The Winter Thief: A Kamil Pasha Novel (Kamil Pasha Novels)

by Jenny White

  Alicia brought Vera a bowl of cabbage stew and sat beside her while she ate, telling her about the commune and occasionally laying her hand on Vera’s arm. Vera wondered if the woman had sensed the pain that had shot through her when she saw that Gabriel had gone. Vera didn’t like being the object of Alicia’s pity but found the weight of the woman’s hand comforting.

  BY THE time Gabriel returned some hours later, Vera had recovered herself. Of course he had to help unload the carts and unharness the animals. Why had she thought he would immediately drop everything just to be with her? He always put duty first. She knew that about him, and she had married him. It was something she admired, she reminded herself. Her father, a general, also was often absent from home.

  Gabriel came to sit beside her on the quilt Alicia had given her. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes for a moment. His beard gleamed in the firelight. Then he put his arm around her, the weight of it heavy on her shoulders.

  “I’m so glad you’re safe,” he told her, his voice rough with emotion, his breath sour. She felt him looking at her and nodded without answering. She moved closer and began to shiver.

  “I came back for you and you were gone,” Gabriel said. “What happened?”

  “They arrested me.”

  “The secret police?”

  Vera nodded again.

  “Where did they take you? Are you all right?”

  Vera meant to say yes. “No.” She forced the word out. “No, I’m not.” She felt Gabriel tense, but he didn’t ask. Instead he pulled her head onto his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, Vera. The police were after me. I had to leave Istanbul. But Yorg Pasha swore he would get you out, and he did. I wouldn’t have gone if I hadn’t thought he would do that.”

  “Who is Yorg Pasha?” Vera asked, lifting her head and meeting Gabriel’s tired eyes.

  Gabriel looked surprised. “How did you get out then?”

  “I ran away.”

  Gabriel laughed, showing yellowed teeth. “Good for you. You didn’t need me at all.” Vera winced. He had aged since she last saw him, even though that was only two months ago. An eternity ago. She told him about the girl, Sosi, who had helped her escape and been killed.

  “There were a lot of things I never expected I could bear.” Her voice caught.

  Gabriel glanced away, embarrassed. “Whatever happened doesn’t matter to me. I’m glad you’re safe.” He held her close and pressed his cold lips against her cheek. “That’s behind us now, my wife. You’ll be happy at New Concord.” He began to tell her his plans for the commune. His eyes shone, and Vera saw again the visionary with whom she had fallen in love. Perhaps it was possible, she thought, listening to the fervor in his voice.

  75

  TRABZON HARBOR WAS wreathed in early morning mist as the steamer approached, but Kamil could see a small crowd gathered on the pier. He heard the clash of drums and the nasal whine of a zurna. A band had been sent to welcome the distinguished representative of Sultan Abdulhamid.

  The governor of Trabzon Province, together with all the notables of the town, the imam of the town mosque, and a long-bearded priest were gathered in the small plaza by the harbor. When Kamil stepped from the pier, they bowed deeply. The governor stepped forward and began to deliver a flowery speech of welcome. When he saw the soldiers and horses disembark under the standard of the sultan, his voice died away, but after a moment he picked up his speech where he had left it.

  Kamil found this reaction remarkable, since it was usual for royal envoys to travel with a military guard. He noticed tension in people’s faces and what he thought was fear.

  The governor conducted Kamil to his house, which his family had vacated for the sultan’s envoy from the capital. The staff was left in place, the governor explained, to see to the pasha’s every need. He would personally supervise the billeting of the soldiers nearby.

  Kamil thanked the man and directed Yakup to allocate rooms to Omar and Elif, whom, as she had suggested, Kamil introduced as his personal servant, Elias. Two days out of Istanbul, the steamer had encountered high winds and rocked back and forth like a baby in a swing. They had had to lay in at the Black Sea port of Zonguldak to avoid the worst of it, delaying them by two days. Elif had suffered a great deal from seasickness and, her face green, curled up under the quilts in Kamil’s cabin through the entire voyage. Kamil and Yakup had taken turns tending to her. Kamil’s anger had abated somewhat.

  Omar knocked perfunctorily on the sitting room door and barged in, holding a piece of yellow paper. Kamil turned from the window, where he had been considering the height of the cliffs ringing the town.

  “A telegram.” He handed it to Kamil.

  Kamil read it, his expression darkening. “It’s from Yorg Pasha. There’s been an attempt on the sultan’s life by Henchak Armenians. The sultan was spared and is in good health, praise be to Allah.”

  “You think your friend Vahid set that up?”

  “Of course. It was just the push the sultan needed to send his army east.” Kamil waved the telegram. “It says here that a punitive expedition is being sent. Not just to the commune but to the region.”

  “Just coincidentally while the sultan’s envoy, Kamil Pasha, is here,” Omar said venomously. “Vahid’s after you too.”

  “He’s after much bigger prey. Vahid thinks he can get the sultan in his pocket by warning him that he’s in danger, that the empire’s in danger, and then miraculously saving them.”

  “He already plays Vizier Köraslan like a puppet.” Omar danced his fingers around. “I wonder what he has on the old fellow.” He told Kamil about the kidnapping and murder last year of a young man, a friend of the vizier’s son. “There was never any evidence that he was kidnapped, but there are plenty of rumors that Köraslan’s son killed him.”

  Kamil frowned. “I can’t believe Vizier Köraslan would go along with a cover-up.”

  “Not even if the alternative was arresting his only son and losing his family’s reputation?”

  Kamil held up the telegram. “We have to warn the commune. Those people must leave immediately.”

  “Fine, we tell the socialists to pick up their tails and wag them out of here. But what about the local people?”

  “I’ll inform the governor, but I can’t imagine the army would attack peaceful towns like Trabzon or Ispir.” Kamil took out his map. He estimated that the town of Ispir was about seven days’ travel, not far from the site of the commune but separated by mountainous terrain. “All right,” he announced, putting the telegram aside. “We’ll stop here for a day, then push on to Ispir.”

  Omar picked up the telegram and read it again. “Did you see the date?” he asked, his voice tense. He held it out to Kamil. “This arrived a week ago. If the sultan sent troops, they could be here by now.”

  Kamil looked at the date, then called out, “Yakup.” When his servant appeared at the door, Kamil told him in an urgent voice, “We move out tomorrow at first light. Get everything ready. We’ll need animals and supplies.” He began to fold the map. “Omar, go tell the soldiers. We’ll need a local guide.”

  “Damn. I could have used some decent food,” Omar announced, patting his belly.

  “You, the tough old soldier!” Kamil teased him. “I thought you could live on boiled boot leather. You’ve become too fond of your wife’s cooking.”

  Omar didn’t respond and stalked out, leaving Kamil wondering whether the police chief had taken offense.

  LATER, OVER a meal of stewed lamb, Omar said between bites, “That explains all the goodwill and offers of free merchandise in the shops. The whole town has known about the contents of the telegram for a week. They’re expecting the worst. They probably think we’re the punitive expedition. People are practically throwing their valuables at me as I walk down the street.”

  Kamil was appalled. “I hope you didn’t accept any of it.”

  “Of course not,” Omar announced in an aggrieved voice, turning away. “What d
o you think I am?”

  “If we convince Gabriel and his associates to leave, that should solve the problem. They’re the ones Vahid has accused of starting a rebellion. It’s absurd. They’re socialists. Why would the Russians help the very people threatening the czar’s government?”

  “That’s why Vahid is calling them Armenian rebels and not mentioning the socialist part to the sultan. Our padishah isn’t dumb.”

  “That puts the rest of the Armenian population here in danger too.”

  “Didn’t you say the sultan was sending Kurdish irregulars?” Elif’s voice startled the men. They hadn’t heard her enter the room. She sat down and picked up a spoon. “You can’t put a boiled sweet in a child’s mouth and then hope to take it out again. The only thing that will stop men like that is a direct order from Istanbul, and even then…” She let the sentence dangle. “Some men just can’t let go.”

  Kamil and Omar stared at her.

  76

  ALMOST ALL THE COMMUNE gathered by the fire to listen to Apollo’s lecture. Tonight he was discussing the philosophy of fate versus free will. Vera sat outside the circle, wrapped in her quilt, watching Apollo’s profile and eloquent hands as he held his audience spellbound, as much with his charisma and melodious voice as by what he had to tell them. The lectures had begun informally. Whenever Apollo explained something, a group had gathered around him. Two weeks later, they had become regular events. Only Gabriel was absent, haunting the storerooms, chopping wood, like a spooked horse, too restless to think about anything other than survival. They had not made love since Vera’s arrival. He came to her every night after she had fallen asleep, curved himself around her, and held her close. When she woke, he was already gone, but she felt the trace of warmth where he had pressed against her. They had had almost no time to talk, beyond exchanging the most necessary information. She had begun to want him again. Her blood coursed more freely as his warmth and his presence, faint though it was, became familiar.

  There was a commotion at the door. The landlord, Levon, strode into the hall, followed by five tall, broad-backed men dressed in furs, their heads wrapped in red cloths.

  Gabriel hurried over to welcome them. Vera watched from the shadows.

  “This is my son, Taniel,” Levon announced, indicating the young man beside him. Father and son resembled each other, both sporting enormous mustaches, Levon’s yellow with age and nicotine, his son’s brown and luxuriant. Neither smiled, their hard eyes roaming the room. Vera could see that they weren’t impressed by what they saw.

  Gabriel seated them near the fire on the best quilts. The commune had neither carpets nor proper cushions. Victor and Apollo joined them, and the men talked for a while in Armenian. To Vera, the visitors’ tone seemed peremptory.

  A platter of rice and grilled game was placed before the men on a low tray, but they didn’t eat. This, Vera knew, was a bad sign.

  Instead Levon said, “We have news from Trabzon. There was an attempt on Sultan Abdulhamid’s life by Henchak Armenians. The sultan is going to attack us in revenge.” He fixed Gabriel with an accusing stare. “Why are we being punished for something that happened on the other side of the empire?” Levon pushed the tray aside and stood. The platter of food clattered to the floor. His voice rose accusingly. “We know who these Henchaks are.” He looked around the hall, where members of the commune were rising to their feet in alarm. “They’re right here, playing innocent farmers. Do you think we’re stupid shepherds, that we don’t know what’s going on in the world?”

  He marched over to a barrel top that was being used as a tray and held it up. “This is Henchak,” he said, pointing to the figure of an ax daubed in red on the wood. “You are Henchaks.” He dropped the tray and regarded the stunned faces in the room. “You are all fools. You are dead fools.”

  “Please calm down,” Gabriel said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I told you we are socialists. Some of us are Armenians, that’s true, but not Henchaks. Look at us.” He swept his hand about the hall. “We’re from everywhere.”

  Taniel approached Gabriel, his hand on his knife. “You’re lying.”

  Apollo conferred with Gabriel in rapid Russian.

  “Why are you speaking Russian?” Taniel demanded.

  Vera heard the click of rifles being cocked. Levon’s men had taken up positions at the back of the room.

  “Let’s just leave them to be killed, Father,” Taniel remarked over his shoulder. “Why bother with them?”

  “Because your grandfather says we should bother,” Levon snapped. “And because we need fighters.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gabriel insisted, hands outstretched. Vera could feel his despair leaking into the room and willed him to be strong, instead of reasoning with these men as if they were in someone’s living room in Geneva. “We have nothing to do with an assassination attempt. You must believe me.”

  Levon shrugged. “Whether you do or not, the end is the same. How many guns do you have?”

  “Why?”

  Levon spoke very slowly, emphasizing each word. “Because any hour now a contingent of Ottoman soldiers is going to ride into this valley and slaughter every one of you, and probably us. That’s what sending Kurdish troops has always meant.”

  Vera felt the hairs on her arms rise. She had no way of knowing it was Vahid, but she could feel him approaching the valley.

  “Tell him,” Apollo commanded Gabriel in Russian.

  “Nine hundred rifles and pistols.”

  Levon stared at him. “Were you planning an invasion?”

  “To protect ourselves,” Gabriel responded gruffly.

  “Why didn’t you tell us this before? You said you had only a few guns.”

  Gabriel indicated Apollo. “My friend brought them over the mountains two weeks ago.”

  Levon regarded Gabriel steadily. “I have no choice but to trust you, even though it sounds like lies. You’ll see that once this storm is upon us, we will require one another. There’s no other way. Ten years ago, war came to our villages. We recognize its face, and I feel its breath on my forehead again. Nine hundred guns are better than a hundred but are no guarantee of anything. There will be death.” He glanced around the room at the thin men and women in their shabby clothes huddled in nests of straw and quilts. “Fools,” he muttered. “A paradise of fools.”

  He motioned to his men to leave and told Gabriel, “We’ll be back at dawn tomorrow. Have all the guns ready to load. And remember, when we use them, we protect you too. Guns piled in a storeroom protect no one.” He turned again at the door and added, “It would be much better for us all if you left. Look at you. What are you doing here anyway?”

  After Levon and his entourage had gone, the hall was still. Fear had choked off everyone’s breath. That night, Vera was awake when Gabriel came and lay down behind her. She turned and placed her lips against his, and Gabriel crushed her in his arms.

  THE REFUGEES began coming before dawn. Vera heard a pounding on the main gate. She and Gabriel woke the others and ran out into the courtyard. A dozen women and children crowded into the yard, some screaming and pulling their hair, others weeping. One woman held together the tatters of her dress with one hand and gripped the arm of her daughter with the other. The little girl clung to her mother’s bare leg, which Vera saw was smeared with blood and coated in mud. The women had used head scarves to bind their wounds, the bright tatted edges strangely festive against limbs streaked with dirt and blood.

  “They’re from a village just up the valley,” Victor exclaimed, holding up a lamp. “I recognize the headman’s wife. They once asked me to come and look at a child who fell in the river.” He approached an old woman supported by a teenage girl at each elbow.

  “Siranoush Ana,” Victor said. “What has happened?”

  One of the girls at her side fixed Victor with a glare and spit at him. “This is your doing. You brought the evil eye to this valley. You brought the djinn, and now we’
ll all be dead.”

  “What nonsense are you spouting, girl?” Siranoush Ana panted, laboring to catch her breath. “They were Kurds.” She sat down in the dirt suddenly as if her legs had given way. Her daughters squatted beside her. “I’ll get you some water, Mama,” one said, and gave Vera a pleading look.

  Vera called over two women from the commune and asked them to pass out water. She brought Siranoush Ana a cup, then listened with growing horror while one of the daughters told them what had happened. Gabriel, Apollo, and the others stood nearby, their eyes straying to the barred gate.

  “They broke our neighbor’s door down,” the girl said, her voice shaking. “Baba took his gun and went outside. We locked the door, but they broke it and dragged us out. They ripped off Mama’s bracelets.” She looked toward her mother, who sat on the ground, hands clamped together in her lap, staring straight ahead. “They did other things.” The girl started to shake. Vera brought a blanket and draped it over her shoulders.

  Vera found it hard to look at anyone. It was as if her own experience in the basement of Akrep had been exposed on her face for anyone to see. She kept her eyes on the tatted flowers edging the girl’s head scarf.

  “Baba must be hiding. If I’d had a gun,” the girl wailed, “I could have fought them.” Vera put her arm around the girl. We’re all hiding, she thought miserably.

  She saw the headman’s wife grab Gabriel’s leg as he passed and, without looking up, say in a matter-of-fact voice, “Our men are dead. They bludgeoned them in the square. I saw the dead. I know their names. You can rely on me as a witness.”

  The old woman’s words made a powerful impression on Vera. She was so tired of feeling afraid. Drying her eyes, she rose to see what she could do for the other women.