words and should now be silent, that I can’t be trusted with words. But come now, haven’t I pleased you with my array of sentences, my whispers—let’s be clear—my honesty? I am not a killer.

  What about Violet? you ask. The pond in the forest behind Chamyeri is clear-eyed. Violet owned the water, or so she thought. But I had learned that one could drown in knee-deep water, especially with the senses obscured and limbs made dumb by a special tea. I served her the same tea she had given Mary. When Violet slipped on the rocks in the pond, I held her head, stroking her black hair streaming in the water. At the last moment, I took Violet’s hand and turned her to face the sky. I saved her so the regret would be hers, not mine. So that she remembers. Death is too easy—I have learned how dreadfully easy.