by Jenny White
Recognizing the square, Vera hurried down the lane behind the mosque complex toward home, hoping Gabriel would be there. The snow deadened the footfalls of the man following her.
2
KAMIL PASHA, magistrate of Beyoglu, strode into Yorg Pasha’s reception hall carrying a rifle. He was trailed by the liveried doorkeeper and two secretaries, who seemed unsure about their right to halt the unannounced intrusion of the tall young pasha, equal in status to their lord, and appeared unnerved by his weapon. As a compromise, they expressed their disapproval by sticking close to Kamil’s coattails and uttering obsequious inquiries, none of which Kamil deigned to answer. His face was lean and determined, his moss green eyes aimed straight ahead. He was dressed in a fashionable dinner jacket, now rumpled and grimy.
Yorg Pasha sat on a raised dais at the front of the hall in an armchair decorated with gold lion heads. He himself looked like an aging lion, his broad chest accentuated by a robe embroidered in gold thread that made him appear even more massive. His face beneath his turban sagged with age and fatigue, but his eyes missed nothing. Three secretaries sat at writing desks by his side, and a phalanx of other staff stood at attention along the wall beneath a painted frieze of wild animals gamboling in a forest.
Kamil knew that Thursday was Yorg Pasha’s receiving day, when his employees, clients, and anyone else wishing to make a complaint, beg a favor, or pledge their fealty could approach him. A portly man dressed as a prosperous merchant fell to one knee on the dais, his face bowed over Yorg Pasha’s hand, and kissed his heavy gold ring.
Kamil pushed his way through the crowd of waiting men and stepped onto the platform. The merchant rose and, at the sight of Kamil’s gun, stumbled backward. Yorg Pasha gestured at a grim, narrow-shouldered man in a fez whom Kamil recognized as the pasha’s secretary, Simon. A few moments later, the pasha’s guards pushed the crowd out the door, some objecting loudly that they needed to speak with the pasha. “Come back next week,” the guards answered.
Yorg Pasha patted his stomach and said amiably, “Kamil. It’s been months. Last time I saw you was at the Swedish ambassador’s house. Lovely wife, but the food.” He shook his head and grimaced. “What brings you here?”
Kamil indicated the servants in the hall. “In private.”
Simon helped Yorg Pasha to his feet, then stepped back and bowed. Yorg Pasha lumbered down from the dais and led Kamil to a silk-paneled room at the back of the receiving hall.
They sat facing each other over a small table, surrounded by a forest of silk-screened palms and clambering monkeys, stalked by other beasts. “You’re looking well,” Yorg Pasha offered. Kamil had been up all night at the docks and had just come from a frustrating interview with the British ambassador. He was in no mood for small talk but reached gratefully for the tiny porcelain cup of coffee the pasha’s servant offered him. He sipped the thick brew scented with cardamom and waited for the room to clear.
“What’s happened, Kamil?” Yorg Pasha asked, leaving his coffee untouched. “I lied. You don’t look well at all.”
Kamil was caught off guard by Yorg Pasha’s tone of concern. The old man had been a close friend of his father, Alp Pasha, when he was governor of Istanbul. Yorg Pasha had taken an interest in the lonely boy in the governor’s mansion, and Kamil had spent many hours in his company learning the inner workings of clocks, one of the pasha’s hobbies. When Alp Pasha committed suicide two years ago, Yorg Pasha had sent for Kamil and sat with him, recounting stories of Alp Pasha in his youth. It was a gift of family history Kamil had been grateful to receive, for his father had spent little time with him.
A chime struck four times and reminded Kamil of the waning afternoon. A British-owned ship full of armaments had been discovered in the harbor last night, and he was no closer to finding out who had sent them or for whom they were meant. Yorg Pasha was an arms dealer.
“Pasha,” he said formally, placing the rifle on the table between them, “I’m sure you know about the shipment of rifles last night. Forgive me for asking, but do you know who they belong to?” Kamil meant, Were they his?
Yorg Pasha ignored the gun. “I hear they’re all Peabody-Martinis, the best. You’ve confiscated them?”
“The gendarmes have. Yes.” The local police didn’t have the manpower to guard a thousand rifles and pistols, so Kamil had called in the military police. A contingent of soldiers now surrounded the ship. The British ambassador had insisted the ship was British property and that it be released immediately. Kamil had refused, arguing that if the British claimed the ship, then they would also be accepting responsibility for the illegal arms, creating a diplomatic incident between the British and Ottoman empires. The ambassador had backed off, but Kamil suspected it was merely a tactical retreat. He had a premonition of unseen forces assembling to impede his investigation.
“If you need to dispose of them when the case is over…”
“Do you have any idea where they’re from and who they’re meant for?” Kamil asked again, knowing that despite their relationship, the pasha wouldn’t answer such a question, even if he knew, without receiving something in return.
Yorg Pasha picked up the rifle and examined it carefully, then took a magnifying glass from a drawer and peered at the serial numbers. “Standard forty-five-caliber Peabody-Martini rifle from the Providence Tool Company in the United States.” He sniffed the barrel. “This has been fired, but not recently.”
“All the guns appear to be used. It’s a British-owned ship, but the captain is Alexandrian and claims he had no idea he was carrying guns. They were in barrels, supposedly salted fish.” The captain and crew were now guests of Police Chief Omar Loutfi in the Fatih district jail. If they knew anything, Kamil was sure Omar would find it out.
Yorg Pasha placed the rifle gently on the table. “Where was the ship coming from?”
“Malta via Cyprus. Before that, the manifest says New York.”
“These probably were loaded at New York. They don’t salt fish on Malta, not in these quantities.” Yorg Pasha rumbled a laugh.
Kamil thought back to the British ambassador’s denial that morning. He had seemed sincere enough, even shocked when Kamil told him how many guns were involved, more than a thousand. But it was typical of the British to vow support for the Ottoman Empire while undermining it. British ships had delivered Martini rifles to the Iraqi Bedouin by way of Kuwait, ostensibly to protect them against tribal disputes. They had given gifts of guns to tribal sheikhs and the heads of dervish convents around the Arabian Gulf. Now those rifles were trained against the Ottoman Sixth Army. No, Kamil didn’t rule out British meddling, even if the guns had originated in the United States. But who were the British supporting and why Istanbul? Perhaps the guns were meant to be moved elsewhere.
“I suppose the British could have bought them in New York. Who in the United States would have a reason to ship illegal weapons to Istanbul?”
Yorg Pasha didn’t answer. Kamil thought he looked worried. Despite his affection for the aging pasha, Kamil didn’t trust him. He was the unseen middleman in procuring many of the Ottoman Army’s weapons, but Kamil had heard of problems, jammed mechanisms, rotted stocks. Nothing was ever traceable back to the pasha himself.
After a few moments, Yorg Pasha said, “You have a difficult job ahead of you, my son. I wish I could help you, but I can’t. The empire’s enemies are countless. You know that. Armenians, Greeks, Russians, the British, the French, Young Turks sitting in the Porte, plotting to reinstate the parliament. They all have support abroad, and all could use a shipment of guns.” He regarded Kamil for a moment with an affectionate smile, then reached across the table and rested his hand on his arm. “Come and visit me again soon and tell me how your investigation is going.” He pushed himself to his feet. Simon hovered nearby, not quite touching the pasha’s elbow as he followed him from the room.
Yorg Pasha’s labored breathing reminded Kamil of his father, and he felt his heart contract. His parents were dead, and
soon all the people who had known them best would be gone, erasing their presence in the world even further. He sat for a few moments, pulling his mind back to his work, and tried to parse what the pasha had said. He knew from experience that Yorg Pasha never spoke idly. A group with foreign support needed a shipment of guns to plot against the empire. That much was obvious. But which group? The pasha had said he wanted to help Kamil but couldn’t. Did that mean Yorg Pasha was involved in the shipment? The thought saddened Kamil. The guns could have cost many lives. But Yorg Pasha had invited Kamil to return, and that Kamil resolved to do.
After a servant brought his horse, Kamil rode uphill toward the suburb of Nishantashou, where his brother-in-law lived. Huseyin worked at Yildiz Palace and had the ear of Sultan Abdulhamid. He would have heard if there was a revolution afoot in Istanbul. Kamil didn’t know Huseyin’s exact function at the palace, but his brother-in-law always seemed to have his finger on the pulse of information.
3
“CAN’T YOU PAINT us one at a time?” Huseyin asked irritably, catching his eight-year-old daughter Alev’s arm as she tried to rise from the sofa. “Stay here, my girl.”
“I’m bored,” Alev sighed, pulling at her lace collar.
“Me too,” her twin sister, Yasemin, chimed in, squirming against her mother, Feride. The girls wore matching dresses, their red hair gathered in satin bows. Feride was elegant in a white gown, a square of silk draped across her hair and pinned in place by a jeweled comb. Her face was long and pale with the cool repose of marble, her features finely chiseled, and her eyes the color of dark jade. When she looked at her husband and daughters, her eyes betrayed a fragility, as if she didn’t quite believe they were real. She embraced Yasemin and leaned across to lay a steadying hand on Alev’s knee, causing her to sigh crossly. Feride gave the artist a pleading look. “Can’t we take a break, Elif?”
“One more moment.” Elif bent closer to the easel, her blond hair falling forward and brushing her cheek. Her features were suspended in concentration, like a sculpture in bronze, revealing an unexpected immobility, possibly a hardness beneath her delicate beauty. Elif had sought refuge with her cousin Huseyin the previous year. An artist whose career had been cut short by marriage and the war in Macedonia, she had begun to paint again, but only landscapes, evocations of light and color, sea and sky. This was the first time she was attempting to capture people since her flight, since she had sketched her five-year-old son’s death mask by the side of the road with charcoal and the boy’s blood.
She stepped back from her easel and her expression eased. “There. You can all go now. I’ve done a sketch, so I won’t need you together as a group anymore. From now on, I’ll do individual portraits.”
“Better paint the girls while they’re sleeping,” Huseyin suggested, drawing both of his daughters onto his lap, where they leaned contentedly against his chest. Yasemin idly fingered the gold and diamond medallion that hung from a ribbon around his neck.
Alev broke free of her father’s embrace and sped across the room. “Uncle Kamil.”
“Wouldn’t it be simpler to have a photograph taken, brother-in-law?” Kamil asked with a laugh, bending down to embrace his niece.
“That advice would put all of us artists out of work,” Elif retorted. She didn’t look at him, but Kamil could have sworn the color rose in her face. She wore a cherry-colored tunic over wide pants, the eclectic, half masculine–half feminine style she had developed since arriving in Istanbul dressed as a man to aid her flight. Her golden hair was cut short as a boy’s and unadorned.
“A photographer would give me a portrait of the family I actually have instead of the glorious creation Elif is painting. Every one of us will be gorgeous. Especially my wife.” Huseyin reached over and tried to draw Feride onto his now-empty lap. Embarrassed, she struggled to get away. Huseyin planted a kiss on her cheek and let her go with a pat on her behind.
“Huseyin,” she scolded, her face red. Kamil thought she looked secretly pleased and wondered at the unfathomable mysteries of married lives.
Feride took a closer look at her brother and frowned. “You look as though you were in a brawl at the opera.”
He laughed. “Close enough. I was called from a formal reception last night to look into a case.”
“And I’ll bet you haven’t slept or eaten, my dear. Dinner will be ready in just a few moments.” Feride signaled the girls’ governess to take them to change their clothes.
Elif smiled at Kamil, then busied herself with her paintbrushes and easel.
“Can I help you carry these things?” Kamil and Elif had become close after her arrival. She had trusted him enough to confide the story of the deaths of her husband and son. He had tried to let her know how much he cared for her, but she had disappeared from his life into one of her own. This was the first time he had seen her in months.
“It’s good to see you,” Elif said, her voice low in her throat.
“And you. You’re looking well.” What he really wanted to say was that he missed her company. Instead he asked, “How are your classes?”
“The students are wonderful. I’m honored to be teaching them.” She snapped shut her paint box. “I have to go.” She gave no explanation but raised her hand for him to shake. He took her hand and kissed it, holding it against his lips a moment too long.
She averted her eyes and, when he released her, fled the room.
Feride swept up Kamil’s arm and led him into the dining room. Like the sitting room, it was dominated by enormous mirrors in gilded frames and still life oil paintings. Kamil wondered what Elif thought of the orchestrated scenes of fruits and flowers. They were masterly in execution, but very different from her own lively, impressionistic use of color. He found the pictures in his sister’s home fascinating in an awful way, so true to life, yet simultaneously barren. He was sure they expressed Huseyin’s taste, not Feride’s.
Huseyin was already seated at the head of the table. He wasted no time. “So, brother-in-law, I’m surprised you kept your trousers on in there. I thought you were going to explode with desire.”
“Huseyin, you’re impossible,” Feride scolded. “It’s hard to believe sometimes that I married you.”
“I know, my delicate flower. I’m a disappointment to you.”
Kamil tensed at what he feared might be an evening of bickering. He had always wondered why Feride had chosen Huseyin from among her suitors. He was a distant relation of the royal family’s, and very wealthy, but seemed to revel in his overbearing boorishness. Still, the previous year Huseyin had helped Kamil with one of his cases and shown himself to be a shrewd judge of character. When Kamil overlooked his brother-in-law’s ostentation and bad taste and his tendency to needle Feride, he managed to like him.
A servant placed a slice of spinach pie on his plate and a bowl of yoghurt beside it. The scent of the fresh-baked pastry reminded Kamil how hungry he was. Huseyin drank wine, as he did with almost every meal, but Kamil asked for water, which calmed him and cleared his mind.
He noticed a pin in Feride’s hair, a shower of teardrop-shaped rubies that winked in the light when she moved her head. The hairpin was more exuberant than his sister’s usual modest attire, and Kamil complimented her on it. Feride was a beautiful but reserved woman. He knew that she deeply desired the kind of close friendships she imagined other people had but held herself back. She had few real friends, though she kept up a hectic schedule of visits and activities with the women in her social circle. She had once complained to Kamil that they bored her to tears. Since their father’s death, she had become even sadder and more reserved. Only with Elif and on occasion with her husband had Kamil seen his sister open up. He remarked on and treasured any sign of joy in his sister’s life.
“It’s a gift from Huseyin,” she responded shyly.
“Only the very best for the very best,” Huseyin explained between bites. “What are you working on these days?” he asked Kamil.
“Is there something b
rewing in the city?” Kamil asked. “We’ve intercepted a cargo of weapons.” He refused a servant’s offer of wine but pushed his fork with relish into the next dish, charred eggplant cream topped with morsels of stewed lamb.
“On a British ship,” Huseyin added pointedly. “I know the British are arming terrorists in the provinces, but what are they thinking sending weapons like that to Istanbul? This is a city, not a desert sheikhdom. If you start shooting here, before you know it, you’ll have a pile of bodies so big it would fill the harbor. Don’t tell me Nizam Pasha has assigned this case to you.”
“He has. He wants me to find out who the shipment was for and its purpose.” The imperious and inscrutable minister of justice, Nizam Pasha, had made Kamil special prosecutor in charge of the investigation. Kamil was never sure whether these difficult assignments were a recognition of Kamil’s skill or an invitation to fail.
“More of these British games. They distribute fuel drop by drop, year after year, thinking no one notices, and then they hand out matches.” Huseyin drank from his glass, gave a satisfied grunt, and then turned his attention to his plate.
“Who would the British be arming here in Istanbul?”
“Sultan Abdulhamid suspects the Armenians of colluding with Russia. There are rumors of something going on in the Kachkar Mountains. Foreigners have been seen there, agitating the locals. They’ll be arming the villagers next. The Kurdish irregulars will put an end to it, one way or another.”
“What do you mean?” Feride asked, staring at her husband. “Are you saying they’ll just kill everyone and that will be the end of the problem?”
“Of course not, my delicate rose.” He reached out and laid his hand over hers. “We shouldn’t be discussing business over dinner.”
