The Abyssinian Proof: A Kamil Pasha Novel (Kamil Pasha Novels)

by Jenny White

  The other stolen items came from smaller mosques, churches, and synagogues all over the Old City. He assumed that these would be less carefully guarded than a venerable institution like the Fatih Mosque. But, he chided himself, on what basis was he making that assumption? What he had seen so far had convinced him that people at all levels of responsibility were careless with old things, probably believing them to be intrinsically less valuable than something new, even if they were made of precious materials.

  The descriptions of stolen items corresponded closely to a list sent by the London Metropolitan Police Force of oriental objects recently sold in that city, including the ruby and pearl chalice. That sale and several others had been handled by Rettingate and Sons, dealers in oriental antiques, located at 58 Smythe Street in South Kensington. A good address near Kensington Gardens and the museum, Kamil noted. He remembered elegant rows of brick and stucco houses with black-lacquered doors and polished brass knockers. Perhaps the tent of facts could be anchored at that end. He penned a telegram to Detective Inspector Joseph Ormond, his contact at the Metropolitan Police, or as it was commonly known, Scotland Yard.

  In the letter accompanying the list, Ormond had suggested Kamil contact Magnus Owen, the cultural attaché at the British Embassy in Istanbul. Kamil wrote a note requesting an appointment with Owen and gave it to Abdullah to deliver to the embassy, only minutes away.

  Half an hour later, the door to the office flew open and an enormous man with a heavy beard fell into the room. With one hand, he extricated himself from Abdullah’s grip, with the other he dragged Avi, who squirmed in pain.

  Kamil jumped to his feet and bellowed, “Drop that child right now. What is the meaning of this?”

  The man stopped but didn’t loosen his grip. Abdullah renewed his attempt to pull the stranger from the room.

  “Let the boy go or I’ll have you arrested.”

  Reluctantly, the man complied. Trouble seemed to stick to this boy like metal filings to a magnet, Kamil thought irritably. He noticed that the man’s sash protruded at the side, indicating a weapon, most likely a long-handled knife. With a stealthy flick of his fingers, he slid open a drawer, putting his Colt revolver within easy reach.

  “Abdullah, take the boy out.”

  Abdullah looked doubtfully at the intruder, but did as he was told. He left the door open.

  “Your name?”

  “The boy belongs to me,” the man said in the thick accent of Istanbul’s back streets. His hands were scarred and his fingernails blackened. He took a wrestler’s pose, feet apart, arms loose at his side.

  “Your name?” Kamil repeated angrily. He smelled anise; the man had been drinking raki.

  “Mustafa,” he muttered grudgingly.

  “What do you mean, the boy belongs to you?”

  “He works for me. His father gave him to me.” Mustafa became animated, gesturing with his hands. He took a step toward Kamil. “I have the agreement.” He reached into his vest, pulled out a tattered piece of paper, and held it out to Kamil. “He signed it and I signed it.”

  Kamil took it and read it. “This is a bill of sale for a young sheep,” he said finally. “It says you paid five hundred kurush for it. That’s quite a sum for a sheep.” There were two names at the bottom, Mustafa the Tanner and another name that was illegible, with an X penned under each.

  Mustafa looked stunned. “That can’t be. Let me see.” He reached over the desk and snatched the paper from Kamil’s hand. He looked at it intently, but it was clear to Kamil that the man couldn’t read. He looked at Kamil helplessly. “I paid him for an apprentice.”

  “Didn’t you go through your guild?” The tanner’s guild regulated the hiring and training of apprentices.

  Mustafa shifted nervously. “I needed the boy to do some extra work. It wasn’t really an apprenticeship.”

  Most likely something dangerous, Kamil thought, something the guild wouldn’t agree to. Tanners worked with caustic chemicals that ate the flesh from hides and from the workers’ hands. The stench of drying hides stung the eyes and throats of residents within a wide radius of the tanning sheds just outside the city wall.

  “You can’t purchase a free subject of the empire. The boy isn’t a slave. And as far as I know, both his parents are deceased.”

  Mustafa looked surprised, then said, with a sly smile revealing broken and blackened teeth, “So he needs a home. I can give the poor orphan a home.”

  “He has a home. And I’m going to report this to your guild to make sure you don’t use up any of your other boys like kindling. You can go.”

  The man glowered at Kamil, then turned and stomped angrily out the door.

  Kamil heard a mutter, followed by a sharp scream of pain. He ran to the door and saw Avi collapsed in a heap on the floor, blood streaming from his head. Abdullah and Ibrahim were holding on to the bearded giant as more men ran toward them to help. But with a shrug of his massive shoulders, Mustafa broke free and ran away.

  “Let him go,” Kamil called to Abdullah. “I know who he is. Help me with the boy.”

  They laid Avi on the divan. Kamil watched while Abdullah washed and bandaged the deep gash on the boy’s forehead where Mustafa had hit him with the hilt of his knife. When Avi opened his eyes, he found Kamil sitting next to him, reading.

  “Welcome back, my son,” Kamil said. His relief ran deep, but currents of anxiety still pulsed through him. He crossed his arms. Is this what people feel, he wondered, when they have children? That life can never again be taken for granted and you can never know peace? It seemed a precarious way to live.

  Avi smiled weakly. His eyes were bloodshot. When he tried to move his head, he whimpered in pain.

  “When you’re well enough to move, we’ll send you back to Amalia Teyze in a carriage.”

  Avi frowned and tried to shake his head.

  “Don’t worry. When you’re well, you can come back.”

  Tears spilled down Avi’s cheeks. “She’s dead.”

  Kamil paused. “Who’s dead?”

  “Amalia Teyze,” Avi whispered. “I didn’t know she was sick,” he cried. “I could have done something.”

  This news didn’t surprise Kamil, who already suspected something of the kind. But surely another family in the village would have taken the boy in. “Bashin sagholsun, my condolences, son. There’s nothing you could have done. These things just happen. Tell me, where did you stay after that?”

  “One of the men from the village took me to Tanner Mustafa and told me I had to work for him. But he beat me and I ran away. I’m sorry, bey. I’m sorry I lied to you. I was afraid you’d send me back there.” His thin body shook. “Please don’t send me back.”

  Kamil fought down his anger. He would see to it that both sides of this devil’s bargain would regret it. He took out a linen handkerchief and wiped the boy’s face. “Don’t worry. You’re not going back. We’ll find you a place in the apprentices’ quarters. But first you need to get better.” He placed his hand on Avi’s hot cheek and held it there, thinking. Then he rose and told Abdullah to get a carriage ready.

  IT WAS A short ride to his sister Feride’s mansion in the suburb of Nishantashou. The carriage swayed to a halt inside the stone gate, and three men dressed in scarlet and blue livery ran to greet him. The ambition of his brother-in-law, Huseyin, was emblazoned even on the backs of his servants, Kamil thought sourly as he gave them instructions to carry Avi inside. Kamil disliked his self-centered brother-inlaw, a distant cousin and minor member of the royal family whose exact function in the palace bureaucracy was unclear.

  Feride greeted him in the reception hall, a massive room decorated in the European style. Kamil thought the ropes of gilded plaster and oil paintings of fruit and dead pheasants an abomination of taste. He was certain it was Huseyin who had insisted on this décor. In contrast to the room, Feride had the calm demeanor and classical lines of a Roman marble. Her face was a long, pale oval, with a straight nose and thin lips that gave her an
air of repose. As always, she was fashionably but simply dressed. A light silk scarf edged in tiny pearls fluttered from her head. He never understood why she had agreed to marry Huseyin against his advice when she had had her choice of men of good family seeking her hand.

  Feride smiled happily and held out her hands to Kamil. “My dear brother, what a wonderful surprise.”

  He kissed Feride’s cheeks. “You’re looking well, Ferosh,” he lied, using the affectionate form of her name. The strain of her marriage and their father’s suicide had begun to show. Two deep lines had settled permanently above her nose, the beginnings of sorrow on her otherwise flawless face. He reached up and gently brushed away a strand of hair, then kissed her forehead. He was rewarded with a brilliant smile that made her look young again.

  “You’ll stay for lunch, won’t you?” she pleaded.

  The events of that morning were still fresh in his mind and he did not want to spend precious time in idle conversation, but not wishing to disappoint Feride, he acquiesced. He also wanted to ask Huseyin about Hamdi Bey.

  He heard a distant patter of feet and squatted, waiting for his seven-year-old twin nieces to appear. They flew into the room, matching flurries of white and blue, and threw themselves into his arms. He kissed their red hair and breathed in the scent of soap and innocence. Feride pried them away and sent them to tell the cook to add a place at the table.

  “Ferosh,” Kamil said, “I’ve brought you a gift, another child. A boy, this time.”

  Feride looked shocked, then laughed. “You’re always teasing me. I can’t wait for the day when you really will be married and bring your children to see me. When will that be, my wild-blooded brother?”

  “I’m serious. But he’s not mine.”

  “Whose then?”

  “An orphan.” He told her about Avi. He had considered bringing the boy to his house, but thought Avi might benefit from staying in a family with other children.

  “The poor child,” she exclaimed. “Of course he can stay here.”

  She swung her arms around wildly. “There’s enough room here for an entire city of boys.”

  Feride gestured to a servant waiting at a discreet distance and consulted with her. The woman led them to the servants’ quarters. There, they found Avi on a mattress under a quilt with a matronly servant squatting beside him, spooning broth into his mouth from a bowl. When Avi saw Kamil, he relaxed.

  “This is Feride Hanoum, my sister.”

  His nieces peered around his legs. “And these are her daughters, Alev and Yasemin.”

  The girls giggled.

  “You’re welcome in my house,” Feride said, touching Avi’s bandage and lifting the quilt. She turned to the woman. “Bathe him and get him some clothes. And fetch the surgeon. This bandage needs to be changed.”

  “You’ll be well treated here, Avi,” Kamil said softly. “When you’re feeling better, I’ll expect you back at your post.”

  Feride looked at her brother in surprise.

  Avi struggled to keep his eyes open, smiled, then fell asleep. The twins crept close and kept watch over him.

  “YOU’RE FULL OF surprises today, dear brother,” Feride said when they were in the corridor. “I heard the way you spoke to that boy. You care about him, don’t you?”

  “I suppose so.”

  She beamed at him. “It’s a start. We’ll domesticate you eventually. Come along. I have a surprise for you too.”

  “Elif is a distant cousin of Huseyin’s from Macedonia,” Feride explained, as they made their way back to the main part of the house. “She landed on our doorstep five days ago, as thin and dirty as a street urchin. And as tough. I can’t believe what she has been through. I wouldn’t have been able to survive it.”

  “I think you’d be surprised at how tough you are.”

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head. “They shot her husband right in front of her and then, when she was fleeing, bandits killed her five-year-old son and stole her carriage. Somehow she got hold of a horse and rode until she arrived here. What amazes me is that she seems so kind and considerate. I could never be so pleasant if I had gone through all that.”

  Kamil thought, that being pleasant was a survival strategy. The woman probably had nowhere else to go.

  He let Feride draw him into the dining room.

  “Where have you been?” Huseyin growled when he saw Feride, waving her in with one large, pale hand.

  Face flushed, Huseyin sat at the head of a long table that was set with silver and fine china. He wore a frock coat with a wide blue sash and a large diamond starburst order on his chest. His thick neck was encased in a starched collar. Kamil found the medal to be an affectation when worn at lunch with one’s own family. The woman sitting by Huseyin was partly obscured by a silver candelabra.

  Spying Kamil, Huseyin jumped to his feet and hurried over. “Brother-in-law, what a surprise.” He grasped Kamil by the shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks. He smelled of expensive French cologne. “What are you doing away from the court in the middle of the day?” He gasped before each sentence, as if he couldn’t get enough air. “Did we commit a murder or did Nizam Pasha fire you?”

  For Feride’s sake, Kamil forced himself to smile.

  “Not yet, Huseyin, but you’ll be the first to know.”

  Huseyin laughed too heartily and pounded Kamil on the shoulder. “Come and sit.” He pulled out a chair next to his.

  The woman turned her head toward Feride and a smile appeared on his sister’s face. Kamil liked Elif already. He saw opposite him a delicate blond woman with chin-length hair and clear blue eyes. She looked tired and thin. The planes of her face were angular, her cheeks hollow, and there were deep circles under her eyes. She appeared to be in her late twenties, although her ordeal might have aged her. A small silk kerchief was pinned to the top of her head, almost as an afterthought, concealing little. Her face and hands were tanned like a peasant’s, but her neck was pale.

  There was something intriguing and elusive about her. She wore no jewelry and her vest was unornamented. Even the kerchief on her head didn’t have the usual fringe. She was trembling. Kamil remembered what Feride had told him about the young woman’s experiences. He had heard stories about the fighting in the Balkans, some brutal beyond his imagining. He thought again of Marko’s childish face as he’d pulled the trigger. How much horror the boy must have seen to have met death so serenely.

  Feride watched him, and he thought he saw an element of calculation enter her eyes.

  “Kamil, this is Elif.” She turned to Elif, who sat with her eyes down, hands clasped tightly in her lap. “I’ve been telling Kamil about you.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Elif Hanoum.”

  Elif nodded her head in acknowledgment, but said nothing.

  Servants bustled around the table, filling everyone’s bowls with fragrant leek soup. Kamil realized he was hungry.

  “Watch out, Elif. Feride’s mission in life is to get her brother married off.” Huseyin pointed his spoon at Kamil. “You’re better off a bachelor. Wives are trouble.” He was already halfway through his soup.

  Feride placed her hand briefly on Elif’s arm, then pretended to busy herself with her food.

  Elif, Kamil noticed, was not eating. He caught her looking at him before her eyes slid away. “Elif Hanoum, Feride told me something about your tragedies and difficult journey. May the worst be over.”

  Elif inclined her head, but still said nothing.

  “It will be,” Huseyin grumbled, waving his spoon, “now that Macedonia has an Ottoman governor again. I don’t know how the Russians managed to grab it from us ten years ago, but I tell you, it won’t happen again. They’re like magpies, snatching territory here and there. Greater Bulgaria. What the hell is that, I ask you? It’s a good thing we got Macedonia back. Now at least there’s a chance it’ll become civilized. A slim chance.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Kamil responded, thinking of Marko. “The Christians of
Macedonia have tasted independence. It’s not surprising that they feel betrayed—by their own leaders, by the Russians who gave them back to us, and by the British who brokered the deal. One people’s just cause is another’s lost territory.”

  “We gave them a Christian governor, for Allah’s sake. What more do they want?”

  “They want control over their own land. They feel betrayed and now they’re attacking their Muslim neighbors. Have you seen the refugees in the streets?”

  Huseyin nodded. “I’ve seen them, but I tell you the Christians are busy killing each other too. Take the Bulgarians. They had Macedonia for only the briefest moment, but to them, that still makes it part of Bulgaria. Now they cut out the tongue of anyone who even says the word Macedonia.”

  Feride was puzzled. “But surely the Bulgarians are Christians.”

  “Bravo, my dear. The Bulgarian Christian guerillas are fighting the Macedonian Christian militias. I say let them kill each other and save the governor the trouble.”

  “How can you say that?” Elif cried out in an anguished voice. “You have no idea what it’s like there. Ordinary people are caught in the middle and slaughtered like sheep.”

  “Couldn’t our army protect you?” Feride asked with concern.

  Elif’s eyes flew up and met Kamil’s. In their blue depths he saw an ocean of grief. “The Ottoman army isn’t blameless,” she said softly.

  “We should just give the province up.” Huseyin gestured to a servant to refill his raki glass. “We don’t have control over it anymore. It’s just a hole in our pocket.”

  “You can’t let the province go now.” Elif’s voice was shrill. “Thousands of people would be killed.”

  “What do I care about Christians who want to kill each other. Let them, I say.” He shrugged. “Whoever’s left can try to run things without our help. They’re so primitive, they wouldn’t know how to govern themselves. They’ll be barking in the trees like monkeys.” He chuckled, spearing a piece of meat. “Monkeys,” he repeated, shaking his head.