Kamil looks up at his associate’s immobile face, wondering where is the man he had thought to call a friend. This is his outer shell, but the man scrutinizing him through those liquid brown eyes is a stranger. “How did you come to arrest Hamza?”
“All the indications pointed toward Chamyeri. You said that yourself.”
“Yes, but others live at Chamyeri-Ismail Hodja, his niece, their staff. Only Hamza doesn’t live there. Yet you chose to arrest him.”
“What difference does it make? He confessed to the murders.”
“When I spoke with him this morning, he denied it.”
“You know the police have more efficient ways to gain the truth than simply asking for it.” Michel shows a row of small teeth, half smile, half grimace.
Kamil ponders this. It is true that men’s denial breaks readily under duress, but so does their will. He has never believed that a man’s word forced from him is evidence. It is merely expedience.
“I’m still curious-how did you know to arrest him in the first place? What made you associate him with Chamyeri and Hannah Simmons, or with Mary Dixon?”
“Shimshek Devora, the driver.” Michel shrugs. He has been so still that Kamil is startled by the sudden movement. “We know Shimshek picked up the woman Hannah,” Michel continues in the droning voice of a schoolmaster, “and brought her to Chamyeri to meet Hamza. Hannah was found dead at Chamyeri. Who else could it have been? It was Hamza who abducted Ismail Hodja’s niece and took her to Shimshek’s mother.” He shows Kamil his hand. “They’re like fingers on the same hand.”
“How did you know that was Hamza?”
“Madame Devora, of course.”
“She didn’t tell me that.” Kamil pauses. “And neither did you. I only found out this morning. Ismail Hodja told me, and he himself only learned it recently from his niece. You are the only one who knew this, yet you said nothing.”
He stares up at Michel, who has not moved. Kamil sees again the brown spider, absolutely still until startled.
“Is it ambition, Michel? Do you wish credit for solving the case yourself? It’s all the same to me.” Kamil gestures carelessly with his hand. “But you are a surgeon. Your promotion doesn’t depend on solving cases.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve kept nothing from you.”
“How did you know Hamza was at Chamyeri the night you arrested him?”
“Ismail Hodja’s house was being watched. Hamza was bound to show up sooner or later.”
“Why were you looking for Hamza, when we at the court were singing an entirely different song?” Kamil could not help the bitterness and disappointment bleeding into his voice. “What about the pendant? Hamza has no link with the palace. How do we know there isn’t more to this?”
Michel smiles mirthlessly. “It’s not my business if the honorable magistrate is out of tune. I do my job.”
Kamil feels hot, his heart galloping in his chest. He closes his eyes for a moment, inhales the fragrance of the room, and tries to calm himself.
Michel has come closer. “We’re on the same side, Kamil,” he says in an intimate voice. “We need stability and security, not this chauvinistic nationalist dream that could turn into a nightmare for the minorities. We’re not Muslims and we’re not Turks, we’re Ottomans. It’s a formula that has worked well for the Jews and for everyone else for a long time. People like Hamza want to destabilize the empire and sell it off piece by piece like scrap from a junk dealer’s cart. Then, when all that’s left are Turks, it’ll be a Muslim Turkish empire, with no place for people like us. European nationalism-that crazy idea that every folk with its own language and its own religion deserves its own nation-it’s infected the Young Ottomans. Mark my words, before long they’ll drop their masks and call themselves what they really are, Young Turks. And where are we to go, I ask you? To a Jewish nation? There is no such thing on earth.”
“I understand your concern, Michel, but I am on the side of impartial justice. No matter what Hamza did, he deserved a hearing. Execution without a trial is unjust, even if he was guilty. That betrays our country and its principles as much as the radicals. You of all people-a surgeon, a scientist-you should know that.”
Michel shrugs. “Fate can be unjust.”
“Fate.” Kamil spits the word out. “Listen to you. You took this man’s fate in your own hands and crushed it. It was your doing, not the hand of Allah. In any case, Nizam Pasha will not agree,” he adds angrily. “He insists on the mechanism of the law, not telling a suspect’s fortune.”
“You’d be surprised at how open-minded Nizam Pasha can be,” Michel responds.
Kamil looks up at him, startled. How far does this conspiracy of injustice extend? he wonders.
“I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that corruption is so resistant to change. I thought by taking part in this new judicial system, we could bring fresh straw into this stable of a city, but the same things go on, the same people”-he looks directly at Michel-“fouling the ground we walk on.”
Kamil sees a flash of anger on Michel’s face as he turns on his heel, cloak sweeping at the end of his arm. Then he is gone. A loud crash brings Kamil to his feet. The orchid box lies tipped on its side, spilling pebbles over the tiles. Atop the pebbles and shredded bark and soil, a rubble of color. Kamil falls to his knees and searches frantically, finds the black orchid, and lifts it tenderly. Its bloom is unblemished, but its neck is broken.
A harsh sob emerges from his throat as he grabs his revolver and slams through the door, brushing aside Yakup, who has come running at the noise.
“Did you see where he went?” he asks Yakup.
“No, bey. I saw no one. But this message just came from Feride Hanoum.” Yakup takes a letter from his sash and hands it to him. “The messenger said to tell you she would like you to come right away.”
Kamil breaks the seal and unfolds the letter.
Dear Brother,
Baba has fallen from the balcony. He is not aware of anything, but still lives. The surgeon says he cannot feel pain. That is a blessing, but he may not be with us long. Please come right away.
Your sister Feride
42
A closed carriage pulls up at the embassy gate. The gatekeeper hurries up the path, followed by a black figure in a bright white robe and large turban.
“A royal coach has come for m’lady,” the gatekeeper announces breathlessly.
The Residence guard asks Sybil whether she would like an escort.
“I think not. Thank you. I’m sure the palace has taken care of that.” She relishes visiting Stamboul homes without fanfare and a trail of armed embassy guards-a precious relic of normalcy, simply a lady invited to tea.
The eunuch bows very low, touching his palm to his forehead and chest, then waits impassively to escort Sybil to the carriage. She has not veiled, but the eunuch seems not to notice. It is not the same self-confident, broad-shouldered eunuch that had accompanied Asma Sultan before. This man is tall and wiry, with a lined face the color of smoke and long, powerful hands. He does not speak or look at her, although Sybil has the feeling it is not out of respect, but aversion.
Servants and guards cluster at the doors and windows, whispering. Most have never seen a black eunuch except at a distance, when on horseback, escorting the carriages of royal ladies.
Sybil follows the eunuch to a carriage elaborately decorated with painted flowers. It is not the usual bulky conveyance that seats four or five harem ladies at once, but a sleek, smaller model designed for speed. The eunuch helps her up the steps, his hand black against her sleeve. When she has settled among the velvet cushions, he pulls a sheer curtain across the windows so she can look out without anyone seeing in and barks a command at the driver. He mounts a white stallion, its saddle embroidered with thread of gold and studded with rubies and emeralds. A long curved sword is cradled in his arm. She notes with surprise that there is no retinue, but supposes the armed eunuch is sufficient for an informal outing.