The Winter Thief (8 page)

V
ERA SAT IN THE CHAIR
by the stove and considered what she could do to protect herself when Vahid returned to the room, as she was certain he would. After hitting her in the face, he had become gentlemanly, helping her to the chair, patting the blood on her chin with a handkerchief. He spent another half hour in the room with her, sitting so close that their shoulders were touching, saying little, and running his hands through her hair. Stunned and frightened, she didn’t move. Only when she saw him reach into his jacket pocket and pull out a knife did she start away.

He smiled at her, a smile that could have been mistaken as sweet if she hadn’t seen his eyes, hard black onyx that gave her reflection back. He took a handful of her hair and sliced it off at ear level. The knife was sharp, so she felt no more than a slight tug, but when he pulled his hand away, her head felt disembodied. She reached up involuntarily now, as then, and felt for the phantom weight of her missing locks.

She was no match for him physically, she thought, so when he came back she would have to outsmart him. He had seemed interested in her in some odd way. Perhaps she could use his attraction to convince him to bring her to another place, somewhere she could escape. A bedroom. She beat back thoughts of Gabriel. She had caused him enough grief. She would be the revolutionary wife he wanted and she was ready to make any sacrifice for the socialist cause. The words sounded hollow. The thought of being with a man besides Gabriel was monstrous.

She heard the key turn, but it wasn’t Vahid. Two men entered, both wearing polished black boots, black breeches, and tight-fitting jackets without insignia. They grabbed her arms and marched her out the door and down the corridor, thrusting her into a small room lit by a single lamp. It contained little more than a platform, a bucket, and a table on which were jumbled objects that she could not identify but that frightened her.

The men took off her coat, then pulled at her dress. Despite the pain still shooting through her head, she tried to remain calm. Afraid they would rip it and leave her nothing to wear, she unbuttoned the dress herself. When they pulled down her stockings, she fought blindly for a moment, then relented when she realized how insignificant and feeble her resistance was.

V
ERA WOKE
up on the floor. Her back and legs were stiff, and her neck hurt. It was completely dark, a blackness so thick she felt for a moment that she couldn’t breathe. Her disorientation lasted a full minute until she fought down her panic and began to remember.

Gabriel, she thought, anguish like bile in her mouth. Gabriel must never know. The men had used only their hands, but she felt as violated and humiliated as if they had done the rest. Worse than the physical damage, her memory of her wedding night had been perverted. She would never be able to undress before her husband again, to lie with him and bear his touch without these men’s hands sliding alongside his. When she looked up at him, it would be their lust-glazed eyes and obscene lips she would see.

Then she leaned over and vomited. She reached up to wipe her mouth, but jerked back in pain when she touched her bruised face. Her tongue felt swollen in her parched mouth. Where was she? Her palms rested on a carpet. Was she back in the original room? She struggled to her feet and shuffled cautiously forward into the dark. They must have taken the lamp, or perhaps it had gone out. She had no sense of the passage of time.

She remembered the room in flashes of color. There had been a chair beside the stove. The stove. She focused her eyes in the dark and finally saw the faint glowing eye of the stove like a distant pulsing star. Using that to orient herself, she inched her way across the room, edging each foot forward gingerly, until her knee encountered the chair. Her slippers were lost, her feet cold. There had been a small table with water. She almost tipped over the carafe, but caught it in time and slaked her thirst, ignoring the pain of flexing her mouth. Worse things could happen. Worse things had happened to her comrades, worse things happened to peasants all the time. She was a soldier in the fight against injustice. For once the words struck a chord in her and didn’t just seem like a callow wish.

She shivered and blew at the embers through the slots of the stove. The fire swelled and shed enough light so she could see herself. Her dress and coat were unbuttoned, and her stockings sagged between her legs where they had been inexpertly drawn up. Once she had adjusted her stockings beneath her skirt and buttoned her coat, she felt calmer, as if she had gathered and smoothed her heart beneath her fingers and the circumstances of this room were now encompassed and controlled. Sitting in the circumference of the fire’s eye, Vera considered what she needed to do.

K
AMIL AND
O
MAR LEFT
the carriage at the police station in Fatih and continued on horseback to the district of Eyüp to look for Huseyin. The Eyüp Mosque was located at the inland tip of the Golden Horn where two rivers spread through meadows to replenish the estuary. They found themselves in a broad expanse of kitchen gardens now heaped with hay against the frost. In the distance, the stately cypress groves of the Eyüp cemetery fenced off the sky.

“Let’s hope he’s here,” Omar said.

“It’s worth a try. But he could be in any of the hospitals or infirmaries.” Or he could be dead, Kamil thought.

“If he’s not here, I’ll get my men to look in all of them,” Omar assured him.

The mosque and its complex of buildings were enormous compared with the poor structure that served the Austrian nuns in Galata. Kamil and Omar left their mounts at a hostlery and took a shortcut through the cemetery, where for some reason the snow had not accumulated, as if the ground were hot with decay. The sour smell of the soil permeated the air. After several wrong turns, they found the hospital, a broad-backed stone building of great age set within a garden. Kamil breathed in the scent of herbs, growing in a sheltered spot. He recognized sprigs of salvia and melissa, round mallow leaves, spikes of purple foxgloves, and the hard brown capsules of opium poppies. He brushed against a low shrub, causing it to release a scatter of black berries. He identified it as
Atropa belladonna
, or deadly nightshade. Rose hips gleamed red on the spiky remains of stems.

Inside the building, the wards were neatly lined with beds, but except for the patients, the hospital seemed strangely deserted. They found the director’s office, a small whitewashed room with a desk almost obscured by stacks of books and ledgers. A window looked out onto the herb garden. The coals in the brazier were gray and gave off only a meager warmth. Behind the ledgers sat a thin man wearing a tunic with greasy sleeves, his hair a limp fringe beneath his fez. His face was furrowed as if the padding of flesh beneath his skin had melted away.

“We’re looking for a victim of the bank fire,” Kamil said.

The director glared at them. “Do you think this is a hotel where we register guests? If they want to tell us who they are, that’s their business. If their relatives come to pay, that’s even better. But in the meantime I have fifty-eight patients, one man who claims to be a physician but is nothing more than the imam’s nephew, and five lazy orderlies. If you want to figure out which one is your friend, they’re in Ward Three.” He shouted for an orderly.

“We’ve been rude not to introduce ourselves,” Kamil said. “This is Omar Loutfi, chief of the Fatih police, and I am Magistrate Kamil Pasha.”

“You think that impresses me,” the director answered belligerently. “You have no idea what I have to do to keep this place running. Don’t come in here holding your titles over me. I’ll quit. It would be the best thing I ever did for myself.”

“I’ve been appointed by Sultan Abdulhamid as special prosecutor in charge of investigating the fire at the bank.”

At the mention of the sultan, the director grew wary.

“I heard you have a special treatment for burns here,” Kamil continued. “What exactly do you do?”

“We alternate exposure therapy with topical application of silver nitrate, zinc oxide when we can get it, and collodium. Mostly we try to determine the toxin that is poisoning the body and draw it out. We administer laudanum for pain, and once the patient can eat, we provide a nourishing diet to build up his life force. Depending on the severity of the case, we also use baths and surgical treatments. We’ve had some good outcomes with skin regeneration. Pressure bandages seem to inhibit scarring.”

“That’s very impressive. Can you do that with so few staff members?”

“You see my point,” the director shouted, half rising from his chair. “I can’t. I just can’t do it all. Tell our padishah please that we need more staff, not more patients!” He collapsed back into his chair.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Kamil promised. “In the meantime, we’re looking for Huseyin Pasha. We think he might be among the victims from the bank fire.”

“I have fifty-eight patients and you’re looking for a pasha,” the director muttered. He barked at the orderly who had appeared at the door and went back to his paperwork without another glance at Kamil and Omar.

“You’d think being attached to a mosque would sweeten his spirit,” Omar grumbled as they followed the orderly through frigid corridors and courtyards in the centuries-old building.

When they found Ward Three, it turned out they had reached an impasse. Three patients were Huseyin’s general height and weight, but unrecognizable behind their bandaged faces. Their eyes were closed, the flesh around them scraped and charred. Kamil tried speaking to each of them, but only one opened his eyes. They were hazel; Huseyin’s were brown. The other two appeared insensible.

“One of these may be Huseyin, but no way to know, short of ripping their bandages off,” Kamil observed. “Make sure you keep a special watch on these two,” he told the orderly. He didn’t say that he wanted special treatment for them. He could see that the hospital was already doing everything it could, despite being shorthanded. Although the floors were grimy and a slop pail stood unemptied in the corner, the bandages were clean and dry. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out two handkerchiefs, and tied one to each bed.

B
ENDIT’S GOLD SHOP
was opposite the corner fountain in the Covered Bazaar. The great iron-studded gates to the bazaar hadn’t opened yet, but Vahid went through one of the many side doors used by the merchants. He found Bendit pulling his wares from a strongbox that had been locked up overnight in the Inner Bedestan, the guarded central area of the bazaar, and laying them out on velvet-spanned trays in his narrow shop. Vahid refused the dealer’s offer of a cushioned seat and tea. He laid the hairpin on the blue velvet tray. The merchant turned it over in his hand, then examined the stones under a loupe. “Do you want to sell it?” he asked. “It would fetch a good price.”

“No,” Vahid said. “I want to know who bought it.”

The gold merchant started to say something, then thought better of it. Vahid had been to see him before on such matters. The man had never bought anything, but like all the other storekeepers in the bazaar, Bendit believed that service brought friendship and loyalty. Eventually, if the man wanted to buy gold, he would do so from Bendit’s shop. So he smiled and said, “If you’re willing to leave it with me for a few days, sir, I’ll ask around.”

“I’ll wait.” Vahid sat.

Ten minutes later, Bendit returned, looking pleased. “This was easy to trace. It was made by—”

Vahid interrupted him. “Who bought it?”

“Huseyin Pasha. He bought two.”

O
MAR SETTLED HIMSELF
on a stool in a corner of the Fatih police station and gestured that Kamil should join him. “Have some tea and then let your frustration out on that mangy dog of a ship’s captain.” Around them the station bustled with petitioners and curiosity seekers. Policemen sat at their desks, taking statements. An old man wandered in, carrying a box of stuffed mussels, followed by a vendor with a tray of simit breads. Both found takers, and before long work ground to a halt as the policemen sipped their tea and snacked. The young policeman Rejep brought a glass of tea to an old woman in a much-mended charshaf who was sitting on a bench, waiting to make a complaint.

Kamil refused the tea and Omar’s offer of a simit, but lit a cigarette. “What have you found out so far?”

“He’s Alexandrian, so I sent in one of my men who’s an Arab from Antakya to talk to him. Tariq over there.” He pointed to a burly policeman with a luxuriant mustache and thick, curly black hair, who was sitting at a desk, cleaning his weapon. “I figured before long they’d be buddies. Sure enough, the Alexandrian broke down, but all we got was an earful of his marital woes. Seems his wife got tired of his being gone all the time and had him declared dead so she could remarry. The new husband paid him to disappear, but the man misses his kids.”

Kamil finished his cigarette, then followed Omar down a corridor to the holding cells at the back of the station. Omar turned the key, and the thick oak door creaked open. “Rejep will be right outside if you need anything,” he told Kamil. Then to the captain, “Old man, tell Magistrate Kamil Pasha about the ship.” He stepped aside to let Kamil enter, then locked the door behind him, leaving the barred window set into the door open.

The captain was propped on his elbow on the narrow cot in his cell, as comfortable as if he were in a hammock belowdecks. This was perhaps more comfort than the man was used to in the tight quarters of a ship, Kamil thought, and offered him a cigarette. The captain was a lean twist of weathered leather, his forearms knotted, and his face burned black by sun and wind. Kamil was surprised to learn he was only thirty years old.

The captain pulled deeply at the cigarette and his eyes flared with pleasure. “What do you want to know?” he asked in heavily accented Turkish. The language seemed to rasp from deep within his throat. “I already told them I picked up the load of salted cod in New York. There are six hundred barrels on board. You think I looked in every one of them?”

“Who was the expediter?”

“The same company we always deal with, Orient Company of New York. It’s on the manifest. Who they got the load from, I can’t say.”

“Who was on the receiving end?” When the man didn’t answer, Kamil pulled out his cigarette case and held it open. The captain raked together half of the cigarettes with a long, dirty forefinger and made them disappear inside his shirt.

“Hope Enterprises. But the names don’t mean a thing. They’re always just middlemen, fronts with no backs. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve been stuck with merchandise rotting on my ship because no one shows up to off-load it and no one has ever heard of the company I’m supposed to deliver it to. I end up dumping it cheap just to earn a few kurush on the load.”

“You realize that you’re in serious trouble. Illegal weapons were found on your vessel. If you have anything useful to tell us, it would help your situation.”

The captain scratched his chest and looked unconcerned. “I was thinking of retiring anyway.”

“Do you understand that you’ll be put in jail for years, and that could be the most agreeable outcome?” Kamil’s expression was cold.

“I’ve been in worse jails. What do you think a ship is like for months at sea? I’ve done my time.” He sat up. “On the other hand, cigarettes and women. You don’t get those at sea and you don’t get them in jail, I suppose.”

Kamil assured him he wouldn’t.

“Well, then, if I tell you something useful, will you let me go?”

Kamil reluctantly agreed. He had learned that this sort of deal was common in Omar’s world—letting a small fish off the hook in exchange for information leading to a bigger catch—but Kamil hadn’t reconciled himself to the slippery nature of the law when it was applied in the streets. He thought justice shouldn’t be bought and sold like grain at auction.

“It was in New York. The barrels were stored in a warehouse, and as soon as we laid anchor I went down to take a look at the cargo. I like to know right away what’s coming aboard, so I can talk to my men before they disappear into the city and come back too drunk to take orders. It was pretty late at night when I went to the warehouse. I didn’t use a light. I don’t need a light to see in the dark.” He pointed to his eyes, sharp bits of flint under leathery sheaths. “There were five young men there, marking the barrels. I watched them for a while and listened. Nothing better to do. I don’t go in for drink and didn’t have the money for a woman. Now my ears, they aren’t as good as my eyes. Too much wind and rigging. But I could hear some of what they said, all right.”

Kamil held out his cigarette case. The captain took two, lit one, and stuck the other in his shirt. “Two of them were speaking Armenian. I get to know a lot of lingos out there.” He swept his hand toward what Kamil assumed was the sea. “It was Armenian, but I don’t speak it, so I can’t rightly say more than that.”

Kamil felt a tug of excitement. It was frail evidence, but it finally pointed him in a specific direction. But an Armenian revolt against the empire? Not only was there no reason that he could think of for such a revolt, but it was doomed to fail. What could they hope to accomplish with even a thousand guns against a corps of Ottoman soldiers? It would be suicidal. There must be another explanation. And why take the risk of smuggling in a thousand guns when you’re planning to rob a bank of enough gold to supply a small army. He was about to rise when the captain stuck out his hand and grabbed Kamil’s sleeve.

“Wait. There’s more. One of them called the other ‘comrade.’” He leered at Kamil. “You know what that means.”

“You’re saying they were socialists?”

“That’s right. And you know what the marks were on the barrels?” He sprang up, all agile muscle, picked up his cigarette butt, and drew on the floor with the crushed remnant of tobacco.

“What is it?”

“An ax.”

“So what does that mean?”

“Well, that’s your business, not mine.” He threw the butt down, folded himself back onto the cot, and sucked at his cigarette. “I’m a seaman. Retired.”

When he refused to say anything more, Kamil got up to leave.

“No jail, right?” the captain called out.

“If your information is of use.” The captain must have known the marked barrels were contraband. Kamil already regretted the deal.

Omar was waiting in the front room of the police station, still sitting on a low stool, smoking and drinking tea. Kamil had never seen him sit at his desk, a vast mahogany ship marooned in the middle of the room.

“What’s an Armenian socialist ax?” Kamil asked as he sat down beside him.

“Is this a riddle?”

Kamil managed a smile, but he was sick with worry about Huseyin and not in the mood for levity.

Omar looked penitent. “Just trying to lift your spirits. As for your riddle, the Henchak symbol is a chain, a sword, an ax, and a red flag.” He called one of his men to bring him a pen and drew a sketch on a corner of newsprint.

“Henchak, the new Armenian socialist group. I remember hearing it was founded by some Russian university students studying in Geneva. What does it have to do with us?”

Omar shrugged. “I don’t know much about it. In Fatih we mostly have people breaking each other’s heads over money or impugned honor. One of my Armenian neighbors showed me their symbol.”

“I thought socialists didn’t go in for nationalism. How can there be Armenian socialists? Isn’t their slogan something like ‘Workers of the world, unite,’ not ‘Armenians, unite’?”

“They’re fools if they think that. It’s always ‘Armenians unite.’ That’s human nature. We run in packs like wolves.”

“It’s an interesting idea, though, you have to admit,” Kamil mused. “To rise above the pack mentality and come together around a cause—like helping peasants and workers better their lot.”

“More like pull down the rich and powerful, a very wolfish thing to do. And then what have you got? Do they really think unlettered peasants will be able to govern themselves? They’re in for a rude awakening. Believe me, I had a bellyful of peasants in the war. They’re as greedy as the wealthiest nabob and as ready to slit your throat over a loaf of bread.”

Kamil rose to his feet, unable to bear any longer the anxiety that had been building in him. “I can’t sit here and talk politics, Omar. I have to tell Feride.”