The Kislar Agha picked up a peach and bit into it. The juice ran down his chin.
“Do you think he took it?”
Yashim shook his head.
“A bit of silver, why would he bother? But somebody took it. I wonder why?”
“Somebody took it,” the Kislar Agha repeated slowly. “So it must still be here.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
The black man leaned back and examined his hands.
“It will be found,” he said.
[ 36 ]
His excellency Prince Nikolai Derentsov, Order of Czar Peter, First Class, hereditary Chamberlain to the Czars of all the Russias, and Russian ambassador to the Sublime Porte, watched his knuckles whiten against the edge of his desk.
He was, as he would have been the first to admit, an extraordinarily handsome man. Now in his late fifties, well over six foot, his broad shoulders exaggerated by a high-collared, cutaway coat, his neck in a starched cravat, lace at his sleeves, he looked both elegant and formidable. He wore his steel-grey hair short, and his side-whiskers long. He had a fine head, cold blue eyes, and a rather small mouth.
The Derentsov family had found that life was expensive. Despite vast estates, despite access to the highest positions in the land, a century of balls, gowns, gambling and politics in St Petersburg had led Prince Nikolai Derentsov to the uncomfortable discovery that his debts and expenses greatly exceeded his income. His ability to attract a very beautiful young wife had been the talk of the late season—although beautiful young women are as common in Russia as anywhere else.
What animated the talk—what spurred the envy and congratulation—was that through his marriage the prince had also secured the benefit of her considerable fortune. Not that the people Derentsov moved among always put it that way. Behind his back they sniffed that the girl—for all her beauty—was Trade. Her father had made millions in fur.
“It appears that you have been careless,” Derentsov was saying. “At my embassy I cannot afford to maintain people who make mistakes. Do you understand me?”
“I am so sorry, Your Excellency.”
The young man bent his head. Nikolai Potemkin certainly looked sorry. He was sorry, too: not for what he had done, which was not his fault, but because the chief was angry and unfair and sounded as if he were going to sack him on the spot. He had been here only two months, slipping from a dead-end desk job in the Russian army to the diplomatic on the back of an elderly relative’s interest at court—a distant relative, the slenderest interest. The chance would not come again.
He was, like his chief, over six foot tall; but he was not handsome. His face, scarred from a sabre cut received in the Turkish war, had never healed welclass="underline" a livid weal ran from the corner of his left eye to his upper lip. He was very fair, and his almost lashless eyes were watery and pale. In that struggle with a Turkish cavalier he had grappled the sabre with his bare left hand, and three of his fingers were now curled into a useless hook. Young Potemkin had come to understand that it was the diplomatic or…nothing. Five thousand acres on the borders of Siberia. A third-rate estate, shackled with debt, a thousand miles from anywhere at all.
Prince Derentsov drummed on the desk with his finger tips.
“The damage is done. In a few minutes we will talk to an emissary of the Sublime Porte. Let’s get it clear. You met the men once. You spoke in French. You gave them a lift and dropped them—where?”
“Somewhere near their barracks, I’m not sure. I’ve only been out in the city a few times.”
“Hmph.” The prince grunted. “Nothing else, understand? Very well.”
He rang a bell, and asked the orderly to bring in the Ottoman gentleman.
[ 37 ]
The Russians noted Yashim’s appearance.
An insignificant fellow, the ambassador thought. No rank.
Junior Attache Potemkin felt a surge of relief, struck by the thought that if the Turks themselves gave this interview such low priority, his chief could hardly rank his error as a sacking offence.
They watched Yashim bow. The ambassador did not offer him a seat.
“I’m grateful for your help today,” Yashim said. The prince sneered and looked away. Yashim caught the expression and smiled.
“We understand that Count Potemkin spent some time with four officers of the Imperial New Guard last week. You are Count Potemkin.”
Potemkin bowed.
“If I may ask, were you friends? You have not been long in Istanbul.”
“No. I still hardly know my way around.” Potemkin bit his lip: that was supposed to come later. “We weren’t friends. Just friendly.”
“Of course. Then you had met before?”
“Not at all. We met at the gardens, by pure chance. I suppose we were all slightly curious. We spoke, in French. I’m afraid my French is not good,” Potemkin added.
Yashim saw no reason to flatter him.
“And you discussed—what?”
“To tell the truth, I hardly remember. I think I told them about this.” Potemkin raised his palsied hand to his face. “War wounds.”
“Yes, I see. You are a man of experience in battle.”
“Yes.”
“What were you doing in the gardens?”
“Looking round. Taking a walk.”
“A walk? What for?”
“I thought maybe I could get some exercise. Somewhere quiet, where I would not attract so much attention.”
Yashim thought the mangled Russian could probably cause quite a stir in a city street.
The ambassador yawned, and prepared to stand.
“Is that all? I am sure we all have our duties to perform.”
Yashim bowed. “I merely wanted to ask the attache, how did he leave the gardens?”
The ambassador sighed, stood up, and waved a hand.
Potemkin said: “We left together. I dropped them off, somewhere near the barracks, I think. I don’t know the city well.”
“No, I understand. You took a cab?”
Potemkin hesitated and glanced at his chief.
“Yes.”
“How did you share the fare?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You dropped them off. I assume you came on here, to the embassy.”
“That’s right.”
“So how was the cabman paid? Did you share the fare?”
“Oh, I see what you mean.” Potemkin ran his fingers through his hair. “No, no, it was my treat. I paid. I was coming back anyway, as you say.”
“Can you remember how much? It might be very important.”
“I don’t think so,” the ambassador intervened, in a voice of deep scorn. “As I just said, we are all busy. So, if you will allow us—”
Yashim had turned to face the ambassador. He cocked his head slightly to one side and put up a hand.
“I am sorry,” he said, very deliberately. “But I must insist. Count Potemkin, you see, was the last man to see the guards alive.”
The ambassador’s eyebrows flickered for an instant. Potemkin’s eyes widened.
“Good Lord!” he said. He did not look at Yashim.
“Yes, it is very sad. So you see, anything we can do to trace the men’s last movements could be helpful. Such as finding the cab driver.”
It was a punt, Yashim thought. Not quite impossible.
“I am quite sure that Count Potemkin will not remember how much the cab cost,” the prince said smoothly. “We do not encourage our officials to carry much money. Cabs are paid off by porters, at the entrance.”
“But of course,” Yashim said. “I am afraid I have been stupid. The porters, naturally, would keep a record of their disbursements.”
The prince stiffened, realising his mistake. “I will have Count Potemkin look into it. If we learn anything, of course we will inform you.”
Yashim bowed. “I do hope the Count has no travel plans. It may be necessary to speak with him again.”
“I am sure there will be no need,” said the prince, gritting his teeth.