by Jenny White
Kamil recognized Cyrillic letters. It had been torn from a document.
38
VERA 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?”
VERA 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.”
39
RUNNING THROUGH THE DARK toward the vineyard where Vali’s light had disappeared, Feride stumbled and nearly fell. She twisted her head in the direction of the sound that had spooked her and tried to calm herself. It was probably a dog, she thought, embarrassed by her overreaction. Just then a powerful arm encircled her waist and lifted her off the ground. She tried to scream, but a hand covered her mouth. Fear took over her body, which in its rage to be free, arched and bucked. She tried to bite, but her teeth only grazed the beefy palm pressed against her mouth. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe and struggled frantically until the man, realizing the source of her distress, moved his hand from her nose.
This brush with death had the effect of banishing Feride’s panic. In order not to die, she realized, she needed her wits. Ignoring her racing heart, she tried to look about her. They were moving through the vineyard, the man dragging Feride under his arm, another man keeping pace beside him. The moon’s dim light revealed the tortured shapes of bare grape stocks. Where were Nissim and Vali and her companions? She had been only a moment behind them. Surely they would notice her missing and return to look for her.
“Are you sure this is the pasha’s wife?” the man holding her asked.
“Has to be,” Feride heard the other man say. “She’s the only woman in the group.”
“Tell me again why we’re bothering with his wife? I don’t think she knows where her husband is.”
“Well, we can’t find him either. Do you want to go back and face the commander with empty hands?”
“I guess not.”
The men spoke in city dialects, Feride noticed. They weren’t peasants or common highwaymen. Who was their commander? Who would even know her, or that she was here? What did they want with Huseyin? She was shocked by the realization that the men holding her had likely murdered the patient in the Valide Mosque hospital, thinking he was Huseyin.
She sagged to her knees, forcing them to stop. The hand over her mouth slipped momentarily, and she managed to emit a loud bleat. She had to alert the others. Nissim and Vali would put these men to flight in an instant. Then she heard it—shouts and the muffled thud of bodies. A man cried out. Was that Vali? Had they been attacked too?
Cursing, the man picked her up and, holding her tightly against his chest, set off at a fast pace toward the edge of a forest. One arm was grasped tightly by the man who carried her, but with some experimentation, she found she could move her head and the arm pressed against his chest. She lowered her head and raised her arm so that she could pluck from the side of her veil the sharp needle that pinned it closed around her face. It took several tries. When the pin was in her hand, she leaned back so she could see the face of the man carrying her. This close up, she thought he too looked afraid. Then she thrust the needle backhanded at whatever it might reach.
He screamed and dropped her. Feride scrambled to her feet and ran. After a moment’s confusion, the man’s partner raced after her. Feride threw off her charshaf and thrust it beneath his feet. He stumbled, kicking his foot to clear it of the tangled cloth. Feride hurtled between the rows of vines down the hill, the grape stocks tearing at her skirts.
In the gray dawn she saw a tangle of bodies between the vines, and the glint of metal. Elif’s thin figure rose above the rest, legs spread wide. She swung a long curved knife before her like a scythe, over and over, and Feride could hear the dull thunk of the knife as it hacked into flesh.
“Elif?” Feride called out uncertainly. She couldn’t be sure what she was seeing. Surely an apparition, a distortion of the mist and dawn.
At the sound of Feride’s voice, Elif looked up, her face invisible inside a helmet of pale hair. The hand holding the knife hung by her side. Nothing else moved.
Feride ran toward her, afraid to speak. Elif’s vacant face stared in her direction without seeing her.
Suddenly, as if she had just awakened, Elif looked down at her feet and her face took on an expression of utter horror. She began to scream, a bloodcurdling cry of anguish that spilled like black ink across the lightening fields.
40
KAMIL KNELT BEFORE Sultan Abdulhamid, his eyes on the intricate blue and red designs of the silk carpet beneath his knees. He remained that way until Vizier Köraslan indicated that he should rise and present his petition. They were in a reception hall adjoining the sultan’s study. Dozens of splendidly dressed guards and servants were grouped about the room, all in a state of hushed attentiveness. The sultan had received Kamil in his private quarters, rather than in the Great Mabeyn, where everyday business was conducted. Kamil had pulled every string possible to arrange an audience that morning.
The wood and stone structure of the sultan’s residence was designed to look like a Swiss chalet and seemed to Kamil, as he walked up the marble steps, too whimsical to house a man with such enormous power. Inside, the rooms were decorated in European fashion with gilded mirrors and heavy
drapery. The ceilings were painted with landscapes. He had heard that Sultan Abdulhamid had crafted some of the furniture himself. Each sultan was required by tradition to learn a craft, and Sultan Abdulhamid was renowned for his furniture-making skills. He was also expanding the empire’s railroads and rebuilding its cities with European-style boulevards. All the latest English mystery books were translated as soon as they were published. An aide read them aloud from behind a screen at the insomniac sultan’s bedside. An enlightened monarch, he nevertheless jealously guarded his fears and delusions and would visit them whenever the mood took him. This, all his subjects knew, made him unpredictable and even dangerous.
The sultan sat on a wide cushioned chair inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Like Kamil and the vizier, he wore trousers, a frock coat, and a fez, but his coat was heavily brocaded in gold thread, with gold epaulets at the shoulders. A red and green grosgrain sash spanned his chest, and his white-gloved left hand loosely held the pommel of a sword. The haughty stillness of his face spoke more of power than any action or insignia. His hooded eyes gave nothing away.
Vizier Köraslan stood to the right of the throne. He was a tall, imposing man with a neat sandy beard, and his deep-set eyes roved continually around the room. He had a reputation for incorruptibility, but he was also known to be ambitious. There was no higher position in the empire to which he could aspire, but there was always more power and more wealth to be accumulated. Kamil imagined that every vizier wanted to be seen as indispensable to his ruler. Viziers were famously expendable. Some sultans had deposed them on a whim, others had put their advisers to death. Kamil didn’t envy the man his position, one foot on a very high pinnacle.
Eyes lowered, Kamil stated his name and rank, but inside he fretted. How to convince the sultan that the head of his secret police was planning to fake an assassination attempt when Kamil had no evidence, and that an attack on the Choruh Valley would be a mistake without implying that the Great Lord was mistaken? Could he do that without mentioning the socialist commune, which the sultan might take to be a different kind of threat? In other words, he thought with a feeling close to despair, he had to make convincing arguments about two life-and-death situations without actually saying anything. He decided to enter the conversation on neutral ground and feel his way along.
“As your special prosecutor,” Kamil began, “I wish to report on my progress in the Ottoman Imperial Bank robbery.”
“Isn’t that a matter you should be discussing with your superior, the minister of justice?” Vizier Köraslan interrupted impatiently. “You said this was urgent.”
“I would like to assure His Majesty that neither he nor the empire is in any danger on that front.” Kamil wished he knew that was true. He was taking an enormous risk.
“That’s not what I heard.” Sultan Abdulhamid’s voice was testy, but curious. “My sources tell me there’s a revolution afoot. What do you say to that, Kamil Pasha? It seems you are uninformed. That disappoints me.”
The last thing Kamil wanted was to disappoint the sultan. The incremental approach to delivering his message clearly wasn’t working. To convince the sultan, Kamil decided, he would have to tell him what he knew.
“I’m aware of the situation in the Choruh Valley, Your Highness. A group of young people has begun an experimental farm there, in Karakaya Village near the town of Ispir. They’re not revolutionaries.”
“How do you know that? Have you been there?”
“No, Your Majesty. I was informed through trusted sources.”
“And you believed them,” the vizier said, barely disguising his sarcasm. “We too have our sources, and they tell us otherwise.”
There was a tense silence. Kamil knew the vizier was referring to Akrep.
“How is this farm experimental?” the sultan asked. “And who are these young people?”
Kamil remembered that Sultan Abdulhamid had a particular interest in agricultural reform. “They’re socialists, Your Highness, who have traveled there from a number of different countries. As I understand it, it’s a social experiment, a community where the members share the labor and profit equally.”
“Our religion encourages us to share profit and share loss with others in our community. You needn’t be a socialist to do that.” He tapped his sword on the carpet. “Their intent is admirable, but their implementation is godless, is that not so?”
“That is so, Your Highness,” the vizier agreed. “They are godless infidels.”
Kamil kept his eyes averted from the sultan, as protocol required, but saw him reach up a bejeweled hand to grasp his chin in thought. Finally the sultan turned to his vizier and said tersely, “I want a report on these socialists. I’ve heard of them, but I want details. If they’re active in the empire, I should know about it. You told me they were Armenians.”
“I was told that they are Armenians as well as socialists.”
“Those are not the same thing. Find out what species of animal this commune is.”
“At your command, Lord of the Two Lands and the Two Seas.” Vizier Köraslan made a deep bow. “Perhaps Kamil Pasha might wish to discover the truth of the matter himself and report back to Your Highness.”
Kamil was taken aback by the suggestion that he travel all the way to the Russian border. The sultan had his own trusted men. Why send him?
“An excellent idea. I would appreciate your unbiased impression,” the sultan told Kamil earnestly. “I had been under the impression that this was a revolutionary movement that required a military response, but if indeed this is a peaceful valley and the socialists are not pawns of the Russians, as my advisers have told me, then I would be committing an unforgivable crime.” The sultan’s voice rose by a fraction, but given his previously measured speech, it gave the effect of shouting. “It is haram to spill innocent blood, and may Allah preserve me from it.”
The vizier looked very uncomfortable. Kamil realized he had made another powerful enemy. Kamil had caused the sultan to question the vizier’s judgment, and he would never forgive that. But Kamil realized he had a more immediate problem. It seemed the sultan had taken the vizier at his word.
“Go and find out the truth of the matter yourself,” the sultan continued, “then report back. I’ll put a company of my household cavalry under your command, and you can take one of the royal steamers. I’ll give the order to crush the revolt in thirty days unless you convince me otherwise.”
Kamil held his breath. “The mountains are inaccessible now in high winter, Your Highness.”
“Very well, bring me news by the end of March. You’ll be able to get through by then, and so will my troops,” he added meaningfully.
When the sultan raised a finger from the arm of his chair, the vizier stepped forward and told Kamil brusquely, “You may withdraw.”
“One more thing, Your Highness,” Kamil said hurriedly. “With regard to the threat…”
“The impertinence,” the vizier shouted. “You have been dismissed.” He beckoned the guards.
The sultan raised his finger again, at which all movement in the room ceased. “Go on, Kamil Pasha.”
Kamil felt the sweat run down his sides. “Your Highness, I wish you health and long life. It is my duty to warn you against trusting your source in this. I believe it is possible that the Akrep commander is planning an attack in order to gain your trust by appearing to save you from harm.”
Sultan Abdulhamid’s face showed no trace of emotion. He stared at Kamil, deep in thought.
“On what evidence do you base this serious accusation?” Vizier Köraslan asked, outraged.
“No concrete evidence, my lord. Some words said, that in themselves might mean nothing but that together with other things I’ve learned indicate at least a need for caution.”
“You’re both working on this bank robbery, you and Vahid,” the vizier said, as if the explanation were dawning in his mind. “So you think that by undermining his reputation, you’ll get him out of the way and take the credit fo
r yourself. How despicable,” he growled. “The bigger crime is that you have wasted the padishah’s precious time.”
“You forget yourself.” The sultan addressed the vizier in a neutral voice without even a glance in his direction, but the man immediately fell to his knees, his forehead to the carpet, and apologized abjectly.
“Get up,” he told the vizier. “Your warning is noted, Kamil Pasha. I’ll expect to hear from you by the end of March.”
Kamil murmured the formulas of departure from such an august personage, ending with a call to Allah to rain blessings on the sultan. Head lowered, he backed slowly out of the room to avoid the unforgivable offense of showing one’s back to the padishah, the Shadow of God on Earth.
The meeting with the sultan had left him with an equal mixture of elation and unease. The sultan had listened to his warning, but Kamil had made an enemy of Vizier Köraslan, the second most powerful man in the empire. He would never forgive Kamil for having witnessed his humiliation. And Vahid would probably take Kamil’s accusation about him to the sultan as a declaration of war. Still, Kamil felt satisfied that he had at least postponed an attack on the valley and the commune, even at the price of his having to make the journey east himself. He considered the reprieve he had gained of almost three months. Although the mountains of eastern Anatolia would be snowbound even in March, he would have plenty of time to prepare.
He now thought of Feride and Elif, who had been gone since the day before with no word. He reached into his pocket for his watch but didn’t find it. In the confusion of the past few days, he must have left it at home. Feride and Elif had probably visited a friend and spent the night, he told himself—not surprising given the snow and fog. He should stop worrying.
A flash of orange in a corner of the palace garden caught his eye. He approached and found a tree festooned with kumquats. Kamil picked one and scratched the skin with his fingernail, then held it to his nose and inhaled the citrus scent. Why exactly was he going to the east? His duty was to capture Gabriel and return the gold to the bank. But his ultimate purpose now, it seemed, was to produce proof of the commune’s innocence and preserve the valley from harm. Wouldn’t that be akin to proving the innocence of thieves? He wondered at his own logic.
