Amy shuddered. “That’s awful.”
He smiled. “She was very happy.”
“How do you know?” Amy demanded.
“She fell in love with her captor.” His dark eyes met hers and she felt her face growing warm.
“It happens, I am told,” he added softly.
They reached the horse and he lifted her onto its back.
Chapter 5
Anwar Talit was worried. Malik had been gone since first light on the previous day, and still there was no sign of him.
Anwar knew there was reason for concern. He had seen the quiet ones before when they got the call, the cool ones who seemed almost indifferent to women until they met the single female who set them on fire. They became unreachable, transferring all the intensity they had previously devoted to a cause or a faith or a family to the object of their desire, drawn as if mesmerized to the person who would destroy them.
He had never known his friend Malik to look at another woman the way he looked at the American captive.
Anwar moved out of the cave to walk across to his tent when another of the rebels, a former slave from Slovenia named Yuri, trotted up to him.
“There’s a rider coming up the hill,” Yuri said.
“Alone?” Anwar asked.
Yuri nodded his head.
“Can you tell if it’s Malik?”
“I don’t think so, it’s not his horse.”
“You and Selim go out and get him,” Yuri said. “I don’t care if he’s by himself, it could be a trick. Take your pistols.”
Yuri ran off to obey and Anwar began to pace. Whatever this was, he would have to deal with it, since Malik was not available. He wondered who would be foolhardy enough to come into the camp unescorted, who would even know where it was. His mind ranged over the possibilities until he turned and saw the visitor, being dragged toward him by his rebel escort.
“Moamar Trey,” Anwar said. “What brings you to see us this fine day?”
Moamar shrugged off the arms holding him and drew himself up to his full height, which was not very impressive. Moamar was a part time thief and full time hustler, the illegitimate offspring of a British seaman’s dalliance with a Turkish bazaar girl. Moamar’s mother had hauled him with her as she plied her trade throughout the Empire. Because of his peripatetic background Moamar could speak many of the Empire’s dialects and had forged a shaky career as a go-between, trusted completely by no one but used by all sides because he could be counted upon to deliver a message for a price. He had no loyalties and in a perverse way that made him reliable.
He was always very determined to reach his destination and thus collect his fee.
“I come to you from Kalid Shah,” Moamar said, rubbing his wrist where Yuri had held him.
Anwar folded his arms. “And what does the Pasha of Bursa want?” Anwar demanded.
“My message is for Malik Bey.”
“Malik is not here,” Anwar said.
“I won’t get paid unless I can prove to Kalid Shah that I have seen Malik,” Moamar whined.
Anwar took a step forward and grabbed the man’s tunic, hauling Moamar upward until he was standing on tiptoes.
“I will give you something to prove that you have seen me,” Anwar said quietly. “Now spit out your message before I set the dogs on you.”
“I...I think I should wait for Malik,” the little man said nervously, his eyes darting around at the ring of rebels who were closing in on him.
“I don’t know how long he will be,” Anwar said smoothly. “Speak now or I throw you out.”
Moamar swallowed, then said, “Kalid Shah wants a meeting with Malik Bey to negotiate the release of the American hostage you hold.”
“What American hostage? There is no such person here,” Anwar replied, looking around at the faces of his friends. All of them were carefully impassive.
Moamar shrugged. “I know nothing more about it. Kalid Shah said that Malik kidnapped an American woman from a passenger coach several days ago. The pasha wants to discuss the terms of her surrender to him.”
Anwar said nothing, then pulled an amulet from around his neck and handed it to the messenger.
“Give this to Kalid Shah to prove that you have seen me. He will recognize it. Tell him he will have our response within three days.”
Moamar snatched the bronze charm and curled his fingers around it.
“Now go,” Anwar said dismissively, turning his back on the little man.
As soon as Moamar left Anwar ordered the rest of the men to disperse, then he gestured covertly for Selim and Yuri to come to his side.
“Selim, you follow Moamar out and make sure he leaves without snooping around, and make sure no one is waiting for him at the bottom of the hill.”
Selim took off and Yuri said in a low tone, “What are you going to do if Malik is not back in three days?”
“I’ll come up with something. But let’s hope I don’t have to,” Anwar replied. “How do you think Kalid Shah knew about the American girl?”
Yuri shrugged. “Maybe he read about it in the British papers, they report on all Malik’s doings like he’s a cricket star.”
Anwar furrowed his brow. “Shah’s in Bursa. The only British papers are in Constantinople.”
“Maybe his wife gets the English language papers mailed to her.”
“But why would he take such a personal interest in this one girl? The papers have been writing about the kidnappings for years and we’ve never heard from him before today.” Anwar shook his head. “I don’t like it. Something’s up.”
“I wish Malik were here,” Yuri said, sighing.
Anwar made a disgusted sound. “No, he’s off chasing that prize package he refuses to sell,” he said darkly.
Yuri stared at him.
“Never mind,” Anwar said, realizing that he had revealed too much. “Didn’t Malik tell Nerisa to buy the British papers when she went into town to sell baskets at the covered bazaar?”
“Yes. She’s probably waiting for him to come back to give them to him.”
“Go and get them now,” Anwar said.
Yuri walked off and Anwar went back into the cave, sitting down at a crude table and lighting a candle. The oil lamp was empty; he needed to make a supply run but was reluctant to leave with Malik still gone.
It was so unlike Malik to run off the way he had that Anwar didn’t know what to anticipate. Where was Malik? How far would he go to find the girl? There was no way to know.
Yuri returned with a newspaper and dropped it onto the table in front of his friend.
“There she is,” Yuri said.
The paper had been folded to expose a grainy, badly reproduced photograph of Amelia Ryder, a studio pose showing her dressed in the Western fashion of several years earlier, with billowing sleeves, a wasp waist and an upswept hairdo.
“Isn’t that the girl?” Yuri prompted.
Anwar nodded. “I wonder what the story says,” he added thoughtfully.
Yuri was silent. Neither one of them could read it.
“Malik will tell us when he gets back,” Yuri finally said firmly.
Anwar didn’t answer.
When would that be?
* * *
Sarah prepared the chibuk for Kosem, packing the old lady’s pipe with sweet tobacco, tamping it down until it was ready and then lighting it. She handed it to Kalid’s grandmother, who smiled and accepted it, drawing on it deeply.
“You look worried, my dear,” Kosem said.
Sarah poured a cup of thick Turkish coffee for Kosem, and then one for herself. When a servant stepped forward to assist her, Sarah sent her from the room.
“I guess I am,” she said, when the door had closed behind the slave. “I know that Kalid is going to get involved with Malik Bey and this kidnapped girl, and it’s bound to be dangerous.”
“What is my grandson doing now?” Kosem asked, exhaling a stream of gray smoke.
“He sent a message to the reb
els and they’re going to get back to him in three days.”
“And he’s just waiting? That’s not like Kalid at all.”
“He says it’s best to let the rebels take the lead. He’s trying to get her back without incident, but I don’t know if that’s possible,” Sarah said.
“And what about your cousin James?” Kosem inquired.
Sarah sighed and put down her cup. “Oh, he’s dealing with the diplomats, but you know what they’re like. They’ll be talking about it until we’re welcoming the twentieth century.”
Kosem snorted. “Kalid’s father would have stormed the rebel camp and killed them all to get her back,” she said.
Sarah said nothing.
Kosem laughed. “You don’t have to hold your tongue for me, daughter. I can tell that Kalid is in sympathy with the rebels. I’ve been watching his actions since he assumed his father’s throne, and I know what he thinks. He has grown more Western with each passing day under your influence.”
“If it comes to war he will join forces with Malik and his men,” Sarah said to her.
Kosem nodded slowly. “It was the last wish of my long life that I would see Kalid’s son ruling from Orchid Palace. I have guessed for some time that my wish will not be granted.” She smiled suddenly. “Do you remember when I tried to bribe you to have Kalid’s son?”
Sarah chuckled. “I remember.”
“You two were so in love but always at cross purposes! It drove me mad, I thought I would die before I saw Kalid happily married and a father.” Her smile faded. “And now you have three beautiful children, two sons, but Kalid wants a democracy.” She sighed. “The world is changing and I suppose he must change with it.” She reached over and patted Sarah’s hand. “But not me. I am glad that I will die soon. I am too old to give up the harem.”
Sarah’s answering smile was roguish. Kosem had been announcing her imminent death for as long as Sarah had known her. The old lady was now past ninety.
Kosem suddenly took a ring off her finger and placed it in Sarah’s palm. “I want you to have this,” she said.
Sarah began to protest, but Kosem waved her hand dismissively. “Jewels disappear upon a death, the servants are unreliable. That was Kalid’s mother’s. You have always reminded me of her very much. She began as a captive too, like you, and like this Amelia Ryder who is causing so much concern.”
Sarah nodded.
“I missed her terribly when she died,” Kosem said, with a catch in her voice. “I almost lost my English before you came. It has been the comfort of my old age to have you here to talk to, seker Sarah.”
Sarah could see that the old lady was getting tired and melancholy. She got up and spread a cashmere lap robe over Kosem’s thin legs, encased in the silken shalwar , or trousers, that she always wore.
“You must rest now. Close your eyes. I will wait until you fall asleep.”
“Keep the ring,” Kosem whispered. “Promise me.”
“I promise. Go to sleep.”
Kosem sighed and let her head fall back upon the satin pillows on the divan. Sarah looked down at the ring she still clutched in her hand.
Kosem must really feel that death was near to part with it, Sarah thought sadly. It was a huge square cabochon emerald surrounded by magnificent pearls set in heavy gold, and the old lady had worn it daily.
It was too much for Kosem to face, Sarah knew. The end of her life and the end of an era, the Sultanate in the Ottoman Empire. Sarah looked around at the opulent apartment. It had remained almost unchanged since the day she had arrived at Orchid Palace as Kalid Shah’s purchase, the latest addition to his harem. Then the quarters of the valid pashana had seemed as exotic and foreign as an opium den: the caged birds, the gilt mirrors, the inlaid furniture and hand painted jewel chests, the ornate rugs and plush hangings the pathetic evidence of mere indulgence. Now Sarah saw that they were the accessories of a life, the life of a woman who had been raised with one goal, to please a man. In the tenth decade of her existence Kosem still dressed every day in the full costume of a harem woman, the cashmere and silk shalwar, the embroidered waistcoats and jeweled curdees, the high heeled pattens and satin yeleks with immense hanging sleeves slashed with crimson and gold. Her jewel collection was rumored to rival that of the Sultana and she inspected the pieces regularly, sending anything dirty or damaged to the palace artisans for cleaning or repair. She still wore the yashmak, the face veil which exposed only eyes and forehead, when she went outside the palace.
And she still asked permission of her grandson to enter a room, for he was her pasha, and a man.
It was true, Sarah thought, as she rose and rang for the servant to return and watch over the sleeping Kosem.
The world was changing, and the valide pashana was too old to change.
There were tears in Sarah’s eyes as she left the room.
* * *
When Malik arrived back at the rebel base with Amy on the horse before him, his men came from everywhere to watch their progress through the camp. There was a silence as they dismounted and Malik led her, hands bound and head down, back to his tent. When he emerged soon afterward Anwar was waiting for him.
“What is it?” Malik said.
“We have to talk,” Anwar said.
“What’s happened?” Malik demanded.
Anwar led him away from the camp where they walked through the trees as Malik learned of Moamar’s visit and the article in the British newspaper. Malik took the paper from Anwar’s hand and scanned the article quickly.
“Well?” Anwar said.
“She’s a relative of Kalid Shah’s wife,” Malik said thoughtfully, remembering Amy’s words at the campfire. So there was some truth in what she’d said.
“His wife?” Anwar said.
“Yes, he’s married to an American, and this girl is a ward of the wife’s cousin. She was coming to stay with the cousin in Constantinople when we took her.”
“That’s good news!” Anwar said eagerly. “Forget the slave traders, we can make a ransom demand of the pasha, he’ll be able to afford much more than Halmad. Five thousand at least!”
Malik said nothing.
“Don’t you see?” Anwar persisted. “Kalid Shah is immensely wealthy, he has a fortune in European investments made by his father before his death. Shah doesn’t need to be Pasha of Bursa or to do anything else connected with the Sultan. He could take his family and leave at any time, he only stays here because he’s been trying to avoid civil war and a bloodbath for the people of his district.”
“That’s exactly why I’m reluctant to extort money from him,” Malik said. “The Sultan’s spies are everywhere and when Shah pays us the Sultan will know about it. The story is all over the British newspapers. When the girl is restored to her family they’ll report that too. Hammid knows that Kalid has been sympathetic to our cause. Hammid will think that the kidnapping was a sham we constructed to enable Kalid Shah to contribute to the revolution.”
“So much the better for us!” Anwar said. “If Hammid sees Kalid Shah as allied with us he’ll know we’re making big inroads in the western Empire.” Anwar stopped. “Of course, you’ll have to give up the girl.”
Malik didn’t answer.
“What are you thinking?” Anwar said.
“Kalid Shah has been a friend to us. I don’t want to put Bursa at risk.”
“What Kalid wants is not going to happen. Hammid will never compromise; he’ll level the whole country first.”
“I’m more worried about what might happen when Hammid learns that we have made the deal.” Malik put down the newspaper. “It has to look like a hostile transaction.”
“Shah wants to meet with you. Tell him that.” Anwar hesitated, then moved back to what was, for him, the real issue. “Can you give up the girl?” he asked.
“For five thousand kurush, I’ll have to,” Malik said, and walked away.
* * *
Secretary Danforth accepted a cup of tea from Beatrice Woolcott an
d added a lump of sugar to it. He looked up as the servant, Listak, silently offered him a tray of comfits.
“Have one,” James said. “My wife makes them from an old family recipe, using the local hazelnuts in place of Georgia pecans. They’re very good.”
Danforth selected a delicacy and dropped it onto the gilt rimmed porcelain plate at his elbow. The china was the finest Limoges, in keeping with the rest of the appointments in the stately home.
James Woolcott was indeed prospering in Turkey.
“So the official word from the Sultan is that there is nothing he can do?” James said, continuing the conversation that the arrival of refreshments had interrupted.
Danforth nodded, his mouth full. He patted his lips with a napkin and swallowed before replying.
“He says that the people who kidnapped your niece are outlaws living under a death sentence. If apprehended, they will of course suffer the ultimate penalty, but until then no monarch can halt completely the commission of crimes in his country.”
“In other words, go scratch,” Beatrice said dryly, sniffing and flicking an invisible bit of lint from the tight cuff of her organdy sleeve.
“I’m afraid so,” Danforth agreed. “The Sultan knows that our country is in sympathy with the rebels so he’s not going to lift a finger to help locate a missing American woman. Your niece is a victim of international gamesmanship.”
“Then Kalid Shah is our only hope,” James observed.
“I told you he would be,” Beatrice said.
“Do you think this bandit will listen to him?” James asked the Secretary.
Danforth set down his cup and dusted crumbs from his fingertips.
“If he doesn’t, you’ll never see your niece again,” he said gravely.
* * *
The side street just off the main thoroughfare was more like an alley, too narrow for anything but foot traffic and deeply rutted from the carts used to transport goods to the shops. The adobe structure at its end was low and dark, full of the smells of closely packed humanity and the dense smoke from Turkish tobacco. The babble of many languages formed a background noise as Kalid Shah loomed in the doorway of the cayhanesi, or coffeehouse.
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