The Winter Thief: A Kamil Pasha Novel (Kamil Pasha Novels)

by Jenny White

  Kamil then told Yorg Pasha what he had learned from his meeting with Sultan Abdulhamid. “Through Vizier Köraslan, Vahid has convinced the sultan that the commune is a threat to the empire and that the Armenians are scheming with the Russians to take the Choruh Valley.”

  “It’s plausible,” Yorg Pasha commented.

  “But not true in this case,” Kamil asserted somewhat uncertainly.

  “As far as we know.”

  “The sultan wants me to go find out the true nature of the settlement. If I fail, he’ll wipe out the commune and, if Vahid has his way, the entire population of the valley.”

  At that, Yorg Pasha raised his eyebrows. “He’s sending you, so that means he doesn’t entirely trust Vahid.”

  “The vizier suggested it.”

  Yorg Pasha looked concerned. “It might be some kind of trap.”

  “I’ll be all right. The sultan is sending troops along.”

  “When are you going?”

  “He wants a report by the end of March.”

  “It’ll be heavy going even then. Spring doesn’t arrive in the Kachkar Mountains until at least May.”

  Kamil shrugged. The sultan’s deadline was not negotiable.

  “That fool Gabriel should be holed up in Trabzon by now,” Yorg Pasha commented. “I hope he’s not trying to get supplies through to his commune. I told him to wait, but he’s a Russian. They’re like large stones Allah has thrown down in the road. You can’t go over them. All you can do is go around them.”

  Simon handed Yorg Pasha a glass of tea.

  “Have you deciphered that scrap of paper yet?” the pasha asked him.

  “It’s part of a Russian travel document. There are letters, possibly of a name—e, r, a.”

  “Vera. What else could it be?”

  Kamil thought about the room in which the paper had been found, the room with restraints and peepholes, but said only, “If it was Vera Arti who escaped, where would she go?”

  “To other Armenians, no doubt. Simon, spread the word.”

  “I’ve taken the liberty of doing that, my pasha.”

  “Well, let’s talk about your trip, Kamil. Who will take care of your orchids?”

  Kamil assured him that his servants were well trained in the needs of his eccentric garden. “But to tell you the truth, I haven’t fully decided if I will go.” He told Yorg Pasha about Huseyin’s disappearance and the attack on Feride. “I can’t leave if she’s in danger.”

  Yorg Pasha frowned. “That is very serious indeed. But you won’t be going for another month yet. Surely your brother-in-law will turn up by then. The attack on Feride is another matter. I imagine we know who’s behind that.”

  “I know you think it’s Vahid.” Kamil propped his head in his hands. “But what I don’t understand is why.”

  57

  VERA SLICED THE APPLES they had purchased at Gosdan’s shop on a wooden board while Marta kneaded dough. Her face was dusted with flour, and her powerful hands plowed efficiently through the pale mass on the table. Apollo sat on a chair near the stove, his prominent nose bent over a piece of the apple cake that had just emerged from the oven. He was tall and angular, with thick black hair and mustache, high cheekbones, and a ready smile. His dark brown eyes glowed with pleasure.

  “This tastes as good as my mother’s cake,” he told Marta, swallowing. “I give no higher praise than that.”

  “How is your mother?” Vera asked, basking in the familiar sound of Apollo’s resonant voice, as burnished and rich as caramel. She wished for him to continue speaking, to extend the balm of his voice over her forever. The afternoon light slanted into the room and lit up ropes of crimson peppers, clusters of garlic heads, and bouquets of herbs hung up to dry. Vera relished the rhythmic chopping and the ever-growing pile of red-rimmed slices filling her bowl. She felt content, she realized, though she found herself testing even pleasant feelings as gingerly as if she were palpating a wound.

  “She’s not well, Vreni,” he answered, using the diminutive of her name. Only Apollo and her own family had ever called her Vreni, Vera thought. Her knife slipped and the white flesh of the apple in her hand flushed red. Apollo rushed over. “Put your finger in your mouth,” he told her. “Now give it to me.” He pressed his finger on the cut, hard. “The pressure will stop the bleeding.”

  They stood facing each other, Vera’s hand inside Apollo’s. The hands of a philosopher, she thought, admiring his long, slender fingers. She had found Apollo less than an hour ago, and already he was comforting her.

  “That’s why I couldn’t meet you on the boat as we had planned,” he explained. “My mother had an attack of apoplexy. It happened while I was visiting her to say goodbye. She started shaking uncontrollably, and I could see something receding in her eyes. It seemed as though she didn’t know me.”

  Apollo had dropped Vera’s hand. She took his and pressed it. “That’s awful. Has she recovered at all?”

  “She’s much better, a bit lame on one side, but she can care for herself again. Still, some part of her soul has left us. You can see it when you look into her eyes.”

  Marta clanged the oven door shut on the second apple cake, wiped her hands on her apron, and checked the samovar. “Let’s sit,” she suggested. “Father Zadian has gone to a meeting. He’ll probably be away all afternoon.”

  When they each had a glass of tea in hand, Marta asked him, “What do you plan to do?”

  “Father Zadian has invited me to stay at the rectory for now. Gabriel is at New Concord, so as soon as I can arrange transportation, I’ll join him.” Apollo looked curiously at Vera. “You decided to stay here?”

  Vera’s contentment evaporated. She nodded in assent, unable to say anything more.

  Marta came to her rescue. “Vera was detained, so Gabriel went on without her.”

  “Detained?” Apollo looked to Vera for an explanation.

  Vera flinched from his gaze. With Apollo she wanted to be the old Vera, before anything else had happened. The Vera with whom he discussed the debates of their Henchak comrades, the Vera who prepared picnics for her friends in the Bâtie Woods, the Vera who remembered how to laugh. When she looked up, it was to see Marta explaining something to Apollo in a low voice. The look on Apollo’s face was enough to tell Vera that her old self was gone. Like Apollo’s mother, some part of her soul was now missing.

  58

  VAHID STRODE INTO the Fatih police station, followed by three of his men, escorting a nun. They were not visibly armed, but their black uniforms caused a stir as the policemen whispered to one another, trying to guess which organization the visitors represented. Vahid wore a tightly tailored stambouline frock coat. With his high black boots and air of command, he needed no insignia.

  Omar was sitting on his usual stool in a corner of the station. He recognized Sister Balbina from the Italian church, the one who had found Sosi’s body. He watched as Vahid and his contingent moved toward the large oak desk that, although Omar never used it, boasted a plaque with his name. Someone brought a stool for the nun. Omar lit another cigarette and watched the group for a while. He wondered what Vahid wanted.

  The policemen in the station, aware that their chief was not at his desk but observing his visitors at his leisure, couldn’t resist an occasional snicker, and there rose a distinct murmur in the room. When Omar saw Vahid’s face flare red, he got up and wandered over.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked politely.

  To his surprise, Vahid laughed out loud. “Public shaming, meant to break down your enemy. Not bad for a small-time policeman, but rather trivial and, dare I say so, childish.”

  “What do you want?” Omar asked, already sick of the man.

  “The watch. Is this the man, Sister?”

  Sister Balbina nodded. “Yes, I gave the watch to him.”

  “Let’s have it,” Vahid snapped at Omar.

  “What watch?” Omar asked. He had sent a messenger to Kamil telling him about the watch, but hadn�
��t had the opportunity to return it.

  “The watch the dead girl had in her hand. The sister here said she gave it to you. And don’t claim you never saw it. I’ve got ten nuns willing to testify. And you know nuns never lie.”

  His smile reminded Omar of a viper he had once seen in the desert that had swallowed a rat. Omar had killed it. “What’s your interest in this case?” he asked Vahid. “Is it worth your while to be chasing around town after a watch?”

  “What was the name on it?” Vahid asked the nun.

  “Kamil. A gift from his mother. It was in French.” She nodded officiously, her wimple moving up and down.

  The station had fallen silent.

  The reason for my interest is clear, Vahid’s smug smile seemed to say. Omar wanted to punch his fist right through it. He realized that it was useless to deny that he had the watch. His word against ten nuns. If he were Christian, he would cross himself against the devil. If he didn’t give them the watch, they would still implicate Kamil, and then he would be accused of destroying evidence—or of corruption and who knew what else. Omar didn’t mind an accusation of corruption, especially if it was deserved, but he needed to be free to help Kamil. His eyes fell to Vahid’s boots. They were the right size, new and of good quality, with a nick at the edge of the sole that matched the footprint in the churchyard.

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out Kamil’s pocket watch, and handed it to Sister Balbina. He wouldn’t give Vahid the pleasure of taking it from his hand. “It means nothing,” Omar told him, “unless we know how it got there.” He gave Vahid a meaningful look. “And I know who put it there.”

  “You know nothing, and you can prove nothing.” Vahid took the watch from the nun’s hand and bounced it on his palm. “But this does.”

  THE MOMENT they were gone, Omar rode hard to Kamil’s office. To his surprise, a line of gendarmes was guarding the front of the courthouse. They hadn’t even waited to see whether he would give them the watch, Omar thought angrily. It was outrageous for someone of Kamil’s stature to be arrested in public. Surely they wouldn’t imprison him. Pashas don’t appear in court and they don’t go to jail. It would be as unthinkable as arresting the sultan.

  Omar ran up the stairs into a scene of chaos. Kamil stood in the middle of a knot of people, looking calm but puzzled. The captain of gendarmes was explaining to Kamil in an apologetic voice that he had instructions to arrest him but that he hadn’t been instructed as to the reason. A repeating rifle was slung across the captain’s shoulder and a revolver stuck in the crimson sash around his waist. A scimitar hung from his sword belt. Kamil’s assistant Abdullah was shouting at the captain to get out if he didn’t have cause to arrest the pasha. The burly doorkeeper, Ibrahim, stood beside Kamil, scowling and ready for a fight.

  When Kamil saw Omar, he raised his hands to calm the crowd and walked over to him. “Do you know anything about this?”

  Omar leaned forward and whispered in his ear.

  “I see,” Kamil said, his expression unchanging. His eyes met Omar’s. “Tell Yorg Pasha and Nizam Pasha. Do what you can. The only way to prove that I didn’t kill the girl is to find out who did.”

  “We know who did it,” Omar growled. “Leave it to me.”

  Kamil turned to the gendarme captain. “Let’s go.” He gave instructions to his astonished staff and then walked out of the office, surrounded by armed soldiers.

  59

  YORG PASHA AND FERIDE were in her sitting room, drinking coffee. The lamps were lit on this gloomy winter afternoon and the velvet drapes drawn to keep in the warmth. Flames from the fireplace threw twisting shadows on the walls.

  “Think about my invitation to stay with us in Bebek. My family will be delighted to see you, and you’ll be safe.”

  “Thank you, Yorg Pasha.” Feride wondered how she could refuse without seeming rude. “I miss them, please tell them that. But I have to find Huseyin. Surely you understand.” She remembered his great kindness and the attention he had lavished on her and Kamil when they were young, even though the pasha had four children of his own. But Yorg Pasha’s wife was very pious and rarely went out, and Feride would feel obliged to keep her company.

  “You can leave that to me, my dear,” he insisted, putting down his cup with an age-spotted hand.

  Yorg Pasha appeared much older than when she had last seen him. He reminded her of her father in the months before he died.

  “But someone is trying to kill Huseyin.” She blanched as she realized she had almost added, If he’s not already dead.

  “Kamil has told me this, Feride dear. And also about the attack on you. That’s why I’d like you to come to Bebek.”

  “I can’t. Please understand. There are”—she faltered—“reasons that I need to find him.”

  Feride could see the worry and consternation on Yorg Pasha’s face. Finally he said, “Very well, but you won’t object to my assistance, will you?”

  “I’d be grateful for your advice, my pasha, and of course for your protection,” Feride said, relieved.

  “Would you permit?” Yorg Pasha took a fist-sized timepiece from the pocket of his robe and wound it with a key. “My secretary said he’d be here at four, and he’s as punctual as any of my clocks.”

  Smiling in amusement at the old man’s childlike delight, Feride drew her veil across her mouth in anticipation of a male stranger. The clock pealed a complicated pattern of silvery bells, and even before it ended, Simon stood in the room as if he had been there all along.

  “Tell us,” Yorg Pasha said, patting the timepiece and putting it back into his pocket. “You look fit to burst.”

  “We’ve found Huseyin Pasha,” Simon told them.

  Feride was on her feet. “He’s alive?”

  “He’s in Üsküdar, just as you thought. When the people who took him from Eyüp realized he wasn’t their relative, they took him to the home of a midwife who has been caring for him. He’s awake, and we explained the situation to him. His lungs and throat are damaged and he’s unable to speak, but I believe he understood.”

  Yorg Pasha turned to Feride. “You don’t want Simon on your trail. Punctual, efficient, and as ruthless as a ferret.” He looked pleased.

  “When are you bringing him back?” she asked Simon.

  “His condition seems stable, chère hanoum, and no one knows he’s there. We didn’t want to risk drawing any attention to him.” He turned to Yorg Pasha. “What should we do now?”

  “You will bring him home,” Feride commanded, drawing surprised looks from both the pasha and his secretary.

  “Of course we will, my dear,” the pasha assured her. “But have you thought about his security once he’s officially found?”

  “I’m sure Kamil can arrange a guard,” she said. “But why is someone trying to kill Huseyin? And who?”

  “We believe it’s a commander in the secret police. He’s been asking after your husband.”

  She stared at them, not understanding.” Surely it’s not unusual for a member of the sultan’s staff to ask after Huseyin. He works there.”

  “This is a very dangerous man, Feride,” the pasha explained. “Your brother has been interfering with some of his plans and has darkened his name with Sultan Abdulhamid. It may be that the man is targeting your family out of revenge.”

  Feride stood in the middle of the room, her hands twisted in the cloth of her gown, thinking through her options. A servant entered and summoned Simon, who left the room for a few moments, then returned. Feride saw his shoulders had stiffened, and there was a fold between his eyebrows that she hadn’t noticed before. He leaned over and spoke to Yorg Pasha in a low voice. The old man frowned.

  “What is it?” Feride demanded.

  “Kamil has been arrested.”

  “What?” Feride felt a sudden vertigo on realizing that Kamil too was under threat. She had always thought of him as the most solid part of the landscape of her life. If he was no longer there? The thought was insupportable. If she
lost both Kamil and Huseyin, who would she be then?

  Yorg Pasha signaled to the maids stationed by the door. They fluttered around Feride to steady her and helped her into a chair. One brought a cloth sprinkled with rose water and pressed it to Feride’s forehead. Feride pushed it away and sat up. The maids retreated. “Why was he arrested?” she asked in a firm voice.

  Yorg Pasha looked exhausted. “He’s been accused of murdering an Armenian girl. Her body was found two days ago, and Kamil’s watch was in her hand.”

  “That’s preposterous.”

  “We know that, dear child. It was set up, probably by this same man. Do you see what I mean?” Yorg Pasha said earnestly. “This man is very dangerous. Let us handle it.”

  “What’s this man’s name?”

  “Vahid.”

  She turned to Simon and asked, “Can you arrange to bring Huseyin here secretly?” She had a plan.

  Feride saw Simon look at the pasha out of the corner of his eye, and the pasha give a barely perceptible nod. “Yes, chère hanoum,” Simon answered.

  “Then do it. I’ll ask Doctor Moreno to be present to see to his wounds.”

  She walked over to Yorg Pasha and took his hand. Bending her head, she pressed the back of his hand to her cheek through the thin gauze of her veil. “Thank you, my pasha, for your offer of protection. I would welcome it.” She stood before him, her back straight and her mind made up. “It would be better if the guards were invisible. That way no one will suspect Huseyin is back home. Perhaps they could paint the mansion. It needs quite a bit of work. The winter has been unkind.”

  Yorg Pasha laughed and asked Simon, “Can you tell we’re related?”

  60

  “WHERE TO?” KAMIL ASKED the gendarme captain, a young man with professional bearing. Kamil had worked with him before on other cases, including the bank robbery, and he respected him as a good Ottoman officer—strong, educated, obedient, humane, and civilized. They were standing before a carriage surrounded by an escort of mounted gendarmes. A group of onlookers clustered at the top of the courthouse stairs. Kamil recognized his staff, one of the judges, and another magistrate. He saw the magistrate ask the judge something, then his surprised face. A crowd was gathering in the street, kept at a distance by the troops.