The Sultan's Seal: A Novel (Kamil Pasha Novels)

by Jenny White

  “I’m aware of the situation,” Kamil says dryly. “What does this have to do with Mary Dixon?”

  Bernie waves his scotch at him. “No offense meant. I’m just setting the stage, so to speak.” He takes a long sip. “Well, as I said, we don’t like the direction this sultan is taking. We need your empire stable to keep the Russians in check in Europe. That’s better achieved under British protection, not by getting in bed with the Germans and with radical Islamic movements. The opposition, the Young Ottomans, were pretty well crushed after the Chiraghan Affair. But last year, we had a new communication from someone inside the palace, a letter posted in Paris and addressed to a safe house in London. It contained the same two characters for brush and bowstring. It proposed our assistance in a coup in exchange for British control over Syria. We provide a little money, a little muscle—and in return strengthen our own position in the region—well, that sounds like a mighty good bargain.”

  “The lion keeps the bear at bay so it can tear the haunches off its prey without being disturbed,” Kamil comments sourly.

  Bernie sips at his scotch and smiles indulgently at Kamil. “Kamil, my friend. This is politics, not philosophy. How do you think your empire got as fat as it is? By stealing food from the tables of other empires.” He shrugs. “Besides, your grip on that province is pretty tenuous these days anyway. It’s only a matter of time. Better to cut your losses now and let the Brits deal with it. They have plenty of experience wrangling territories that are trying to throw their riders.”

  Kamil glares at him. “Go on.”

  “Anyway, I came here to investigate—to make sure it was serious. This time we decided to cut out any middlemen, like Prince Ziya. Hamza was already back, but since the police knew about him, he kept his role in this quiet.”

  “What was his role?”

  “To try to make a connection with the person in the palace. I had no idea he was using Mary, or the pendant again. We thought the pendant was lost until you found it on Mary’s body.

  Kamil is aghast. “An innocent young woman loses her life in this crazy scheme the last time and so you try it again, with the same degenerate accomplice? Mary had no idea, did she?”

  “Probably not, assuming that’s what happened. And I can’t think of any other reason Mary would be wearing that pendant. I agree with you about Hamza. He plays his role too well. Played. The poor bastard.” He looks for a long moment into his glass, then meets Kamil’s eye. “This is not a pretty profession, magistrate bey. And to tell you the truth, I’m sick of it. This is my last assignment. I just want to go back to writing my book.”

  “So you really are a scholar.”

  Bernie looks offended. “Of course.”

  “Who else here knows about this?”

  “No one, other than me, Hamza, and the person pulling strings in the palace. We kept the circle small.” He takes a sip of scotch. “And now the secret police, God bless them. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out how they would know about this latest communication. It’s too early in the game. In fact, there is no game. We never received any messages after that first contact.”

  “What about Shimshek Devora?”

  “Hamza’s driver? I can see Hamza tying up loose ends. He’s meticulous when it comes to self-preservation.” He shakes his head slowly. “Still, he’s known this Shimshek for years. Hard to fathom that he would kill a friend. He was pretty broken up about Hannah. Still, if the executioner’s blade is aiming for your head, you’d probably shift whoever you had to, to get out of the way.”

  “And the pendant?”

  “I’m still wondering how Mary got hold of it. Maybe Hamza took it back when Hannah was killed—I guess that makes him look pretty suspicious—and later gave it to Mary to wear into the harem, thinking someone would see it and put a message in it like before. Baiting the hook. But I still have a hard time believing he would murder the women.”

  He splashes scotch into a glass and hands it to Kamil, who takes it this time.

  “I wonder who has such free access to the harem,” Bernie continues. “Maybe one of the eunuchs. He could come and go, take the message to whoever it is outside the harem that’s orchestrating this whole shebang. We just don’t know.”

  Kamil tilts his glass and watches the golden liquid swirl, then takes a sip. “Whoever reported on Hannah could still be there, see the new pendant on Mary, and report it again.”

  “A snitch in the harem. Maybe,” Bernie replies, rolling the word around his mouth. “But why? It would put that person in danger from the people behind the plot. I’d be surprised if whoever snitched the first time would still be hanging around the same harem, alive. I’d bet the snitch didn’t know the whole story. You sell out a couple of people, but you don’t realize they’re just the small fry. There’s a big hammer behind them just waiting to come down on you. Whoever knows about the plot—and the pendant—would be a target.”

  Kamil jumps to his feet. “May Allah protect her. Sybil Hanoum! She told the women about the pendant.”

  Bernie swings around and stares at Kamil. “What women?”

  “She visited Prince Ziya’s fiancée, Shukriye Hanoum.”

  “My God, I thought she was dead.”

  “She married someone in Erzurum. But she’s back in the city, so Sybil Hanoum went to see her. Sybil Hanoum told the women there that both Hannah and Mary had the same pendant with a tughra inside. She probably also told them about the poem. Shukriye Hanoum apparently thinks she was punished because the sultan wrongly thought Prince Ziya was part of a plot to overthrow him.” He looks at Bernie. “Maybe no one made the connection,” he adds hopefully.

  “Who else was there?”

  “Shukriye’s sister, Leyla, Ali Aslan Pasha’s wife Asma Sultan, and her daughter Perihan.”

  Bernie closes his eyes. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

  44

  The Past Is the Vessel of the Future

  Sybil and the eunuch pass noiselessly through enormous, high-ceilinged rooms, past vases taller than a man and table-tops of semiprecious stone balanced on elegant pedestals. Every surface is crammed with vases and statues. The room’s contents are multiplied in enormous mirrors in gilded frames that line the walls. Sybil stops to admire a life-sized dog in translucent jade. She does not see the tiny figure, a statue come to life among the multitude, approaching her in the mirror.

  Asma Sultan wears an unadorned brown gown with a simple veil of silk gauze draped over her head, a wren in a peacock house. She leads Sybil by the hand to a patio paved in intricately patterned colored tiles and overlooking the Bosphorus. There, behind a windbreak, waits a table laid with sweets and savories and a silver platter of fruit. The thin eunuch stands next to a brazier ready to brew coffee. Sybil wonders where the other servants are. She has seen no one else.

  “Forgive my informality, Sybil Hanoum. As you see, this is more a picnic than a proper meal. I hope you don’t mind. I am honored by your visit, but at my age, I prefer good company unadorned by the usual pomp and frippery.”

  Sybil is startled at Asma Sultan’s command of English. They had spoken Turkish at previous meetings, so she had assumed Asma Sultan didn’t know English.

  “Thank you, Your Highness. I much prefer that myself.”

  “So I have heard.”

  Sybil straightens her skirt and tries to remember the correct manners. She remembers that it is rude to look someone directly in the eye. In the harem, women usually are seated next to one another, but here she is face to face with her hostess. She compromises by looking at a spot above Asma Sultan’s left shoulder.

  “Your English is flawless, Your Highness. Where did you learn it?”

  “From my mother, a rare woman. She had a dazzling mind, a rage for life. She surrounded herself with the best art and literature from around the globe, in French, English, Persian, even Chinese. Particularly those designed or created by women. My mother herself was Russian, you know. She grew up in Paris and traveled a great dea
l before she was captured from a ship and sold to the harem. Once here, though, she made good use of the power and wealth that comes to a woman in the sultan’s household, especially if she captures his eye.”

  “These artists were all women?” Sybil asks curiously.

  “Some were wealthy women, like my mother, who commissioned art, and even played a role in designing it. But there are such creatures, you know, women artists and scholars. They are less well known because, sadly, only the men find patrons. My mother was a great patron. I profited from growing up surrounded by such a wealth of foreign culture and knowledge. In a sense, I was the ultimate project completed under her patronage. Few can appreciate that in a woman,” she adds, with an undertone of bitterness. “Perhaps as an amusement when one is newly wed, but one that does not wear well. What use has one for such novelties in a harem, eh? Better to excel in needlework than foreign languages. That has been my daughter’s approach, though I cannot say it has helped her.”

  Sybil does not know what to say and looks at her hands.

  “As I said to you last week, my daughter had different expectations. She foolishly fell in love with her cousin Ziya. I was fond of my nephew and pushed for the match, but my husband gave her to a family with which he wanted an alliance. Where would politics be without brides, Sybil Hanoum? Empires would grind to a halt and begin to crumble. Perihan is unhappy, but uncomplaining. I point out to her that she escaped the fate of Shukriye, married off to the provinces.” She smiles fondly. “And she spends as much time as possible with her dear mother.”

  “I think it shows a generous spirit that Perihan is so close to Leyla and Shukriye.”

  “Yes, she keeps an eye on them.”

  Sybil feels uncomfortable discussing Perihan’s personal life in such detail when she isn’t present. She is ashamed for Perihan.

  To change the subject, she says, “You must have had a lovely childhood.” She plucks a pastry filled with minced lamb from a serving plate and takes a bite.

  “I suppose I did, but it was a childhood in a hundred rooms. I was never allowed to go out into the world and see it for myself. Still, I feel I have my hand on the pulse of the world, even here. My mother gave that to me.” Asma Sultan silently regards the opposite shore as if seeking something there. “I remember the exact day she died, February 15, 1878, in the Old Palace. The Russian army was just outside the city. I could see the smoke of their campfires.” She smiles. “I couldn’t help but wonder if their generals were our relations. It’s almost as if they were signaling to Mother, telling her to hold on, that they were almost there.”

  Sybil shifts uncomfortably in her seat. A breeze has begun to blow and she is feeling chilled.

  “But they were too late.” Asma Sultan turns back to Sybil. “She fell from the window of a small observation tower above the harem where she often went to get away from the other women. She told me once that from there she imagined she could see Paris and Saint Petersburg. They said it was an accident, but I never believed it.” Her voice is bitter. “She would never have leaned out that window. She was afraid of heights.”

  “How awful,” Sybil exclaims, shivering with cold and an unnamed anxiety. “Who would have done something like that?”

  “She was Russian, Sybil Hanoum. The enemy was at the gates of the city. Perhaps they listened in on her silent communion with her uncles. I’m sure Sultan Abdulhamid feared her. He destroyed her like he destroyed my father.”

  Asma Sultan suddenly scrapes her chair back and stands. She leads the way to a plush divan on a sheltered portion of the terrace.

  “Let us sit over here. It’s more comfortable. Tell me about your life, Sybil Hanoum,” she says lightly, as if nothing of consequence has been revealed.

  Sybil sinks gratefully onto the soft pillows and wraps her shawl around her shoulders.

  “I’ve hardly been anywhere. I came here when I was young. I have memories of the Essex countryside, a very brief stay in London, and then Stamboul. Which is lovely,” she adds hastily.

  “Ah, then you have traveled much farther than I, my dear. Tell me about Essex. You spoke of it the other day, but we were interrupted.”

  AS THEY REMINISCE, the sun edges closer to the wooded hills. The eunuch serves coffee.

  When Sybil has finished sipping from the tiny cobalt blue cup, Asma Sultan reaches for it and turns it upside down on its saucer. She smiles slyly.

  “I can tell your fortune.”

  “Your Highness has unexpected talents,” Sybil laughs. She feels reckless, but also lulled by the jewellike fruit on her plate, the flashing expanse of water at her feet, the precious memory already framing itself in her mind of dining with royalty in the most beautiful spot in the world.

  Asma Sultan tests the bottom of the cup several times with her slender finger. When she judges it to have sufficiently cooled, she picks the cup up and peers into it intently. After a few moments, she tilts it slightly to show Sybil.

  “See? There is your past and here is your future.” She points to clots and filigrees of rich brown that coat the sides of the cup, coffee ground as fine as powder.

  “Can you read me my future, Your Highness?” Kamil must be there, she thinks with the guilty hope that her desire be revealed as fact.

  “Of course, my dear, of course.” Asma Sultan scrutinizes the inside of the cup, turning it this way and that until Sybil fears she can no longer bear to wait.

  Finally, Asma Sultan says, “The past is the vessel of the future. Let me try to understand the shape of the vessel first.”

  “Yes, of course,” Sybil responds, disappointed.

  “A man, an old man who has known you all your life. Here he is.” She points to a long streak extending from the dregs to the rim of the cup.

  “That must be my father.”

  “There is also a woman here, a mother, your mother, I think. You were very close to her.”

  “Yes. Yes.”

  “Here she disappears from your life.” Pointing into the cup, she looks up. “I’m sorry for your bereavement.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness.” Gulls argue hoarsely high above. “She’s been gone some years now.”

  “And here are other women of the same age as you.”

  “One must be my sister, Maitlin. I don’t know the others. Who might they be?”

  Asma Sultan twists the cup and holds it close to her eye. “They are English. I see this by their dresses.”

  “Goodness,” Sybil exclaims. “You can see that much detail?”

  Fixing her black eyes on Sybil. “Oh, yes, my daughter, I can see.”

  “Two Englishwomen? In my past? My aunt, perhaps.”

  “Recent past. The cup is deep with time and I am moving up toward the future.”

  “Then perhaps someone at the embassy.”

  “Is there a woman important to you? A simple employee wouldn’t appear in your cup.”

  Sybil thinks. “Really, I can think of no one who is English. I have a close acquaintance, but she is Italian.”

  “No.” The slight tone of impatience in Asma Sultan’s voice is immediately submerged by resignation.

  “Ah, my foolish girl. You do not see your life as clearly as the eye of this cup does.”

  Stung, Sybil prompts, “Perhaps I’ll have better success with my future.”

  “No, no, we cannot go on until the past has been fully explored. These women, look here, their signs end. Perhaps they returned to England?”

  “Good heavens. It must be the two governesses. They have played quite a prominent role in my life of late.”

  “Governesses?”

  “Hannah Simmons and Mary Dixon. The governesses who were killed. We spoke of them the other day at Shukriye Hanoum’s.”

  “Of course. But why are they in the vessel of your past? You must have known them well, that they should play such a big role in your life?”

  “No, I didn’t know Hannah at all and I met Mary only a few times. We barely spoke. I suppose they ap
pear in the cup because of their murders. I’ve been helping with the inquiry.” Sybil couldn’t quite hide the pride in her voice.

  “I see.” Asma Sultan’s eyes slide closed for a moment. “Please continue.”

  “Well.” She hesitates. “It seems the two deaths might be linked.”

  “Linked? How?”

  “Of course, to start with, both were employed by the palace. And they were found in the same area.”

  “Where was that?”

  “One at Chamyeri and one at Middle Village.”

  “Those are some distance apart.”

  “Mary’s clothes were found at Chamyeri.”

  “I see. But all this might have been coincidence. Were there any other links?”

  Sybil hesitates again, remembering Kamil’s warning, but decides that the horse has bolted from the stable. She had already spoken of this at Leyla’s. “They both had the same necklace.”

  “Why would that be of significance? Perhaps they frequented the same jeweler.”

  “But it had a tughra and a Chinese inscription.”

  “What did the inscription say?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Your Highness. I can’t remember.” Sybil is flustered. “Something about a bowstring.”

  There is a pause before Asma Sultan asks, “That is unusual, but what would it have to do with their deaths?”

  “It’s not as trivial as it seems. It’s possible that it’s a secret code for some kind of plot against the sultan.” She tries to be matter-of-fact, but excitement and pride color her voice.

  Asma Sultan smiles thinly. “That is indeed important. So, these are the two women shaping your future.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Your Highness. I’m just helping, nothing more.”

  “Who else shares your theory of a plot centered on that necklace?”