“Oh, no, I didn’t mean to imply she’s that ill.” He took another look at Balkis’s face and felt her forehead. “Nothing like that.”
“Then please get some sleep yourself, Constantine. Will you come by in the morning and check on her?”
“Of course,” he beamed. “Anything. Anything at all.”
Saba laid her hand on his arm. “Thank you.”
Courtidis was overcome with confusion. He bowed himself backward out of the room as if she were a sultana. When he was gone, Saba vowed not to think badly of him anymore. He was kind and generous. She wished Amida had some of his qualities.
Saba wondered uneasily why Amida was so disloyal to his family. Why such unnatural feelings in a son? Amida had been gone for a long time, nearly nine years, but that didn’t absolve him of the responsibility to act decently toward his mother. She remembered Amida as a quiet, shy boy. Their mother had doted on him, even more than on her daughter. Saba remembered the fruit ice, but without rancor. Had something happened at the monastery to change him?
They would have to learn to work together. If there was a key to understanding her brother, she was determined she would find it.
9
At one in the morning, Kamil rode across the Old Bridge to Oun Kapanou Square. Against a backdrop of enormous stone warehouses and shuttered shops, the only light came from a few fires around which slumped shadowy figures. They were probably peasants from the countryside, Kamil thought, looking for work and huddled together for safety in the square near the police station. He was relieved and excited to be taking action again, although he hoped that this night would end better than the last. Marko’s face remained vivid in his mind.
Kamil dismounted and gave the reins of his horse to a policeman on guard by the station door. Inside, six men sat around a table, playing cards. The table was littered with half-full tea glasses, a bowl of cigarette butts, and the remains of a meal.
“You’re killing me.” Omar threw his cards on the table and pushed back his chair. “Tea, Magistrate? Are you hungry?”
The other men ignored him and concentrated on their game.
When Kamil tipped his chin to indicate no, Omar asked, “Are you armed?”
“Of course.”
“Let’s go, then.”
They rode slowly along Djoubalou Boulevard, the padded feet of their horses making almost no sound. The line of shops gave way to warehouses and depots. In the dark, Kamil couldn’t read their signs, but knew they contained the empire’s stocks of oil, flour, tobacco, and other export goods. To his left stretched a long open lot where heaps of scrap iron made fantastical shapes in the dark.
“I told you our ear in Charshamba heard that a big shipment of antiquities is going out tonight,” Omar said in a low voice. “But we don’t know where they’re loading. One possibility is the wharf behind the Ottoman Tobacco Works.” He spat on the ground. “Ever since the French took over the tobacco monopoly, all we get is shit.”
Kamil agreed. “I heard that the Greeks and Armenians have moved their factories to Egypt.”
“Can’t blame them. The women work for less money there. Although I hear someone reads to them while they roll cigarettes.”
“Reads to them?”
“Beats me. Keeps their fingers limber?” Omar threw out with a snort. “My cousin was stationed there. Saw it with his own eyes. Someone reading newspapers out loud to the workers. I think it’s a bad idea. Limbers up their minds too, never a good thing in a woman.” He smiled broadly and smoothed his mustache with his forefinger. “They should be limber elsewhere.”
“The Tobacco Works next to the Golden Horn, isn’t that the office where they print the tax stamps? It must be well guarded.” Kamil remembered a hulking brick building with large windows overlooking the water.
“That’s right. The actual depot is on Hissar Altou Street. But the smugglers aren’t interested in the offices. There are archways leading from the basement of the Tobacco Works to the pier. No guards back there. We think the basement connects to a tunnel. Someday, I’d like to see where the other end comes out, but the French don’t appreciate the police poking around in their basements unless we can prove there’s a reason.”
“But if you know stolen goods are coming through there, why haven’t you raided it?”
“We were waiting for a big shipment. Otherwise, we’d have wasted good knowledge on small results. By the will of Allah, tonight we’ll have our proof.”
When they came to a marble depot, Omar pulled his horse up next to Kamil’s and whispered, “From here, we go on foot.” He pursed his lips and cooed like a dove. Five men in uniform emerged from behind the marble slabs, like Greek statues coming to life. All of them were armed and two carried large lamps. Kamil recognized Ali from the Fatih station and nodded to him. Ali grinned, clearly pleased that Kamil remembered him.
One of the policemen was so young that he had only black down above his lips instead of a mustache, although his white, bony wrists had outgrown the sleeves of his uniform. Ali seemed to have taken the young man under his instruction. Kamil heard him explain in a low voice, “Rejep, never take your gun out unless you’re willing to use it. If you hesitate, someone will get it away from you and then use it against you. Just keep your eyes open and your gun tucked away unless the chief tells you otherwise.”
One of the other three men was short and stout like a barrel, but unexpectedly agile. The other two were unremarkable, short and slim like many local men. If Kamil had been able to see their features more clearly, he would have expected gaunt, prematurely old faces, perhaps some missing teeth, incongruously youthful dark eyes, and luxuriant mustaches.
With Omar and Kamil in front, the group made its way single-file down an alley leading to the port, keeping close to the wall of the depot. There was no moon and the stars were obscured by clouds. Kamil’s world consisted of the sound of his own heartbeat and the bulk, felt rather than seen, of Omar before him.
They reached the wooden pier and turned left, keeping close to the enormous warehouse gates. To their right, the thick, almost tangible blackness of night on water pressed against them.
Suddenly, Kamil felt the spring of wood give way to flagstones beneath his feet.
Omar stopped and put his lips to Kamil’s ear, “This is the wharf. There’s another pier straight ahead.”
Kamil nudged him and pointed to a pinprick of light that had appeared on the water.
The light went out. They watched and waited until it blinked again. Suddenly, in front of them a door opened, emitting a dim light, but was shut again almost immediately. They heard scurrying sounds, footsteps on wood, scraping as if a heavy object were being dragged toward the water. Finally, the noises stopped and low voices drifted toward them from the pier.
His senses fully alert and his heart racing, Kamil whispered to Omar. “Now.”
As Omar passed the signal to his men, Kamil calmed his breathing. Cloaked in darkness, he crept silently forward onto the pier, followed by Omar and the five men.
When the voices were close by, Omar gave another signal and the two policemen quickly lit their lamps and rushed forward, illuminating the scene: a rowboat in the water piled high with sacks and a large wooden chest. A man balanced in the boat, securing the load. Three men on the pier were momentarily blinded by the sudden brilliance. Kamil ran past them and sprang onto the man in the boat. As they struggled, the boat rocked wildly. The other smugglers turned and ran along the pier with Omar and the policemen right behind them, shouting at them to stop. Panicked, one of the smugglers jumped into the water. Kamil heard him struggle, then call for help. Kamil realized that the man couldn’t swim.
Kamil subdued the man in the rowboat and used a piece of rope to tie his hands, then threw a length of rope in the drowning man’s direction. “Grab the rope!” he called, but the man continued to flail and, with a surprised gasp, he suddenly disappeared.