His mood didn’t change when he put his head through the hatch and saw old Palmuk, the fire-watcher, leaning on the parapet with his back turned towards him. On the contrary. With a smile he moved quietly onto the roof. He stood behind Palmuk and made a sudden grab for his waistband. Before the fire-watcher could react he had hoisted him over the parapet.
“Aaargh! Aaaargh! Don’t do that! Orhan! Aaaargh! Let go! You bastard. Oh. Oh. Me heart. Orhan?”
“It isn’t Orhan,” said Yashim levelly. “It’s the man you lied to yesterday. The tower? Remember? I think you said, too, that you don’t like heights. But what am I to believe?”
“I don’t like ‘em, effendi, I don’t. And I swear I never lied.”
Old Palmuk’s legs were thrashing about but his arms were too far over the parapet to reach back. Yashim gave him a little shove.
“No, please!” He was almost screaming now, the words coming in rigid little bursts. “What I said—I wanted the money. I’ll give it back.”
“A tekke,” Yashim shouted. “There’s a fourth tekke, isn’t there?”
But the man had gone limp. Yashim’s eyes narrowed. He wondered if it was a ruse. He’d pull him back and then—wham! Old Palmuk would be at his throat.
“Over you go, then,” he said loudly.
Either old Palmuk was in a faint or he was a very steely customer.
Yashim thought of the assassin, plunging himself into the boiling dye. He pulled old Palmuk back onto the roof.
The man’s face was the colour of putty. His eyes moved wildly to left and right, and he seemed to be having trouble breathing. He emitted a series of dry clicks.
Yashim laid him on his back and tore at the neck of his shirt. He massaged his chest, pumping with his forearms. A little colour returned to old Palmuk’s cheeks, and the rapid movement of his eyes slowed. At last he drew a long, shuddering wheeze and closed his eyes.
Yashim said nothing. Waited.
The old man’s eyes half-opened, and slid towards him.
“You didn’t ought to have done that,” he mumbled. “You took advantage, didn’t ya? Eh? Effendi?”
Yashim, squatting, rocked back on his heels and breathed hard through his nose.
“You lied to me,” he said coldly.
A sly grin spread over old Palmuk’s face, and he hiccupped mirthlessly.
“It’s what you wanted, innit?” He spoke very quietly. “Old Palmuk, serve the customer. Hey, Palmuk, tell us a story.” He closed his eyes again. “You didn’t ought to have done that.”
Yashim bit his lip. Last night he’d as good as murdered a man. And today—
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Palmuk put a hand to his chest and clawed at his shirt, crumpling the torn edges together.
“It was a new shirt, effendi.”
Yashim sighed.
“I’ll get you another. I’ll get you two. But first, tell me this. Did the Karagozi have a tekke at the Beyazit Fire Tower? Like the one here?”
Old Palmuk stared. “Tekke? The Beyazit Tower?” He began to wheeze. It took Yashim a moment to realise that he was laughing.
“What’s the joke?”
“A tekke at Beyazit, you said?” Old Pamuk rubbed his nose with the palm of his hand, sniggering. “There was a tekke there, all right. The whole tower was built on it.”
Yashim froze. “The Eski Serai?”
“It’s what I heard. Way back when, them Janissaries used to guard the old palace. It fell apart, didn’t it? But the Karagozi didn’t abandon the tekke. They found a way to keep it—protected, like. They got the whole fire-tower built atop of it, see?”
Yashim saw. “Another tekke, then. That’s what I need. The fourth.”
The fire-watcher cracked a smile. “There were dozens, effendi. Hundreds.”
“Yes. But for the fire-watchers? Was there…a special one?”
Old Palmuk wrestled himself upright. He swayed over his lap, shaking his head.
“I wish I knew, effendi. I wish I knew what you were on about. I don’t know who you think I am, but you’ve got the wrong man. I…I don’t know what you mean.”
He turned to look at Yashim, and his grey eyes were round.
“I used to be a gofer. On the docks.” He was nodding now, staring at Yashim as if for the first time. “Get this, effendi. I weren’t there.”
Yashim thought: it’s true.
I give the fellow money. I buy him shirts. And he really doesn’t know a thing.
[ 71 ]
Yashim found the Polish ambassador in a silken dressing gown, embroidered with lions and horses in tarnished gold thread, which Yashim supposed was Chinese. He was drinking tea and staring quietly at a boiled egg, but when Yashim came in he put up a hand to shield his eyes, turning his head this way and that like an anxious tortoise. The sunshine picked out motes of dust climbing slowly towards the long windows.
“Do you know what time it is?” Palewski said thickly. “Have tea.”
“Are you ill?”
“111. No. But suffering. Why couldn’t it be raining?”
Unable to think of an answer, Yashim curled up in an armchair and let Palewski pour him a cup with a shaking hand.
“Meze,” Yashim said. He glanced up. “Meze. Little snacks before the main dish.”
“Must we talk about food?”
“Meze are a way of calling people’s attention to the excellence of the feast to come. A lot of effort goes into their preparation. Or, I should say, their selection. Sometimes the best meze are the simplest things. Fresh cucumbers from Karaman, sardines from Ortakoy, battered at most, and grilled…Everything at its peak, in its season: timing, you could say, is everything.
“Now take these murders. You were right—they’re more than isolated acts of violence. There is a pattern, and more. Taken together, you see, they aren’t an end in themselves. The meal doesn’t end with the meze, does it? The meze announce the feast.
“And these killings, like meze, depend on timing,” he continued. “I’ve been wondering over the last three days, why now? The murders, I mean, the cadets. Almost by chance, I discover that the sultan is set to issue an Edict in a few days. A great slew of reforms.”
“Ah yes, the Edict,” Palewski nodded and put his fingertips together.
“You know about it?” Yashim’s argument collapsed in astonishment.
“In a roundabout way. An explanation was given to, ah, selected members of the diplomatic community in Istanbul a few weeks ago.” He saw that Yashim was about to speak, and raised a hand. “When I say selected, I mean that I for one was not included. It isn’t hard to see why, if I’m right about the Edict and what it means. One of its purposes—its primary purpose, for all I know -is to make the Porte eligible for foreign loans. Poland, obviously, is in no position to influence the bond market. So they left me out. It was essentially a Big Power arrangement. I heard about it from the Swedes, who got it from the Americans, I believe.”
“You mean the Americans were invited?”
“Odd as it seems. But then, you know what Americans are? They’re the world experts at borrowing money in Europe. The Porte wants them on side. Perhaps they can co-ordinate their efforts. And, to be frank, I don’t think the Porte has ever quite managed to work out whose side the Americans are on. Your pashas are still digesting the Declaration of Independence sixty years after the event.”
Palewski reached for the teapot. “The idea of a republic has always fascinated them, in a schoolboy sort of way. The House of Osman must be the longest-lived royal line in Europe. Some more tea?”
Yashim put out his cup and saucer. “I’ve been stupid,” he said. “I’ve been wondering who knew about the Edict. Foreign powers never occurred to me.”
“But foreign powers,” said Palewski, with patient cynicism, “are the whole point: Foreign Powers, foreign loans.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”