The Abyssinian Proof: A Kamil Pasha Novel (Kamil Pasha Novels)

by Jenny White

  Her mind wandered to Kamil Pasha. Why had Uncle Malik spoken so often about Kamil if he hadn’t meant for them to be together? Leaning her cheek against the tree trunk, she began to cry.

  Aware of someone standing behind her, she turned.

  “Pardon me, Saba Hanoum. I apologize for intruding.” It was Constantine Courtidis. “Someone rode over and told me your mother was ill, so I came right away. Are you alright?” The concern in his voice irritated her because it made her want to cry even more, and she had to force herself not to lean forward onto his chest and allow him to minister to her as well as to her mother.

  She took a deep breath and said, “Mama is in her bedroom, Constantine. Come in. Thank you for coming so late.”

  “I’m the slave of your eyes, Saba Hanoum.”

  She thought his eyes brimmed as if he too were about to cry. Her melancholy needed stronger medicine than this well-meaning but artless young man.

  Saba led him into Balkis’s bedroom. Gudit always disappeared as soon as Courtidis was sent for. Balkis was asleep, her chest rising and falling evenly, but her face retained traces of anguish.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Saba asked in a small voice.

  Courtidis looked closely at his patient and felt her forehead. “She won’t let me examine her, so I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In cases like this, I need to see, beg your pardon, all of my patient. There must be an infection somewhere.”

  Saba looked puzzled. “I’m surprised. I don’t think she’s conservative about things like that. She’s always been very practical. Have you explained it to her?” But as she said this, Saba realized she too had never seen her mother naked. Gudit always helped her with her clothes and in the bath. Perhaps Balkis was more prudish than Saba thought.

  “I’ll talk to her,” she promised. “Can it wait until she’s awake?”

  Constantine regarded his patient and suggested, “Shall I stay, Saba Hanoum? I’d be happy to keep watch over her.”

  Saba saw the worried frown on his face. Suddenly distressed, she asked, “Is it that serious?”

  “Oh, no, I didn’t mean to imply she’s that ill.” He took another look at Balkis’s face and felt her forehead. “Nothing like that.”

  “Then please get some sleep yourself, Constantine. Will you come by in the morning and check on her?”

  “Of course,” he beamed. “Anything. Anything at all.”

  Saba laid her hand on his arm. “Thank you.”

  Courtidis was overcome with confusion. He bowed himself backward out of the room as if she were a sultana. When he was gone, Saba vowed not to think badly of him anymore. He was kind and generous. She wished Amida had some of his qualities.

  Saba wondered uneasily why Amida was so disloyal to his family. Why such unnatural feelings in a son? Amida had been gone for a long time, nearly nine years, but that didn’t absolve him of the responsibility to act decently toward his mother. She remembered Amida as a quiet, shy boy. Their mother had doted on him, even more than on her daughter. Saba remembered the fruit ice, but without rancor. Had something happened at the monastery to change him?

  They would have to learn to work together. If there was a key to understanding her brother, she was determined she would find it.

  9

  AT ONE IN THE MORNING, Kamil rode across the Old Bridge to Oun Kapanou Square. Against a backdrop of enormous stone warehouses and shuttered shops, the only light came from a few fires around which slumped shadowy figures. They were probably peasants from the countryside, Kamil thought, looking for work and huddled together for safety in the square near the police station. He was relieved and excited to be taking action again, although he hoped that this night would end better than the last. Marko’s face remained vivid in his mind.

  Kamil dismounted and gave the reins of his horse to a policeman on guard by the station door. Inside, six men sat around a table, playing cards. The table was littered with half-full tea glasses, a bowl of cigarette butts, and the remains of a meal.

  “You’re killing me.” Omar threw his cards on the table and pushed back his chair. “Tea, Magistrate? Are you hungry?”

  The other men ignored him and concentrated on their game.

  When Kamil tipped his chin to indicate no, Omar asked, “Are you armed?”

  “Of course.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  THEY RODE SLOWLY along Djoubalou Boulevard, the padded feet of their horses making almost no sound. The line of shops gave way to warehouses and depots. In the dark, Kamil couldn’t read their signs, but knew they contained the empire’s stocks of oil, flour, tobacco, and other export goods. To his left stretched a long open lot where heaps of scrap iron made fantastical shapes in the dark.

  “I told you our ear in Charshamba heard that a big shipment of antiquities is going out tonight,” Omar said in a low voice. “But we don’t know where they’re loading. One possibility is the wharf behind the Ottoman Tobacco Works.” He spat on the ground. “Ever since the French took over the tobacco monopoly, all we get is shit.”

  Kamil agreed. “I heard that the Greeks and Armenians have moved their factories to Egypt.”

  “Can’t blame them. The women work for less money there. Although I hear someone reads to them while they roll cigarettes.”

  “Reads to them?”

  “Beats me. Keeps their fingers limber?” Omar threw out with a snort. “My cousin was stationed there. Saw it with his own eyes. Someone reading newspapers out loud to the workers. I think it’s a bad idea. Limbers up their minds too, never a good thing in a woman.” He smiled broadly and smoothed his mustache with his forefinger. “They should be limber elsewhere.”

  “The Tobacco Works next to the Golden Horn, isn’t that the office where they print the tax stamps? It must be well guarded.” Kamil remembered a hulking brick building with large windows overlooking the water.

  “That’s right. The actual depot is on Hissar Altou Street. But the smugglers aren’t interested in the offices. There are archways leading from the basement of the Tobacco Works to the pier. No guards back there. We think the basement connects to a tunnel. Someday, I’d like to see where the other end comes out, but the French don’t appreciate the police poking around in their basements unless we can prove there’s a reason.”

  “But if you know stolen goods are coming through there, why haven’t you raided it?”

  “We were waiting for a big shipment. Otherwise, we’d have wasted good knowledge on small results. By the will of Allah, tonight we’ll have our proof.”

  When they came to a marble depot, Omar pulled his horse up next to Kamil’s and whispered, “From here, we go on foot.” He pursed his lips and cooed like a dove. Five men in uniform emerged from behind the marble slabs, like Greek statues coming to life. All of them were armed and two carried large lamps. Kamil recognized Ali from the Fatih station and nodded to him. Ali grinned, clearly pleased that Kamil remembered him.

  One of the policemen was so young that he had only black down above his lips instead of a mustache, although his white, bony wrists had outgrown the sleeves of his uniform. Ali seemed to have taken the young man under his instruction. Kamil heard him explain in a low voice, “Rejep, never take your gun out unless you’re willing to use it. If you hesitate, someone will get it away from you and then use it against you. Just keep your eyes open and your gun tucked away unless the chief tells you otherwise.”

  One of the other three men was short and stout like a barrel, but unexpectedly agile. The other two were unremarkable, short and slim like many local men. If Kamil had been able to see their features more clearly, he would have expected gaunt, prematurely old faces, perhaps some missing teeth, incongruously youthful dark eyes, and luxuriant mustaches.

  With Omar and Kamil in front, the group made its way single-file down an alley leading to the port, keeping close to the wall of the depot. There was no moon and the stars were obscured by clouds. Kamil’s wo
rld consisted of the sound of his own heartbeat and the bulk, felt rather than seen, of Omar before him.

  They reached the wooden pier and turned left, keeping close to the enormous warehouse gates. To their right, the thick, almost tangible blackness of night on water pressed against them.

  Suddenly, Kamil felt the spring of wood give way to flagstones beneath his feet.

  Omar stopped and put his lips to Kamil’s ear, “This is the wharf. There’s another pier straight ahead.”

  Kamil nudged him and pointed to a pinprick of light that had appeared on the water.

  The light went out. They watched and waited until it blinked again. Suddenly, in front of them a door opened, emitting a dim light, but was shut again almost immediately. They heard scurrying sounds, footsteps on wood, scraping as if a heavy object were being dragged toward the water. Finally, the noises stopped and low voices drifted toward them from the pier.

  His senses fully alert and his heart racing, Kamil whispered to Omar. “Now.”

  As Omar passed the signal to his men, Kamil calmed his breathing. Cloaked in darkness, he crept silently forward onto the pier, followed by Omar and the five men.

  When the voices were close by, Omar gave another signal and the two policemen quickly lit their lamps and rushed forward, illuminating the scene: a rowboat in the water piled high with sacks and a large wooden chest. A man balanced in the boat, securing the load. Three men on the pier were momentarily blinded by the sudden brilliance. Kamil ran past them and sprang onto the man in the boat. As they struggled, the boat rocked wildly. The other smugglers turned and ran along the pier with Omar and the policemen right behind them, shouting at them to stop. Panicked, one of the smugglers jumped into the water. Kamil heard him struggle, then call for help. Kamil realized that the man couldn’t swim.

  Kamil subdued the man in the rowboat and used a piece of rope to tie his hands, then threw a length of rope in the drowning man’s direction. “Grab the rope!” he called, but the man continued to flail and, with a surprised gasp, he suddenly disappeared.

  Kamil hauled his prisoner out of the boat and onto the pier. There he found the policemen squatting over the other two smugglers, their heads pressed against the wooden planks, arms pinned behind them. Kamil handed his captive over.

  “He’s finished,” Kamil answered to Omar’s questioning look at the water. “Let’s see what we’ve caught.”

  While Omar held the lamp, Kamil stepped back into the boat, slipped his knife from his boot, and slit open one of the sacks. He pulled out a tin box with a red lid. On the lid was the image of a silver sickle moon and star and the words, Régie des Tabacs De L’Empire Ottoman, Constantinople. He opened it, then turned and showed Omar. The box was filled with cigarettes, the musky odor lifting pleasantly to their noses. Kamil could see Omar was as disappointed as he was.

  “May it profit Allah,” Omar exclaimed, throwing the box into the water in disgust. “For it hasn’t profited us.”

  Kamil took out another box and looked at the cigarettes closely in the light. “No tax stamps.” He slit open the other sacks and soon the boat was knee-deep in tin boxes and cigarettes.

  “Run-of-the-mill smugglers’ fare,” Omar said dejectedly. He handed Kamil a heavy-bladed knife.

  Kamil used it to pry open the wooden chest, fully expecting it to hold more of the same. But when Omar held the lamp closer, both men smiled broadly. The light glinted from a hoard of gold and silver items, some set with jewels. Kamil recognized objects from across the ages, a highly decorated Roman silver platter, a gold Byzantine chalice, and what appeared to be a silver candleholder engraved with the sultan’s seal that could have come from any imperial mosque. He pulled aside some of the pieces and spotted a nielloed ewer. He pulled it out and examined it.

  “This was stolen from Fatih Mosque,” he concluded.

  “So we’re on their tail,” Omar said with undisguised pleasure. “Let’s go and sit on these thugs and see what information they spill.”

  They closed the chest and hauled it onto the pier, then turned to the five policemen standing proudly over their three captives.

  “Well done,” Omar told them. His good mood infected the men, who grinned and nodded at one another.

  Omar pulled aside the stout policeman. “You, Shishko, I want you to ride as fast as you can to Oun Kapanou station. Tell them to send five more armed men and two wagons. When you get back, take the prisoners to the Fatih jail in one wagon and that chest to the Fatih station in the other. And hurry.”

  The man pressed his fist against his heart and bowed his head. “On my honor.” Then he ran off into the night.

  “And you,” Omar singled out one of the older policemen, “make sure the chest is still here when he gets back.”

  “Chief?” The man looked confused.

  “Aren’t we going to wait for them?” Kamil asked Omar.

  Omar stared at the archways at the back of the building. “I’d like to look for that tunnel,” he confided to Kamil in a low voice. “They won’t use it again, but we need to see where it goes.”

  “Better in daylight,” Kamil cautioned. “You’ve got your proof now,” he pointed to the boat, “so the French will allow you to search the basement. At least wait until reinforcements get here.”

  “If we wait, they might block off the tunnel.”

  “That may be so, but it’s too risky. We don’t know how many men are in there.”

  Omar walked up to the door the smugglers had used and yanked it open. Beyond was darkness. “They’re long gone.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  Kamil took stock: three trussed prisoners and four policemen, now that Shishko had been sent for reinforcements. If he and Omar went into the basement, four armed men should be enough to guard the prisoners. Kamil could see the policemen’s faces in the light and found them to be energetic, muscular young men, not the faded civil servants he had imagined. One was a particularly handsome youth, with a head of dark curls and an easy smile. They were joking around, but Kamil sensed this was to cover their apprehension.

  “These donkeys stink,” the older man said. “Shall we roll them off the pier and wash them before they stink up the station?” He nudged the captive at his feet with his boot and asked him, “Can you swim?”

  Two of the captives struggled crablike against their ropes, eliciting more laughter from the policemen. The third, the man Kamil had subdued in the boat, lay still. At first, Kamil thought he was unconscious, but then he noticed the man looking about him with hard, observant eyes.

  Kamil called Omar over and pointed him out. “That’s their leader.”

  Omar watched the prisoner for a moment, then nodded and went over to speak with his men. Kamil noticed their hands moving to their revolvers.

  When the prisoner noticed he was being observed, he closed his eyes.

  Omar returned, Ali and Rejep trailing behind. “Coming?” he asked Kamil.

  “If you take Ali and Rejep, there’ll be only two men to guard the prisoners,” Kamil objected. “What if the other smugglers come back?”

  “My men are armed,” Omar pointed out. “And if there are others, they’ll be inside and have to get past us first. We won’t be long. I just want to find the damn tunnel before they have a chance to block it off. They could be doing that right now while we’re standing here jabbering.”

  He took a baton from one of the policemen and walked over to the prisoners. He bent over and neatly and systematically bashed each of them on the head once, hard enough to make them go slack but not hard enough to draw blood. A master in full control of his tools, Kamil thought grimly.

  “Was that necessary?” he asked.

  “Just putting your mind at rest. They won’t be giving anybody any trouble.”

  “It’s not them I’m worried about.”

  The policemen remaining behind looked serious now. They shifted about, staring into the darkness. Kamil snapped open his cigarette case and held it out to the yo
ung men. They shoved their revolvers into their holsters, accepted the cigarettes, and cupped hands for each other to light them, grateful for something to do.

  “Omar, don’t do this,” Kamil appealed one last time.

  “We’ll be back before they finish those cigarettes. Friends, have your guns ready.”

  The men snapped to attention and pulled out their revolvers. Kamil wondered if any of them had ever fired a gun before.

  “Ali, Rejep, come on.” Omar grabbed the second lamp and headed through the door. Kamil swallowed an expletive and followed the men into the basement.

  THEY PASSED ALONG a damp corridor that smelled of mold and urine and led steeply downward. Despite his wool jacket, Kamil was chilled. Omar’s light wavered up ahead. They emerged into a large room with brick walls, and Kamil could just make out a vaulted ceiling. The room felt limitless and cold as a grave. The lamplight picked out carcasses of rusted machinery, broken crates, piles of crumbling bricks.

  “Ah, you decided to join us, Magistrate,” Omar said, his voice magnified in the cavernous space.

  “If the basement is as large as the building, you’ll be here for hours.”

  “We’re here now. Let’s see what we can see.” Omar moved forward with the lamp. Greek and Roman capitals sprouted like enormous mushrooms from the dark rubble of the floor. Marble pillars were stacked like firewood, some cut into roundels to be used as building material.

  Despite his unease, Kamil found he was fascinated. He remembered what Malik had said about empires building upon the remains of earlier civilizations. Given its size and the pattern of brickwork, Kamil guessed the basement had once been the foundation of a Byzantine palace. Perhaps these columns had been harvested by the Byzantines, sliced and stacked and inventoried in their own version of technological progress. The Ottomans had built a modern factory on top of it all, full of printing devices, stamping and calculating machines, the clatter of modernity. But in its hidden recesses, the Ottoman Tobacco Works was infested with history, its subterranean heart riddled with ancient tunnels. They passed the rusting hulk of a large machine that looked like a press or printing device. A thick iron square hung suspended in the air like a giant hand blessing the unidentifiable remains beneath it.