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.