by Jenny White
Suddenly Omar stopped and pulled out his revolver. Kamil and Ali followed suit. The light picked out the whites of Rejep’s eyes. He looked very young and frightened.
“What is it?”
“Over there. See them?” Omar whispered, pointing.
Just beyond the edge of the light, Kamil could make out what appeared to be a group of men facing them only meters away. He heard Rejep’s sharp intake of breath and Ali whispering to him to stay calm.
Kamil signaled to Omar, then stepped sideways into the darkness. He moved quickly and soundlessly toward the waiting men while Omar held the light in their eyes.
Suddenly, one of the figures toppled over.
“They’re dummies.” Kamil walked into the circle of light, pulling one of the figures behind him, its cloth body black with mold, straw and wool swelling through its disintegrating skin. “Dressmaker’s forms. Look, this one still has scraps of some kind of uniform on it.”
Omar started laughing, the sound multiplying as he did.
“Quiet,” Kamil commanded. “If there are men around, they can hear us.”
Suddenly one of the figures moved its head. An enormous rat glared at them before hurling itself from its perch. Its piercing cry rattled Rejep, who whispered to Ali in a frightened voice, “Maybe it’s like the magistrate says. Maybe it’d be better to come during the day. I heard some of these rats eat children.”
“Go on, you drag tail,” Ali teased him, pushing him ahead. “That’s a rat and you’re a man.”
Rejep moved closer to Omar, who held the lamp. Rats scuffled close by, but Kamil thought the men all felt easier now, as if their laughter had sucked the poison from the night.
Rejep turned around to Ali, smiling. “That was some rat,” he chuckled. But before he could finish, he stumbled to a halt and said Ali’s name in a breathless, quizzical tone. “Come on, don’t joke with me like that.”
“What is it, Rejep?” Kamil asked.
Omar had forged ahead and the edge of the lamplight receded from them.
“Omar,” Kamil called in an urgent whisper. “Omar.”
Omar turned and held up his lamp. “What?”
“Ali’s gone.” Rejep’s voice trembled.
Omar walked back to them. “What do you mean, gone?”
“Gone. He was here a second ago. Now he’s gone.”
Omar and Kamil held their revolvers ready. Omar held the lamp high as they searched the room, calling Ali’s name, but the only response was the squeak and scrabble of rats. The darkness seemed to swallow the light.
Rejep followed behind. “They took him,” he said in a wavering voice. “It’s my fault. I should have kept him in my sight. I looked away and now he’s gone. It’s my fault.” Rejep raised his gun with a shaking hand. “They’re going to kill him,” he cried. Then he pulled the trigger.
The report shattered the air with a violent sound that filled the basement and rolled over them from all directions like a physical force.
“Allah protect us,” Omar exclaimed.
Kamil peered intently into the darkness, ears alert for any movement.
Rejep was on his knees, eyes wild, breathing raggedly, his revolver fallen to the floor.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he repeated.
Omar took his collar and yanked him to his feet. “Get up,” he bellowed. “What are you, a virgin? I’ll fuck you if that’s what you need. Get up like a man. Take your gun.”
Still trembling, Rejep reached down for his gun, failed to find his holster, so stuck it in his waistband.
Omar shook his head. “Now we’re all deaf,” he snarled.
They continued the search for Ali, calling his name. Finally, Kamil had had enough. “We’re getting out. We need more light and we need help,” he said in frustration. “Give me the lamp.”
Omar hesitated, then handed it over.
“Let’s go,” Kamil said curtly. “Watch our backs.”
Kamil retraced their steps, orienting himself with difficulty by the pillars and piles of bricks and machines, until he saw the corridor. Relieved, he ran along it, then pushed through the door and onto the pier. It was dark. The other lamp was gone. So were the prisoners and the two guards.
Omar cursed. “They must have come from the station and taken the prisoners. Where are the extra men?”
Kamil laid a warning hand on Omar’s arm and pointed to the pier at their feet. Pieces of cut rope snaked across the wood. They exchanged a sharp look.
Kamil drew his gun once more and gestured to Omar to follow him to the end of the pier. Kamil held the lamp out over the water. The boat was gone. He leaned over farther. Bobbing against the pilings of the pier were the bodies of the two policemen.
Kamil wondered how long they had been in the basement. It seemed like forever but he thought it had only been a few minutes.
Omar walked up to the shaking Rejep and took him by the collar. “Take one of the horses from the marble works and ride as fast as you can to Oun Kapanou station and get help. That’s the closest station. Don’t let anyone there put you off, you scrawny-assed bastard. Overturn their card table if you have to. Understand? Tell them there are two dead policemen and there may be more if they don’t get their asses over here. Do you think you can do that?”
Kamil could see from Rejep’s face that anger was beginning to displace his fear. Kamil was furious at Omar for insisting on this disastrous adventure, but at some level he had to admire the police chief’s understanding of men.
When Rejep was gone, Kamil gave Omar his revolver, took off his jacket, and let himself fall into the water. It enfolded him, absolving him for a moment of the need for thought. His boots clung to his legs like a second skin and seemed to buoy him. Then his head broke the surface and he found his nose just a hand’s breadth away from the younger man’s curly hair. He tucked the man under his arm and dragged him through the water to the wharf, where Omar waited to pull him onto the flagstones. Kamil went back for the second man. He saw the body of the drowned smuggler snagged under the pier, but decided to let the police fish him out.
They laid the policemen out in the lamplight. They were handsome men, Kamil thought. Both wore slim gold bands. Their wives might have admired them like this in sleep, their faces defenseless, easier to adore. He remembered the younger man’s smile and he imagined that they had been happy, rich in life if not in wealth. Perhaps they had children. He pictured a young black-eyed boy with curly hair and an easy smile and felt inexpressably sad.
Omar shook his head, clicked his tongue, and pointed to the single slash in each man’s uniform just above the heart. “Perfect cut.”
A master of his art admiring the handiwork of another, Kamil thought angrily. If Omar hadn’t stubbornly insisted on looking for that tunnel, his men would still be alive. But then he saw Omar’s face and reconsidered his wrath. The police chief looked harrowed.
“Stupid,” Omar whispered harshly to himself. “Stupid to risk the lives of my men. I would never have done that in the war. For what? So I could prove there was a tunnel. Of course, there’s a tunnel. Allah. Allah is the enemy of pride.”
“That’s probably where they took Ali,” Kamil pointed out in a neutral voice, not trusting himself to say more.
He heard a commotion and looked around to see Rejep jump from his horse and run toward them, Shishko at his heels with the original backup force. They were too late, Kamil thought.
DOZENS OF POLICEMEN with lamps and torches swarmed through the basement of the Tobacco Works, islands of light floating through the darkness.
“It’s got to be here,” Omar shouted, flinging debris aside. “I know it’s here. It has to be here.”
Kamil wiped his face and walked over to him. Omar sagged suddenly, as if the puppet master had dropped his strings.
“We’ve gone over every fingernail’s worth of this wall. Nothing. So the entrance has to be through the floor, but look at the size of this place.” Omar swept his hand around. “And it�
��s full of junk. We’d need an army to look under everything.”
“Let’s keep looking,” Kamil responded tiredly, walking over to a large, draped object. He pulled at the cloth but had to retreat, choking on the dust he had dislodged. Why couldn’t they find the tunnel entrance? he berated himself. Ali hadn’t just disappeared into the ground. Or had he? Kamil looked down at the patchwork of cracked marble and grimy stone slabs that extended beneath his feet.
“You know, the number two rule in the army is to watch out for your men.” Omar’s eyes were red and ferile, like a rat. “You never leave one behind.”
“What’s number one?”
“Stay alive, no matter what.”
Those two rules contradicted each other, Kamil thought, but didn’t say anything.
He surveyed the enormous space. “We’ll never find him this way. Let’s get a few hours of rest. Then we can think what to do next.”
“Rest,” Omar spat. “You go. I’m staying.”
“The men will continue the search, Omar,” Kamil said sternly. “You’ve only got two hands and two eyes. Let the men do their job. They’re just as anxious to find him as we are.”
DJOUBALOU BOULEVARD was unrecognizable in the daylight when he and Omar emerged. Kamil checked his watch and realized it was almost noon. They rode past the scrap-iron yard. Farther along, storefronts were festooned with painted signs, and displays of wares spilled from doorways. Kamil found the color and motion of everyday life somehow obscene, as if the world should be in mourning for the men lost that night.
He left Omar at the police station in Oun Kapanou Square. Men stood in small groups in the yard, smoking and looking anxiously toward the street. Kamil pushed his horse through the crowd in the square and crossed the Old Bridge, his eyes on the water as if he expected to find Ali there.
KAMIL RODE SLOWLY along the crest of the hill, past the cypresses of the Turkish cemetery and the municipal gardens. His clothes had almost dried but felt clammy. Some distance behind him another rider followed. Kamil had first noticed him crossing the Old Bridge at Oun Kapanou, and since then he had kept glancing back, keeping the rider in his sight, his hand near his gun.
Kamil traversed the shadow of the British Embassy’s high wall and turned down Hamal Bashou Street, where he dismounted, leaving his horse in the care of a boy. He stepped into the mirror-lined dimness of the Brasserie Europe and sank into a chair in the corner, far from the other diners and facing the wall. Recognizing Kamil, the waiter brought him a glass of water, then another when he drank the first down.
Just as Kamil expected, after a few moments the man who had been following him entered. Before the man’s eyes could adjust to the gloom, Kamil had sized him up in the mirror. He was long-limbed, with black hair and a mustache, and was wearing a fez, Frankish trousers, and a short, tight jacket. His thick calves and shoulders and thin joints gave him the appearance of a large articulated insect. Kamil didn’t recognize him, but felt sure the man had followed him from the Tobacco Works. By the time the man’s eyes found him, Kamil was engrossed in the menu.
Kamil took his time eating a generous portion of lamb nested in smoked eggplant puree. When he emerged into the street, his head was clear again. He walked his horse the rest of the way to the court building, aware of the man still following a short distance behind.
AT THE COURTHOUSE, Kamil took out his watch and placed it on his desk. It wasn’t fifteen minutes before Abdullah knocked and announced a visitor who wished to speak with him about a case. Kamil slid his desk drawer open and sat back as the man walked into his office.
“Good afternoon, Magistrate. My name is Remzi.” His voice rasped and he continually cleared his throat. Several of his front teeth were missing and the rest were stained a dark brown.
“Please sit.” Kamil motioned toward the chair in front of his desk, but the man remained standing. He looked around the office carefully, as if systematically noting potential weapons and exits. Kamil wondered what his real name was.
“A bird sang to me about what happened last night.”
“Pardon?”
“Last night. At the Tobacco Works.”
“What do you mean? What happened?”
“The police pushed one of my friends into the water and he died.” The man looked genuinely sad, Kamil thought. Even thieves mourn friends.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Kamil noted that the dead friend couldn’t have told Remzi what happened. Either Remzi had been there himself or the escaped smugglers had told him. “Why are you here?”
The man laughed dryly as if Kamil had told a joke. “I always go right to the top.”
“Where do you live, Remzi?” Kamil was in no mood to play games.
“Here and there.”
“If you want me to help you,” he said angrily, “I need to know who I’m dealing with. Your address?”
“I live in Fatih.”
He sat back in his chair and regarded Remzi levelly. “What do you want?”
As if Kamil had given him a cue, Remzi sat down in the chair before Kamil’s desk. He leaned back with a knowing smile on his face, his unfortunate friend forgotten. “I’m here to pay my taxes.”
“What? Don’t waste my time.” Kamil wondered where this elaborate ruse was leading.
“I’m a good citizen,” Remzi said slyly. “I pay my taxes, then I get taken care of. That’s the deal.”
“What are you talking about?”
“My friend, he always said, ‘Go right to the top.’”
“What do you want?” Kamil kept his exasperation in check. This man knew the smugglers—he was probably one of them. The bit must be inserted slowly so he didn’t buck.
Remzi seemed to struggle with himself, perhaps wondering if he should leave, but then a confident look appeared on his face. He took a small, heavy sack from his pocket and placed it on Kamil’s desk. “Go ahead and take a peek, Magistrate, and tell me if this isn’t the best deal you’ve been offered in a while.”
“What is it?” Kamil asked.
“My taxes. Come on, Magistrate. Take it or leave it.” He showed his stained teeth. “I’ve never yet seen anyone leave it.”
Kamil leaned forward threateningly, his hand near his desk drawer. “Are you calling a magistrate of the court a thief?”
Abdullah opened the door and looked in inquiringly, but Kamil waved him away.
“No, Your Honor. No.” Remzi looked flustered. “Just taxes.”
Kamil pulled the sack over and looked inside. It was full of gold lira coins, a year’s salary for an official. He pushed the sack back to the middle of the desk.
“I’m asking you for the last time. What do you want?”
“Leave your hands off our business.”
When Kamil opened his mouth, the man interrupted. “Don’t go asking what business, as if you’re some innocent virgin. We do business like anybody else and you have no right busting us up.”
“Smuggling isn’t business. It’s a crime.”
“Oh, and what’s this?” Remzi indicated the sack with a dirty hand.
“I haven’t accepted it.”
“Allah save us from whores who play virgins,” Remzi grumbled and got to his feet.
Kamil repressed his desire to smash his fist into the man’s face and then clap him in irons. He needed more information. “Sit,” he commanded.
Remzi was reluctant but sat back down. The sack of gold coins lay unacknowledged and unclaimed on the desk between them.
“What do you ‘export’?”
“The usual stuff,” Remzi answered grudgingly.
“Tobacco? Gold? Jewels? What?”
“Not our customers. We’ve got what you call,” he drew the words out, “a steady clientele.”
“And who is that?”
Remzi didn’t answer.
Kamil smiled pleasantly. “Of course. Your professional discretion is admirable. What is it, then, that you’d like me to avert my eyes from? I have to know what it is, don�
��t I, so I know what I’m not seeing.”
He could see Remzi’s mind frantically winnowing what could be told from what could not.
“My boss does business in antiques. Strictly legit.”
“Of course.” Kamil leaned back comfortably.
“There are regular shipments and he doesn’t want them disrupted.”
“Of course not.”
“So you keep the police off our backs.”
“At the Tobacco Works?”
“Not just there,” Remzi responded petulantly.
“Well, you have to tell me where,” Kamil said reasonably. “Otherwise, how am I supposed to keep the police away?”
“There’s a mark on the stuff. You tell them whenever they see the mark, they let the shipment go through. You tell them it’s a legit shipment.” He pulled out a piece of paper and showed it to Kamil. It was the same mark as the one on the body at the Fatih station.
Kamil suddenly remembered some lines burned into the top of the chest of antiquities they had found behind the Tobacco Works. He hadn’t realized their significance.
“The mark refers to your master?”
“Yes, no. I mean, it’s his mark.”
“So let me get this straight. You want me to tell the police all over Istanbul to let through any shipment carrying this mark?”
“Now you’ve got it.”
“What makes you think I have such a wide reach or that anyone would listen to me?”
Remzi looked incredulous. “You’re the magistrate,” he said. “And you’re a goddamned pasha. What do you think?”
It worried Kamil that the man knew he was titled. Did they also know where he lived?
“Can you narrow the area down? Istanbul is a big city. I could do a better job if I knew where to concentrate my efforts. My resources aren’t unlimited.”
