by Jenny White
It was sheer luck that Balkis’s house and the other cottages hadn’t caught fire. There had been enough men around to put out the blaze quickly. During the day, most of them would have been at work, but in the middle of the night, all were at home. The fire brigade arrived—a team of muscular young men running in unison, carrying a water pump on their shoulders—but by that time, the fire had been tamed. The piano remained upright like a large smoldering creature rooting in the rubble. Amida was being looked after by Courtidis and Saba. He had been shot in the lower back. Courtidis was not sure whether he would recover. There was no sign of Owen or his men. Kamil boiled with frustration that he had let them slip away. He had expected them to run out the front door, where Yakup was waiting. He should have remembered that Remzi knew about the tunnels.
It was almost dawn. A pall of white smoke filled the cistern like a bowl, making it difficult to see. A tall, thick-necked man in a ripped shirt approached him. His face was scratched and dirty, as were all their faces. Kamil assumed it was a villager coming to thank him. If only they knew he was the one who had started the fire, Kamil thought glumly.
“Well, where the hell were you?” Omar asked him with mock anger.
“Where was I?” Kamil jumped up and cried out. “Where was I while you were getting your beauty sleep?” He took a closer look at Omar and noticed for the first time the cuts and bruises. His eye was beginning to swell. “What happened to you?”
“You don’t count punches in a fight.” Omar tried to smile, but ended in a grimace of pain. “What happened to you?” He leaned closer and examined Kamil’s blood-caked hair.
Kamil smiled bleakly. “We can compare war stories later.”
“Well, come along, then. I have a present for you.”
He led Kamil through the smoke to a tumbledown cottage at the edge of the compound.
“It’s used for storage,” Omar explained and flung open the door.
On the floor, bound like two neat packages, were Ben and Remzi, bloodied and black with soot. Ben’s face was swollen like a cantaloupe. Remzi lay quietly with his eyes closed, blood trickling from his ear.
Kamil pounded Omar on the back. “How did you do it?”
“There are those who can ride a horse, and there are those who can’t,” Omar replied, making no attempt at modesty. He pointed to the back of the cottage, where steps led down into blackness. He shrugged. “Two against one, in the dark? It was better than kissing a pretty woman.”
AFTER MAKING SURE their prisoners were under lock and key, Kamil and Omar sat at the back of the Fatih station, drinking tea. Dawn threw strange halfhearted shadows on the floor, as if the day were only practicing and still unwilling to commit its full strength.
“I can’t believe Owen escaped.” Kamil’s voice was hoarse from inhaling smoke. He worried about Elif and wondered if Owen would make good on his threat to harm her or whether he’d just try to leave the empire the fastest way possible. Kamil had ordered every customs station, port, and train station to be watched, and sent gendarmes to notify every stable in the city where Owen might rent or purchase a horse and carriage. Huseyin’s liveried guards were armed and on full alert.
“Why haven’t we been able to find out where the bastard lives?”
“None of his associates ever met him there. And he has money. That buys you anonymity.” Kamil stood. “I’ll go and get cleaned up and this afternoon we can hand Ben over to the embassy. Remzi is all yours until his trial.”
“This time he’ll squeal like a bitch. His Charshamba gang is out of business. When I round up the rest of them, believe me,” he added in a deadly voice, “they’ll be sorry they ever laid a hand on my men. At least I know Remzi will get what’s coming to him when he goes to trial. Open and shut case. My friend the warden at Sultanahmet Prison has reserved a nice dark cell for him in the basement where he can chat with the rats. But it really eats my liver about Owen. He’s the one responsible for the murders, but we don’t have a thing on him. I bet if we handed him over to the British, they’d fine him a thousand liras for smuggling, then cut the bastard loose.”
“At least we’ve severed his smuggling artery. The thefts should dry up now.”
“We’ll make it so hot at this end that the bazaaris will look like us if they so much as go near a stolen icon.” Omar pointed to Kamil’s singed hair.
Kamil laughed, but his eyes were cold.
WHILE OMAR RETURNED to Sunken Village to check on Amida, Kamil rode through Fatih, across the New Bridge, and up the hill through Galata. The Grande Rue de Pera was still relatively deserted. Doorkeepers returning from the bakery carried loaves of fresh bread in string bags or tucked in paper under their arms. A few women, probably servants, hurried past, heads down.
Kamil turned into Agha-Hamam Street and dismounted before a wooden door.
“Your arrival pleases me,” the hamambashou Niko boomed, quickly hiding his surprise at Kamil’s appearance.
A red-checked peshtemal towel hung around Niko’s neck, doing little to hide his barrel chest. Another covered him from waist to knees. Kamil came here every week to bathe and to suffer brilliantly under the blows of Niko’s muscled arms. This week, he was early.
Niko led Kamil into the cooling-off room and indicated a cubicle, a simple wood-paneled room with no ceiling that contained a comfortable padded bench, a wardrobe, towels, high wooden clogs, and a hamam bowl of tinned copper, indented in the center to fit the bather’s middle finger when he poured water from the basin onto his head and shoulders.
Kamil stripped. In the enclosed space, the stench of charred wool was foul. He piled his clothes in a corner and wound a towel around his waist. Then he lay on his back on the bench and looked up gratefully at the calm, blue-tiled dome above him. His head throbbed, but distantly, like a storm at sea. The voices of other men echoed about him, distorted by the marble and tile walls.
Restless, he got up and called Niko. He pointed to the pile of clothes and told him to dispose of them and to send someone to his office for new ones.
The air became increasingly dense as Kamil moved from the cooler rooms to the hot domed hall, where Niko waited with a silk-weave washcloth and a bar of olive-oil soap.
AN HOUR LATER, Kamil arrived at his office freshly scrubbed and dressed.
A soft knock on the door announced Avi. “This is from Mimoza Teyze.” He held out a packet redolent with the scent of freshly baked börek.
“Thank you.” Kamil unwrapped the börek and offered a piece to Avi. “How do you like living at Chief Omar’s house?”
“Mimoza Teyze lets me help,” Avi responded. “I get to bring the water from the fountain. That’s my job,” he added proudly, taking a bite. “And the garden. I’m helping Omar Amja build winter beds. He showed me how to do it. See?” He held out his hand. The blisters had healed, but Kamil saw a new bruise. “I’m not so good with the hammer yet,” Avi said, chagrined. “But I will be.”
Kamil clapped the boy on the shoulder. “Well, you’ve done a wonderful job for us. Who knows, you might end up a police chief instead of a magistrate.” He pushed the börek in Avi’s direction. “Now eat up. The padishah expects his officials to have meat on their bones.”
After Avi left, Abdullah handed Kamil a letter. It was from Nizam Pasha, reminding him that his seven days were up and ordering him to appear at the Ministry of Justice that afternoon.
Where could Owen live, Kamil wondered, without the local muhtar, who registered everyone in the district, or the police being aware of him? The only answer was in a district of villas, konaks, and mansions like Huseyin’s. The rich kept to themselves. But they had servants, and servants gossiped. There must be a way to find out.
Abdullah announced a visitor. Tailor Pepo’s apprentice came through the door, hands clasped before him, head bowed.
“Pasha, Tailor Pepo sends his greetings. He asked me to tell you that Monsieur Owen has ordered two new shirts. He paid extra to have them made up right away.” He held out a
piece of paper. “Here’s the address we delivered them to.”
Perhaps he should believe in miracles after all, Kamil thought.
THERE WERE NO servants and the house appeared deserted. It was a small villa in Nishantashou, not far from Huseyin’s mansion and an easy ride to the apartment in Tarla Bashou and to the British Embassy. Surrounded by a great iron fence and set within an overgrown garden, the villa was barely visible from the street. Kamil asked a passerby if he knew who lived there, and was told that the place was empty, except for a caretaker. But no one had seen him for several months.
The gendarmes took up positions around the house. Kamil instructed Captain Arif to make sure nothing, not even a hare, got through. “We believe there’s only one man in there, an Englishman. Chief Omar and I will go in first.” He took out his revolver. “I hope he’ll come quietly. But if you hear shots, you know what to do.”
“Yes, pasha.”
Kamil and Omar circled around the back, where a carriage waited in the dusty lane.
“You can get in and out back here without anyone seeing you,” Omar remarked. “But not anymore.” He grinned. Owen wouldn’t escape again.
Suitcases and bundles were stacked inside the carriage, and the back gate was ajar. They ran to the house, keeping out of sight behind the bushes, and slipped in the back door. The notes of a piano sonata drifted through the hallway. They followed the sound to a large central room lit by French windows. Although the house was shabby on the outside, inside it rivaled a small palace in the opulence of its furnishings and the quality of the art that covered every surface.
Owen sat at a grand piano with his back to them, engrossed in his playing. A large suitcase lay open on the floor.
Omar circled the room to sneak behind him.
“Going somewhere?” Kamil asked, pointing his gun at Owen’s back.
The notes ceased. Owen froze, then turned around. “My dear friend. I really am impressed.”
Before Omar could reach him, Owen suddenly pulled out a gun and shot at Kamil.
Omar leapt onto Owen’s back and pulled him to the ground. He stamped on his wrist until the gun fell from his hand, then hit him on the head with his pistol.
Kamil lay on the floor. Captain Arif and ten of his men fanned into the room, guns out, unsure where to aim.
“Get the medical officer,” Omar bellowed. He turned to Kamil and tried to staunch the wound. “Still alive, I see. The high and mighty must be bulletproof.”
“Did you get him?” Kamil groaned.
Omar nodded toward the figure slumped beside the piano.
“Good.” Kamil struggled to rise. His jacket was soaked with blood. “Did you kill him?”
“Maybe.” Omar looked unrepentant.
As two soldiers, led by a worried-looking Captain Arif, hurried Kamil’s stretcher out of the room, he saw Omar standing over Owen’s body. The last thing he remembered was hearing Omar’s voice ordering the remaining soldiers to get out.
39
INSTEAD OF THE reception hall, the clerk at the Ministry of Justice brought Kamil into Nizam Pasha’s private chambers. Kamil had never been there before and wasn’t sure if this change in routine was good news or bad. It might simply be that it was late in the day, and Nizam Pasha no longer had any reason to be sitting in the drafty hall.
Exhausted by pain, Kamil wore a cloak instead of his stambouline jacket, to accommodate his bandaged shoulder. The military surgeon had assured him that the bullet had gone right through the muscle and that the wound would heal cleanly, but Kamil had refused to take anything for the pain. He wanted a clear head for this interview. In life, he mused, philosophers say that the straight path is best, but they didn’t know Nizam Pasha.
The clerk ushered him into a room lined with books that had several comfortable-looking chairs and a modern desk piled with books and papers. The books were bound in soft leather and embossed in gold. A ladder used to climb to the higher reaches was propped against the shelves. Kamil stopped, assuming this was where he would be received, but the clerk urged him on through another door at the back.
They walked along a corridor, then emerged into a room in the old Ottoman style, with little ornamentation but an abundance of space and light. In the center a fountain burbled inside a small marble pool. To one side, the floor was raised to make a room within a room. The higher room was furnished with only a simple divan that stretched on three sides around a large blue and yellow silk rug. Dressed in a subdued gray robe and turban, Nizam Pasha was propped comfortably against cushions, his legs tucked under him. He was puffing on a narghile and a tiny china cup of coffee rested within arm’s reach.
Kamil struggled with one hand to take off his boots, then took the pair of finely tooled leather slippers the clerk held out. He stepped up to the room where Nizam Pasha waited, bowed deeply, and uttered the usual polite phrases.
“Sit, Magistrate, and give me your report.” Nizam Pasha snapped his fingers and told the clerk to bring Kamil coffee. He glanced at the bandage visible under Kamil’s cloak, but said nothing.
Kamil sat down on the divan opposite Nizam Pasha, grateful to be off his feet. It would have been impolite to look at his superior directly, so he directed his gaze toward Nizam Pasha’s right shoulder.
“We apprehended the thieves, Minister, and I’ve broken the connection to Europe.” He told him about Magnus Owen and his embassy export business. He detailed the many antiquities that had been recovered on the ship and in Owen’s apartment and villa, including the icon, the Ahrida Torah, the chalice, and other Byzantine valuables from the Fatih Mosque. He told him about the Rettingate shop. “The London police are raiding it as we speak. I expect we’ll get information leading to more arrests once they’ve had a look at their books. Much of the illegal trade from the empire went through this dealer’s hands.”
Kamil didn’t mention Malik’s murder. Although he was a civil servant himself, he had an instinctive distrust of bureaucrats and what they might do with information about something as potentially inflammatory as the Melisites or the Proof of God. Be loyal to the state, he thought, but trust whom you know. The Proof of God was better off in the hands of Hamdi Bey, who at least appreciated it as a rare antiquity that needed to be preserved, if not as a theological triumph or the heart of a religious sect.
Nizam Pasha listened with lowered lids, then looked directly at Kamil. “The bodies of the two Englishmen will have to be handed over to the embassy.”
Startled, Kamil said nothing, still digesting the news that Owen and Ben were dead.
Nizam Pasha appraised him. “You surprise me, Kamil.” There was a note of respect in his voice. “It’ll be a delicate matter.”
“Delicate, Minister?”
“You’ll have to explain the ears.” Nizam Pasha pulled on his narghile, his eyes intent. “Was that a joke? Why did you cut off their ears?”
At first, Kamil didn’t understand. Then, in a rush of horror, it became clear to him—Omar must have taken his revenge for Ali’s mutilation in the Tobacco Works tunnel. Omar had once mentioned, with a kind of admiration, warriors who strung up their enemies’ ears and wore them as necklaces. Kamil struggled to hide his shock from Nizam Pasha, who was watching him intently. What possible explanation could he come up with to account for such brutality that didn’t implicate Omar?
Kamil settled on a lie so close to the truth it was almost indistinguishable. “An unfortunate incident. Before we could lock them up, they were killed by a rival gang. That was the gang’s signature.”
“Good enough. The embassy will believe it.” He fixed Kamil with his gaze. It was clear that Nizam Pasha did not believe this lie.
“Yes, Minister.”
“I had mentioned that there might be an opening in the Appellate Court. I regret that this opening did not become available after all.” Nizam Pasha examined Kamil’s face for his reaction.
Kamil kept his relief to himself. “I serve the empire in whatever capacity I can,” he res
ponded, then added quickly, “and the sultan, may Allah give him health.”
Nizam Pasha looked amused. “I think you serve him best where you are at present, perhaps better than I had expected. But the padishah’s benevolent eye is upon you. In his name, we thank you for your service.”
As Kamil stepped, pale and shaken, into the street, he had a disturbing thought. Had Omar cut off the men’s ears before or after they were dead? What was the difference between atrocity and vengeance?
40
A Month Later
KAMIL WAS FEELING lighthearted. The air was brisk and redolent of autumn. The chestnut trees lining the approach to Huseyin’s mansion hung limpid and golden, drawing in the light. His wound was healing, and he had in his pocket a letter from Detective Inspector Joseph Ormond.
Honored Magistrate,
Acting on the information you provided to us, CID raided Lionel Rettingate’s shop in South Kensington and went through its books, the official as well as the real ones. We were surprised at the extent of what appears to be a well-financed, sophisticated operation with global reach. We believe Magnus Owen and his associates were midlevel participants, Rettingate higher up. From your description, we believe the man Ben to have been a former East End pugilist by the name of Sam “Big Ben” Hardacre. The Rettingate shop was a central distributor for stolen antiquities. We are following a number of leads that we hope will identify the ringleaders.
Given the extensive nature of the problem, CID has created a Special Antiquities Unit which I have the honor to lead. As such, I would like to express to you our gratitude here at Scotland Yard for apprehending Owen and his associates. I understand that you were educated at Cambridge and are familiar with our small island. If you would find it useful to follow up in London yourself, CID would be pleased to welcome you and your associates. (On a personal note, I have learned you share an interest of mine in Orchidaceae.)