The Winter Thief (24 page)

O
MAR AND
Y
AKUP STOOD BY
while the guard unlocked Kamil’s cell. It was early morning on the fourth day of his imprisonment. They found Kamil curled on a quilt, coughing. His face was sallow and unshaven.

“The warden wouldn’t let me bring a doctor last night,” Yakup said, his voice hushed with concern, “despite the bribe.”

“The son of an ass doesn’t want anyone to see how bad the conditions are in here.” Omar turned to the guard. “Get the warden up here right now.”

“I’ll have to lock you in,” the guard said officiously. “I can’t just leave…”

Omar thrust his face into the guard’s and bellowed, “Get that son of a whore Abdulkadir up here now or you’ll lose your job.” As the guard fell back, Omar smiled and added, “And if you don’t hurry, you might lose your teeth as well.” The guard paused a moment longer, hand on the baton hanging from his belt, but then retreated, cursing under his breath.

Yakup squatted beside Kamil. “Can you stand, pasha?”

Kamil struggled to sit upright, then began coughing again. Yakup helped Kamil to his feet. As they were going out the door, the warden appeared, followed by five guards, and blocked their way. The guard who had fetched the warden pointed at the cell door and said something, then stepped back when Omar filled the doorframe.

“What’s going on?” the warden demanded.

“We’re leaving,” Omar said, unruffled. He pushed past the guards and cleared a way for Yakup and Kamil, who needed to lean on his servant as they descended the stairs.

“You can’t just walk out,” the warden shouted. “This is a prison!”

“Sounds like your cough is better, my friend. Don’t forget who you have to thank for that. You might have shared some of that medicine with the pasha here.”

“Allah damn you. Come back here.”

They had reached the path to the main gate. While Yakup helped Kamil into the carriage, Omar turned to the warden. “We’ll be back for the furniture. And I’ll count every candlestick, you crooked son of a bitch.” He thrust into the warden’s hand a folded document that bore the large and impressive seal of the minister of justice, then pushed past him and went into his office. Omar grabbed the pot of ointment his wife had sent and brushed the food on the table onto the floor with his arm. He looked with interest at the warden’s new wool curtains.

When Omar came out, the florid-faced warden confronted him, waving his fist. “How dare you. Never expect anything from me again.”

Omar grabbed the warden’s fist and stuck it into the clay pot, then smashed fist and pot against the side of the warden’s head. The warden dropped to his knees, keening.

“You should be more careful,” Omar admonished him, then went back inside and pulled down the curtains. Humming happily and trailing the material like a toga, he walked to Kamil’s carriage.

L
ATER THAT
evening at Kamil’s, Omar told him about his attempt to use a plaster cast of a boot sole to prove that someone besides Kamil had put Sosi’s body in the church garden.

“Very clever of you. Did it work?” Kamil sipped the warm chamomile and honey mixture Omar’s wife had sent. He could taste other, more bitter undertones, but according to Omar, Mimoza refused to reveal her formula.

Omar looked sheepish. “Well, not exactly. The cast had dirt stuck in it, so it wasn’t very clear. And I didn’t have a chance to get an impression of Vahid’s boot to compare.”

“How did you talk them into releasing me then?”

“It seems you’re a well-connected guy. How come I never knew that? Yorg Pasha and some other pashas, friends of your father’s, it seems, ganged up on the minister of justice and forced him to sign your release.”

Kamil couldn’t imagine his superior, Nizam Pasha, being forced to do anything. He had a will strong enough to face down a division of Russian cavalry. The minister was of an age with his father, and Kamil wondered whether they had been friends. It seemed unlikely, given Nizam Pasha’s dislike of Kamil, the source of which Kamil had never understood.

“It’s not a full pardon, though,” Omar explained, looking away. “Vizier Köraslan is insisting on a trial.”

“That’s absurd!” Kamil exclaimed, his hands grasping the arms of his chair. “I hope he doesn’t expect me to stand in the dock in my own court. Donkeys will fly before I allow that.”

“Think where we could go with rides like that, pasha,” Omar said with half a smile.

Kamil frowned, thinking that among everything he had lost, the ability to laugh was not insignificant.

T
ERRIFIED THAT
V
AHID
and his men would discover her, Vera slipped into the alley behind the stable and made her way through the unfamiliar back lanes until she found Gosdan’s shop. No one was there, but the door was open. She crept in and hid behind a stack of crates. Would they know to look for her here? After a few minutes, Gosdan returned, carrying a sack. He locked the door behind him and called out Vera’s name.

When she emerged, he said in a troubled voice, “I went over to make sure Marta was all right. You can’t go back. There’s someone watching the rectory.” He handed her the sack. “Marta thought you might come here. She asked me to give you this.”

The sack was filled with neatly folded sweaters and other warm clothing. Gosdan went to the back of the shop and returned with a pair of thick-soled leather boots. Vera still wore the attractive but flimsy city shoes that the publisher’s wife had given her.

“Thank you, both of you. Please tell Marta…” Her voice cracked.

He nodded distractedly and went over to the trays of vegetables arrayed against the wall and began to rearrange the leeks.

Vera didn’t ask him where she should go. She felt ashamed at having caused trouble for so many people. She had always been lazy, she thought, launching herself into other people’s lives as if they were a sea whose only purpose was to bear her up. She would spend the night in Gosdan’s shop, if he allowed it, and tomorrow Apollo would fetch her and she would leave.

“Apollo!” she exclaimed. “He can’t go near the rectory.”

“He’s been told. He’ll come here.” Gosdan pulled out a stool, then fetched a jug and two cups from a shelf. “Here, sit down.” He poured something from the jug and handed her a cup. “Have some boza. It’ll put flesh on your bones.” Vera tried to sip the viscous liquid. Her hands were shaking.

He pulled up a stool facing her and, after a few moments in which he seemed to be trying to make up his mind about something, said in a gentle voice, “It’s good that you’re leaving, Vera. The darkness is drawing closer. The Agopian family has suffered a loss.”

Vera stared at Gosdan. “Who?”

“Monsieur Agopian fell from a window. The neighbors across the street said it looked like he was struggling with someone before he fell, but the police claim no one was at home except the servants, and they saw nothing.”

Vera moaned and covered her face with her hands. In her mind, she saw Monsieur Agopian wrestling with a man in a black uniform. He couldn’t have told Vahid where she had gone. He didn’t know.

Gosdan lowered his eyes. “And Sosi is dead.”

Vera fell onto her knees. “I should have gone back for her,” she wailed. “I shouldn’t have left her alone.” She curled into a ball of pain, the foul breath of the creature from the dream hot on her back.

T
HE SMALL STEAMBOAT DOCKED
at the warehouse pier just after dusk, its outlines indistinct in the encroaching gloom, its deck in shadow. It appeared to be flying the Ottoman colors, although Vera hoped that, in this light, it would be hard for the men guarding Yorg Pasha’s warehouse to make anything out for certain. Vera and fifteen comrades in makeshift Ottoman navy uniforms stood at attention on deck as a man in the uniform of a navy captain emerged and stepped from the ship onto the pier, followed by an armed lieutenant. The captain had a prominent nose, high cheekbones, and a trim mustache. As he approached the two guards, Vera saw them spread their legs and lift their rifles belligerently, and a chill went through her. They had researched what they could, but so much of their plan was based on chance, the quality of light and shadow, the inattentiveness of the guards.

Yorg Pasha, like the sultan, preferred Albanian guards because they were noted for their fearlessness and prowess with arms, but many had not learned the local language beyond what was required for their duties. Vera hoped they wouldn’t notice Apollo’s accented Turkish. Even if they did, Apollo had reassured her, Ottoman officers could hail from anywhere in the vast empire, so it wouldn’t matter much.

“I have orders.” Apollo’s firm voice carried across the pier to the ship. She saw him whip out a case, extract a document, and hand it to the guard. The man took it but didn’t look at it. Perhaps he couldn’t read, Vera thought anxiously. Instead the guard barked out a name, and, after a few moments, a man emerged from a small house adjoining the storage area. The house was faced by neatly tended rosebushes, a contrast with the rumpled appearance of its inhabitant, an unshaven, jowly man in his fifties. He looked out at the ship, then shuffled over to the guards.

He said something to the captain as the guard handed him the document.

“This is urgent business,” the captain responded tersely, his voice loud and officious.

The clerk took the document and twisted his head to read it in the half-light. Apollo and one of the men on board who was an engraver had labored hours over a forgery of Yorg Pasha’s seal. The clerk squinted at the captain and waved the document. Vera couldn’t hear what he was saying, but she feared their subterfuge had been discovered. She saw Apollo’s lieutenant, a young Armenian named Yedo, adjust his rifle.

Apollo reached for the document. The clerk hesitated, then, to Vera’s relief, gave it back to him and turned to instruct the guards. Apollo was already striding toward the warehouse doors. Vera saw the clerk shrug and pull his robe around him as if he were cold, then shuffle back to his house. As soon as the door shut behind him, a neat file of uniformed men emerged from the ship and marched in formation down the pier. Vera remained behind as lookout.

Before long, a line of men moved between the warehouse and the ship, where they wrestled the barrels onboard and stowed them. The Albanian guards stood idly by, smoking. It took less than an hour to load all fifty barrels.

By the time they were done and had cast off, it was fully dark. From the deck, Vera could see a light bloom in the clerk’s window. The tension was unbearable. She couldn’t believe they had pulled it off and expected at any moment to see a pursuing warship in their wake.

“Hush,” Apollo whispered to the excited group that clustered around him, all discipline forgotten. “Sound carries at this time of day.” He grinned at Vera as he stripped off the captain’s jacket that, at these close quarters, revealed its patchwork nature. The fifteen comrades embraced her and one another in barely restrained joy. One waved his fiddle in anticipation.

The engine huffed and the gears meshed as the steamboat headed up the Bosphorus toward the Black Sea and Trabzon. Strapped in its belly were a thousand rifles, pistols, and ammunition—the full shipment that had been confiscated by the police and then, to Apollo’s great advantage, released by the authorities to be stored in Yorg Pasha’s warehouse. This many rifles, he had told Vera, would ensure the survival of the commune. When they reached the open waters of the Black Sea, Vera allowed herself to breathe.

T
HE MINISTER OF JUSTICE
, Nizam Pasha, received Kamil in his private suite at the ministry, which resembled a library. On every wall books and manuscripts climbed neatly to the ceiling. Kamil breathed in the familiar smell of leather and parchment that reminded him of his father, who also had surrounded himself with books. As a boy Kamil felt jealous of the books his father read and wished he would pay attention to him instead. But before long, Kamil had discovered an entirely new geography of feeling within those leather-bound volumes and found solace there. He felt little of that peace now, having been summoned by the minister of justice to discuss his upcoming trial for the murder of Sosi. He stood just inside the door, trying to marshal his thoughts.

The minister was dressed in an old-fashioned black wool robe and sat in an armchair beside a low table on which were piled papers and books, all of them clearly in use, the only sign of disorder in the office. He regarded Kamil steadily behind a curl of smoke from the chibouk pipe in his hand, his expression unreadable. Nizam Pasha gestured toward a chair facing him. “Sit, Kamil Pasha.”

“Thank you, Minister.” An invitation to sit in the presence of Nizam Pasha was a good sign, Kamil decided, relaxing slightly and taking a seat. He kept his eyes respectfully lowered.

“So, how was Bekiraga Prison?”

“Not to be recommended, Your Excellency.” A lingering cough still woke Kamil at night.

“You should know that there has been great outrage at your mistreatment. That includes myself. We cannot have men of our class subjected to such abuse. I can’t imagine what possessed Vizier Köraslan to authorize it.” He took a long pull at his pipe. “Yorg Pasha and some other powerful friends of your father, may he rest in peace, have opened a front to clear your name.”

“I’m honored that they think me worthy of their attention,” Kamil said, wondering who his defenders were and feeling an enormous sense of relief and gratitude.

“I’d like to know, between us, did you kill the girl, Sosi?”

“Of course not,” Kamil’s head jerked up in outrage. He saw a faint look of amusement pass over the minister’s face.

“Then how did your watch get in the dead girl’s hand?”

“I noticed my watch missing after I visited the Akrep commander, Vahid, the day before the girl was found dead.”

The minister’s pipe stopped halfway to his mouth. “How is Akrep relevant to this?”

Kamil wondered how much Nizam Pasha knew about what was going on in Akrep’s basement behind the walls of Yildiz Palace. He thought about the room Rejep, the policeman, had described seeing, furnished with restraints, tools of torture, and a viewing gallery.

“I believe Vahid to be responsible for the murder.”

“That’s convenient. Did you give him your watch?”

“He collided with me at the door as I was leaving his office. He could have taken it from my pocket then.”

“You’re saying that the Akrep commander pickpocketed you?” The minister ventured a dry smile.

Kamil shrugged. “It’s the only explanation.”

“You understand that you’re making a serious accusation. Do you have any evidence for it?”

Kamil took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to the minister. “This corner of a document was found in a room in the basement of Akrep headquarters,” Kamil said. “We believe it’s part of the passport of a Russian woman, Vera Arti, who we know was being held there.”

Nizam Pasha approached the window and examined the torn piece of paper in the light. “How did you get this?”

“With the help of the police. We were looking for the woman.” Kamil didn’t explain who Vera Arti was or why they were searching for her. He saw that Nizam Pasha had noticed this omission.

“Did you find her?” Nizam Pasha asked, giving Kamil a long look.

“We believe she escaped before our arrival. However, the police examined the basement. One of the rooms appears to have been used for torture.” Kamil described the viewing gallery. “That’s where the police found this.” He indicated the piece of paper in the minister’s hand.

The minister said nothing, but Kamil saw his face tighten with anger and disgust. He held up the scrap of paper. “And what does this have to do with the girl, Sosi?”

Kamil had no answer. Yet he was certain that Sosi too had been held in Akrep’s basement. He told Nizam Pasha about the cut wounds on the English nanny Bridget’s arm made by a mysterious “policeman,” whose description matched Vahid’s exactly. “The cuts on the nanny’s arm were similar to those found on the dead girl’s body.”

“You’re usually more thorough than this, Magistrate. Your evidence is as insubstantial as moonbeams. None of it implicates Vahid directly or gets you off the hook.”

Justice, Kamil realized with a sense of despair, depended not on big philosophical questions but on trivial details. He remembered Omar’s failed attempt to preserve a footprint in the church garden. “That’s all I have, Your Excellency,” he answered, barely hiding his exasperation. “However, the evidence against me is just as slim. A watch, but no motive or evidence that I ever set eyes on the girl. So let there be a trial,” he added defiantly.

The uneasy silence in the room stretched on. Kamil, seething, kept his eyes lowered. A servant brought a piece of live charcoal in a pair of tongs and placed it in the bowl of the minister’s chibouk. After a few exploratory puffs, Nizam Pasha said, “If there is a trial, it won’t be for a few months yet.”

Kamil looked surprised.

“Sultan Abdulhamid is sending you on an assignment to the east. In addition to investigating this socialist settlement, he wants you to find out what happened to the weapons from the confiscated shipment.”

Kamil was taken aback. “I thought the shipment was being kept under guard.”

“The British wanted their ship back, so the weapons were moved to a warehouse, coincidentally owned by your friend Yorg Pasha, and then they disappeared.”

At first, Kamil feared that Yorg Pasha had spirited them away himself, but as he heard the story of the men disguised as Ottoman soldiers who had brazenly stolen the guns, he chided himself for thinking badly of the man who was organizing his defense.

“I think it can be assumed,” Nizam Pasha concluded, “that the guns are headed east toward this settlement that you and Yorg Pasha seem to believe is so innocuous. If they fall into the hands of the Armenians in that province, Allah only knows what will happen. Sultan Abdulhamid believes they would turn the guns against us and join the Russians.” The minister laid down his pipe and walked over to one of the bookshelves. He drew his hand across the leather-bound spines, then turned back to Kamil. “Whatever the case, the wishes of our padishah, the Shadow of God on Earth, always take precedence. He is sending you east, and you can stand trial when you return. By that time, perhaps you’ll have some evidence, instead of conjectures. And, let us hope, the missing guns and gold.”