The Winter Thief (14 page)

V
ERA WOKE SHIVERING
so hard she thought her bones would break. She was curled up in a coil of netting under a tarpaulin that had kept out the wind but not the cold. The movement of the boat and the sound of water slapping against the sides had awakened her. Pangs of hunger and thirst made her sit up and cautiously peek out from under the canvas. It was still dark, but a silver sheen meant dawn wasn’t far away. The walls of Yildiz Palace gleamed on the hill above her, enclosing the woods through which she had run. Below the wall, small cottages tumbled to the shore along wooded lanes. Was Sosi hiding in one of those cottages? She hadn’t had a chance to ask her about Gabriel.

Her throat ached for water. She pushed the tarp aside and stumbled out. She had to get off the boat before anyone saw her. To her dismay, she saw that the boat was no longer docked. They were in the middle of the Bosphorus. She looked up into the startled eyes of a young fisherman.

K
AMIL WANTED THE ELEMENT
of surprise, so he used Huseyin’s name to gain admission to Yildiz Palace instead of announcing his business to the gatekeeper. He drove through the gates in a closed carriage.

He had learned that the Akrep headquarters were in an isolated section of the palace grounds that backed onto the forest. When they were nearby, but not yet in sight of the building, Kamil ordered the driver to head onto a path behind a stand of rhododendrons. He surveyed the building through the spear-shaped leaves. Unlike the ornate wooden confections of the other imperial villas, this was a squat stone cube, two stories high and unadorned except for a marble stairway leading up to the front door. Its windows were flanked by heavy black shutters. The small guardhouse with a peaked roof at the end of the drive seemed almost frivolous in comparison. He heard men shouting but could make out only that someone had escaped. Dogs barked wildly in the forest.

Kamil then drove up to the front of the building and got out. A guard in black uniform carrying a rifle challenged him. Kamil noted the insignia on his collar—a stylized scorpion stitched in gold.

While a second guard went into the headquarters for instructions regarding the visitor, Kamil continued his examination of the house. Hedges obscured the sides of the building, but he saw an opening where a rounded trellis held the remains of last year’s roses. He wandered over, ignoring the guard who followed behind him, and bent over one of the dried yellow blooms, letting his eyes roam into the courtyard beyond. A gravel path led to an open door, and as he watched, three men in civilian clothes emerged, the one in front hurling abuse at the others. When he saw Kamil, he stopped, the curse dying on his lips. He turned on his heel, and after a low, muttered conversation with the other men, they went back inside, slamming the door shut behind them.

The second guard returned and ushered Kamil in. Despite its drab exterior, the building’s interior was lavishly appointed. The walls were faced with colored marble, and the grand hall was furnished with Western-style sofas and tasseled curtains. A massive pink and green Murano chandelier hung from a coffered ceiling. The guard led Kamil through double doors painted white and gilded, as if he were being ushered into the presence of the sultan himself.

Kamil knew Vahid immediately. The impeccable black hair, sensual lips, and cold eyes could have belonged to no one else. He wore ostentatiously high black boots and a tightly fitted, wide-shouldered black uniform with no emblem.

Vahid stood behind his desk and smiled when Kamil entered the room.

“Selam aleykum.”

“Aleykum selam. Thank you for receiving me.”

Vahid gestured for him to take a seat on an uncomfortable-looking chair, set at an angle, so Kamil would have to look up and sideways at Vahid.

“I’ll stand.”

“As you like.” Vahid sat down on his padded leather chair.” I’ve heard of you, Magistrate.”

“Have you?”

“You’re the sultan’s hunting dog. Whenever there’s a problem, he sends you to sniff it out and break its neck. You’re quite good, I hear.”

Being compared to a dog was an insult, but Kamil heard the guarded respect. Good, he thought, let him fear me. He scanned the room, noting entrances and exits, the position of the room vis-à-vis the rest of the house. If Akrep was keeping prisoners here, they would most likely be held in the basement. He walked to the window and leaned against the sill. It wouldn’t do to bring up the subject of Lena Balian directly, thereby giving her importance in Vahid’s eyes.

“Well, what can I do for you, Kamil Pasha?” Vahid asked, unable to keep the impatience from his voice. “I’m sure you came here for a reason.” He squinted at Kamil, who was backlit against the window.

“I’m investigating the Ottoman Imperial Bank robbery. I believe you also have an interest in that case. If so, I suggest we’re better off pooling our information, rather than working at cross-purposes.”

“You mean you need our help.” Vahid leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers. “Lost your bite, Magistrate?”

Kamil ignored Vahid’s smirk. “If it’s a matter of assigning credit, then by all means take the credit. I don’t care about that.”

“You have nothing to offer me, my friend. It’s a much bigger case now, and your investigations, to be honest, are irrelevant.”

“I don’t know what you mean. We get the gold back. We arrest those responsible. That’s the case.”

“Hardly. The robbery was the first shot fired in a revolution against the empire. Terrorists have set up an armed camp, ready to take the entire east and place it in Russian hands. They’re aiming to assassinate the sultan himself.”

“What are you talking about?” Kamil asked, completely at a loss.

Vahid tilted his head and chided him. “You really have not been keeping up, Magistrate. There’s a terrorist camp in the Choruh Valley, and the entire population has gone over to them. They’re armed. They even have howitzers. The stolen gold is financing them, and that shipload of weapons we diverted would have made matters worse. It’s proof of the danger. Sultan Abdulhamid realizes it now too. My main concern is to protect our padishah and to eradicate that Armenian scum in the mountains.”

It dawned on Kamil that Vahid was talking about a massacre. He thought of all the refugees crowding Istanbul’s streets, having fled just such carnage in the empire’s provinces. He remembered Elif’s gaunt, horror-filled face when she first arrived from Macedonia. The killings wouldn’t stop at the Choruh Valley. It would galvanize Armenians who had been loyal citizens to take up arms against the sultan, and it would certainly draw the attention of the Europeans and the Russians. So far the foreign empires had been content to chew away at the edges of the Ottoman lands, but the massacre of a Christian minority would provide the excuse to invade the empire’s core outright. It would be a disaster of the greatest dimension.

Kamil stared at Vahid and the thought came to him that by using the knife in his boot now, he would save countless lives. It took all his moral strength not to do it. No man’s death is unaccountable, he told himself firmly.

Vahid watched Kamil with a contemptuous smile on his face, as if he knew what Kamil had been tempted to do but was too weak to carry out.

“You’re misinformed,” Kamil told him. “That group in Choruh is an international socialist commune. They have no plans to join Russia—the czar’s troops would throw them all in prison.” In the back of Kamil’s mind a suspicion nagged—was it he who was misinformed? How far could he trust Yorg Pasha’s information?

“Ah, so you know about them,” Vahid said, drawing the words out. “Yet you were silent. Do you think a group of armed socialists is nothing to worry about?”

Kamil felt that he had been put on the defensive. “So you do know that they’re socialists and not Armenian revolutionaries.”

“What’s the difference? What matters is what our great padishah thinks. And he’s already ordered his troops to put all those traitors to the fire.”

“And you’ll have saved the empire,” Kamil said, his voice sharp with sarcasm.

“And Sultan Abdulhamid’s life. We’ve learned that there’s going to be an attempt on it soon.” He stood and moved to the front of his desk, where he could better see Kamil against the glare from the window.

The man had said this too blithely, Kamil thought, almost as if he had planned it himself. He didn’t think Vahid would be capable of assassinating the sultan, but a failed attempt would bring him greater power. Kamil was horrified and amazed at Vahid’s ambition and insensitivity to human life and honor. He thought of Yorg Pasha’s description of the blind cruelty of the scorpion, but he also remembered something he had seen on one of his botanical trips to the east. The village boys had built a ring of burning vegetation and set a scorpion in the middle of it. As the ring of fire drew close to the animal, the scorpion buried its stinger in its own back, preferring to kill itself. If only he could trap Vahid in his own lies.

He should warn the sultan, but without evidence, no one would believe him. They’d probably put it down to professional jealousy, part of the eternal turf war between the judiciary and the secret police.

He walked up to Vahid, so close that Kamil could smell the cloves he chewed on his breath. “Do you play chess?”

Vahid didn’t answer. Kamil could sense his discomfort. The odor of stale sweat became stronger.

“I’m sure you know what ‘checkmate’ means, don’t you?” Kamil felt certain that the only way to deal with someone as unscrupulous as Vahid was to get him off balance, to inspire fear and doubt. After all, Vahid had no idea how little Kamil knew, and Kamil was sure that this was a man with a great deal to hide.

“This is not a game.” Vahid took a step backward and put his hands in his pockets, giving Kamil a cynical smile. “Or perhaps it is, my pasha.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Kamil turned on his heel to leave.

“Kamil Pasha,” Vahid called to him. “There’s no need to end on such a sour note.”

Kamil waited as Vahid came up to him, holding out his hand. Reluctantly Kamil held out his own, but to his surprise, Vahid used Kamil’s hand to pull him close, patting the back of his jacket with the other hand.

Kamil jerked away from this overly intimate embrace, certain that Vahid was up to something. Irritated and on edge, Kamil turned to pass through the door but found it partially blocked by Vahid. As Kamil brushed past him, Vahid jammed his shoulder into Kamil’s so hard that it hurt. In the blink of an eye, Kamil slipped the dagger out of the sheath in his boot and pressed it against Vahid’s throat. Two of Vahid’s men came running from the outer office. They hovered close by, hands on their weapons, uncertain what to do.

Vahid, careful not to move his head, held up his hands, palms out. “Please forgive me. It was an accident,” he said with an ugly smile.

Kamil snapped back his wrist and, sliding the dagger into his belt, where it would be in easy reach, strode out the door. He knew what he had to do. First he had to find out the truth. Then he must warn Sultan Abdulhamid, even though he would be taking a grave risk if the sultan didn’t believe him. He thought about how he might gain access to the padishah, perhaps through Yorg Pasha or through his own boss, the minister of justice. Kamil had never met Sultan Abdulhamid but knew his reputation. The sultan was as distrustful of his own countrymen as he was enamored of European culture. He was fanatically religious and tirelessly modern. In other words, he was unpredictable. But Kamil wouldn’t stand by while the population of the Choruh Valley was massacred to feed the ego of a madman like Vahid.

W
HEN
K
AMIL’S
carriage was outside the walls of the palace, it pulled over, and Omar and Rejep unfolded themselves from their hiding places inside the hollow seats.

“Well,” he asked them impatiently, “any sign of the Russian woman?”

“We found the back door you told us about, but the place is buzzing like flies on shit, so I had Rejep go in by himself. He told them he was there to clean the rooms.” He nodded at the young policeman, who was dressed in the wide breeches and tunic of a palace worker. “Tell him what you saw.”

“The door led into the basement, which is six rooms along a corridor, three on either side. All the doors were locked except two. One was a sitting room. The other room had a table fitted with restraints and a partition with peepholes so someone could stay hidden and watch.”

“Allah protect us,” Omar muttered.

“I went around sweeping”—Rejep handed Kamil a scrap of paper—“and found this on the floor.”

Kamil recognized Cyrillic letters. It had been torn from a document.

V
ERA BACKED AGAINST THE BOW
of the boat, but her foot tangled in the fishing net and she stumbled and sprawled onto her back. The young fisherman approached and squatted before her. His hands, red and swollen from hard labor, hung between his knees like skinned animals, and he stank of sweat, and brine, and unwashed clothes. He’s not married, Vera thought out of the blue, or someone would have washed his shirt, which she could see was torn and crudely mended.

He must have noticed her glance. He pulled self-consciously at his thinly padded jacket. His eyes were round with awe, but she thought she saw a dawning glint of avarice. A woman on his boat. If something were to happen, no one would be the wiser.

She glanced around for a weapon but saw only rope and net and winches. Everything heavy was attached to the deck. When she looked back, the fisherman was gone. She heard sounds from the cabin. If Sosi were here, she’d be able to speak with him. Had she escaped? Vera hoped so. The girl could return to her family, she thought. At least Sosi had somewhere to go.

Quickly she disentangled herself and moved to the side of the boat nearest the shore. It didn’t seem impossibly far, but she had never learned to swim. The water was choppy and looked cold, the color of iron. She would have a better chance against the fisherman, she thought. She wondered if he could swim.

Just then he returned. In one hand he held a cup, in the other, a tinned copper bowl and a spoon. He extended them to her, not approaching.

Vera moved cautiously forward and took the cup. She gulped the water and returned the empty cup. The man put the beans down, took the cup, and disappeared inside the cabin. The moment he was gone, Vera grabbed the bowl and began to eat. The oily beans tasted better than anything she could have imagined.

The man returned with a full cup and watched while she ate and drank, the expression on his face that of a hunter sighting a fox and not wishing to scare it off. Vera kept her eye on him. He was around seventeen, with matted brown hair and hazel eyes, the outlines of a boy still visible beneath his weather-chapped face.

When she finished, she put the bowl and cup on the deck between them and said in her poor Turkish, “Thank you.”

The man looked startled, then a sweet smile dawned on his face. “You’re welcome.” His voice was surprisingly gentle. “You are lost?”

V
ERA STUMBLED
into the doorway of Agopian Brothers Publishing House. Her feet were wrapped in makeshift boots that the fisherman had fashioned from sailcloth and bound to her feet with as much care as if she had been his sister. He had left her at Eminönü pier and she had made her way through the back alleys up the hill to Bab-i Ali. It was midmorning as she pushed open the entry door.

“No beggars,” the doorkeeper announced, flapping his hands at her.

She drew herself up and said in French. “I’m here to see Monsieur Agopian.”

Staring at her tattered clothes and filthy rag-bound feet, the doorkeeper asked her name.

“Lena Balian.”