A large bundle blocked the entrance to the minaret stairway. The imam, fearing he was late for his ezan, pushed at it with his foot. When it didn’t budge, he leaned over and pulled at the black cloth. He fell backward, landing hard on the floor, the cloth still in his hand. The stench was overpowering.
The lamplight fell on Malik’s ghastly, bloodied face. His robe had been slashed open and his body sown with innumerable cuts.
The imam felt his heart pause with fear. He took a breath, then tried to calm himself by whispering a prayer, but his eyes roved the dark corners of the mosque and his ears strained to hear whether or not the person who did this was still there. He tried to shake Malik’s cloak from his hand, but the cloth was swollen with blood and stuck to the imam’s arm, as if some vital essence of the caretaker was holding fast to him in a final desperate plea. With a shout of alarm, the imam struggled to his feet and ran outside into the driving rain. From the minaret of a neighboring mosque, the call “Allahu akbar, Allah is great” drifted over the imam as he woke the neighborhood with his cries.
Squalls of rain flung themselves against Kamil’s bedroom window as if someone were throwing handfuls of pebbles. He massaged his forehead against the pain that had settled inside his skull. Ever since his father’s death, he had been plagued by headaches. Sleep was impossible, so he rose and slipped on his dressing gown. The predawn call to prayer was muted by the weather, but the plaintive cry worked its way into the house and followed Kamil down the stairs. He could hear the chink of glasses and china in the dining room.
Yakup appeared with a glass of tea on a tray.
“Just tea. I’m having breakfast with a friend this morning,” Kamil told him. Not under the plane tree, he thought, peering out of the window at the rain. He looked forward to seeing Malik and to continuing their conversation, but he’d wait for dawn before setting off.
He took the previous day’s newspaper, which he hadn’t had a chance to read, and carried his tea into the winter garden. Yakup lit the lamps. Kamil relaxed into a chair and looked up at the wet, black panes. The newspaper dropped from his hand.
“Bey, bey.”
Kamil awoke with a start, wincing with pain as he moved his head. Yakup stood above him, his face imperturbable, as always.
“What is it?”
“The police chief of Fatih, Omar Loutfi, is here.”
“What time is it?” Kamil squinted. He could just make out the shapes of the rosebushes in the garden.
“Five thirty,” Yakup replied.
Kamil pushed through the door into the house.
Omar was streaming water onto the carpet of the receiving room. “Malik is dead, Allah protect us. He’s been murdered. The imam found him in the mosque when he went to call the first ezan.”
“What?” Kamil was stunned, remembering Malik’s furtive visit the previous night. He pressed his palms against his forehead. Malik had as much as told him he was afraid for his life, and what had Kamil done? Nothing. He had sent him off to his death with a handshake.
Kamil pulled on the raincape Yakup held out to him and headed for the front door.
Omar grabbed his arm and said, “There’s one more thing. Remzi has escaped.”
Kamil halted and turned on Omar. “How could that happen?”
“Someone must have bribed the guards. Believe me,” he added grimly, “when I find out which one, I’ll rip out his liver.”
The ashen-faced imam held Kamil’s bridle as he and Omar dismounted. The rain had turned into a light mist that crept along the ground and clung to hollows. Residents peered out of their windows at the commotion and a crowd of men had begun to gather in the square. The imam began a steady stream of low-pitched commentary as they made their way to the mosque.
Kamil squeezed the string of amber beads in his pocket, aligning himself with the fingertips of his father and grandfather, who had ticked off each bead with a prayer, one of the ninety-nine names of God, or, like him, with a string of thoughts. This morning, he gripped the beads in his fist. He should have pressed Malik about who he thought might come after him. Men who would use the Proof of God to incite hatred among religions, Malik had said. That didn’t sound like Amida.
A policeman stood guard by the door and saluted when he saw Omar. Following the imam’s lamp, they stepped across the threshold of the mosque. There was a fetid smell, not of decay but of excrement. He took a linen handkerchief out of his pocket and held it across his nose. The imam extended a silver rosewater sprinkler, but Kamil waved it off.
“The windows don’t open, you see,” the imam explained. “I would have moved the body outside, but I didn’t want the neighbors to see it.”
“It’s better this way,” Kamil assured him. “I can learn more if the body isn’t touched. Nothing should be moved.”
“No, Magistrate bey. Nothing’s been touched.” He grimaced.
Omar had gone ahead. Kamil could see him standing like a statue in a pool of lamplight at the far end of the corridor.
“Wait here,” Kamil told the imam, and joined Omar by the ruined body of their friend.
Although he was wet through and the thick walls trapped the cold, Kamil’s face was covered in a sheen of sweat. He knew his distress was not just a result of his headache.
Omar’s face was grim. He glanced at Kamil, then looked again more closely. “Are you well?”
“I’m fine,” Kamil answered through gritted teeth. He closed his eyes for a moment, then took a deep breath and forced himself to look at the scene slowly and methodically.
Malik’s turban had fallen to the side and his wispy hair was matted with blood. His mouth was a rictus of pain. His robe was splayed open and revealed his chest, raw with cuts that were already thick with flies. Judging by his frame, Kamil thought he must once have been a large man, but age had withered him. His feet were bound together with rope.
They each grasped the body and turned it. Malik’s hands were bound behind his back.
“Do you have a surgeon assigned to the Fatih police?”
“That’s Fehmi. I’ll send one of my men to get him.” He thought for a moment. “Fehmi might be gone. In that case, they’ll bring in Courtidis. Damn.” He was unshaven and his face sagged with sorrow and fatigue.
“What’s the problem with Courtidis?”
“Let’s go outside.” They stepped into the square and Kamil waited while Omar instructed one of his men.
When Omar returned, he led Kamil into the small mosque garden. They stood in a dry area protected by the wall, smoking. “Courtidis is another one of those people who have sudden, unexplained wealth.” Omar narrowed his eyes. “I hate people like that. It makes me want to know everything about them down to the direction they piss in.” He threw his cigarette to the ground. “He’s a Greek, lives near the Crooked Gate. I get tired of hearing what a great guy he is, how he treats the poor, even if they can’t pay.”
“That sounds admirable.”
“Why would anyone do that? And if he’s giving it away for free, where’s he getting his money from?”
“You know and you’re about to tell me.”
“He’s a small-time drug dealer, that’s where. Makes the stuff at home and sells it all over Fatih. Dishes it out like halvah. Not enough to bother about, but I like to keep people like him on a long rope, so I can reel him in if I need to.” He made a sweeping motion, ending with his fist before Kamil’s nose.