He took another draught of laudanum to ease the pain in his hands and lay on the bed. He was awakened by a peremptory knock on the door and the sound of the key turning. Simon walked in and announced that the pasha would see him. Gabriel glanced at the window. Judging by the light, he guessed it was nearing noon.
When Gabriel entered Yorg Pasha’s receiving room, he was momentarily disconcerted by the painted creatures and forest scenes on the silk-paneled walls. In the flickering light of the fireplace, the animals seemed to roam through the foliage. Gabriel turned his attention to Yorg Pasha, seated in a velvet armchair. Although the man’s face sagged and the backs of his hands were knotted with veins, Gabriel had the impression of immense strength. It was the first time they had met. Until now all of Gabriel’s dealings had been with Simon, who stood at the pasha’s shoulder.
Yorg Pasha motioned for Gabriel to sit by the fire. “You appear to be in difficulty,” he said conversationally, brushing his fingertips along the armrest.
Gabriel nodded, not sure whether Yorg Pasha was referring to the state of his frostbitten hands or the confiscation of the shipload of weapons. The pasha couldn’t know about Gabriel’s involvement in the bank robbery.
Yorg Pasha had a reputation abroad as a reliable arms dealer with good connections in the government and police. Thinking he needed a powerful local protector in this unfamiliar territory, Gabriel had made a deal with him, or rather with his secretary, Simon, to bribe the necessary officials to make sure the ship passed customs. In return, Simon had demanded the steep price of three hundred rifles and a hundred pistols, more than a third of the shipment. Gabriel had told him that the guns were destined to arm the villagers directly on the Ottoman-Russian border, which cut through the mountains just east of Trabzon, against a possible Russian incursion. It was a ludicrous story on the face of it, given that Gabriel was himself Russian, but Simon had seemed to accept it. Gabriel assumed that the pasha and his secretary didn’t care what the cover story was, as long as they were paid.
But Yorg Pasha and Simon had failed. Almost as soon as the ship had docked, the guns were confiscated by the police. Someone must have tipped them off. Gabriel leaned in toward the heat of the fire, hiding his furious face, wondering whether the pasha or his secretary had betrayed him, and why. A servant handed around porcelain cups of Turkish coffee set in wrought silver sleeves, then withdrew. Gabriel fumbled the cup with his nerveless fingers. Annoyed, he put it down on a side table, where it tipped over and leaked a brown ooze onto the inlay.
“I’m concerned about your health,” Yorg Pasha said. “No one will benefit if you freeze to death.”
“You needn’t worry,” Gabriel retorted, knowing as he spoke that it was a mistake, that he should be conciliatory if he wanted the pasha’s help, but unable to rein himself in. “I imagine you’ll find a way to be paid, even though you didn’t hold up your end of the bargain.”
Simon moved fractionally, but at a slight lift of Yorg Pasha’s eyebrows, he became still again.
“Debts are always paid, one way or another,” Yorg Pasha said mildly, ignoring the insultingly direct mention of money.
“Isn’t there anything you can do about the shipment? That was your part of the bargain, to make sure it passed customs.” Damn the guns, Gabriel thought. It was the ship he needed now, so he could take the gold to New Concord. With the gold he could buy new guns. And he needed to find Vera.
“Do you know who informed the police about the shipment?” Yorg Pasha asked.
“The only person who knew about it was your secretary.” Gabriel shot a glance at Simon, who opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it again.
Yorg Pasha regarded Gabriel with a direct gaze that made him uncomfortable. No one spoke.
“I’m not saying you did it,” Gabriel backtracked. “Why would you? You drove a hard bargain. But I don’t see another explanation, do you?” He took up a fire iron and began to stab aimlessly among the coals.
“Surely more people knew about the ship than just the three of us in this room,” Yorg Pasha suggested reasonably. “Who was going to help you off-load it? How were you going to get the cargo to the east?” Gabriel noted with contempt that the pasha delicately avoided using the word “guns.” But he was struck by the truth of what the old man had said.
Their socialist network here was thin and full of leaks, he thought. The eight men in the cell that the International had contacted to help him in Istanbul all were Armenian, rather than of mixed heritage like socialist cells in Europe. This herd mentality of like with like was infecting the movement in Europe too. Vera had joined a new socialist group in Geneva called Henchak, of which all the members were Armenian. Gabriel had wanted her to quit, but their friend Apollo had been a founding member, so out of misplaced loyalty she had refused. It was a contradiction, he had insisted, to claim allegiance to socialism while clinging to an outmoded and divisive identity. Gabriel was convinced that in their hearts the Armenians were nationalists who would rather have their own Armenian pashas, priests, and landlords than join with peasants and workers around the world against these oppressors.
He had discovered that rather than accept his lead in the project, the Istanbul cell obeyed a priest, Father Zadian, whose permission Gabriel was forced to obtain for his every move. Gabriel didn’t trust Zadian, just as he didn’t trust this pasha, a merchant without principles, who helped them only in order to turn a profit. But the pasha was right. Father Zadian had known about the shipment of guns.
Where the hell was Apollo? Apollo had failed to arrive at the train station in Geneva, and they had received no word from him since. The doleful Armenian Russian philosopher with the silver tongue would have known how to handle Yorg Pasha and Father Zadian and his unreliable cell of Armenians. And Apollo would have kept Vera company so that she wouldn’t have embarked on her ruinous campaign to get Karl Marx published in Armenian. Gabriel stabbed furiously at the coals, aware of the uncomfortable silence in the room.
The pasha waited, his hands resting calmly on the arms of the chair. Gabriel could see blue veins under the papery skin. Simon stood behind him, watching Gabriel closely.
“It’s possible,” Gabriel admitted. “It might have been one of the socialists here in Istanbul. Maybe one of them got drunk or told his mistress, who knows? But what are we going to do about it?” He tossed the iron onto the hearthstone. “Look, I need help.”
“I thought as much.” The pasha nodded, his eyes hooded.
“I need a ship. Small, fast.”
“You can arrange that with Simon,” Yorg Pasha sounded impatient. “Surely that isn’t what you wanted to drag me out of bed for.”
“My wife,” Gabriel surprised himself by saying. “She was followed and then taken from our room last night.”
“You brought your wife on this mad adventure?” Yorg Pasha seemed nonplussed. “Didn’t you have enough other things to worry about?”
“Yes, of course. But I still have to find her before…”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Can you find out if the secret police have her and help me get her out?”
“Do you think members of the secret police lie about like apples in the orchard? Do we know anyone in the secret police?” he asked Simon.
“No, pasha.”
“And we don’t want to know them. May I point out that in your present circumstances, the last people you want anything to do with are the secret police.”
“I was hoping you would make the inquiries for me, pasha.” Gabriel knew what he was asking. Yorg Pasha did not want to attract attention. He was an arms dealer, and not just through official channels. But Gabriel had no other options. None of the socialists he knew had sufficient connections to remedy all that had gone wrong, and he no longer knew whom among them he could trust.