“Explain to me why I should put myself in any further danger in order to help you?”
“For ten thousand gold liras.”
“Don’t mark me for a fool,” Yorg Pasha said in a low voice. “I expect those with whom I do business to be straight with me.” Anyone listening from outside the door would have been fooled by the friendly tone, but Gabriel froze.
“What do you mean?” he asked. “I told you I don’t know why the weapons were discovered, but there’s no way the police can link them to you, so you have nothing to worry about.”
“Don’t I? What about those two chests filled with gold in my stable? I believe they belong to the Imperial Ottoman Bank, which was recently robbed.”
Gabriel was flabbergasted. Were there no secrets in this country at all? “What makes you think I had anything to do with that?”
“The pasha knows everything that goes on in his house,” Simon answered. “I’ve examined the contents. You’ve done well. I’d estimate the value at about eighty thousand British pounds. Clever to take the jewels. They’re easier to carry.”
“So you see,” Yorg Pasha pointed out, “I was right. Debts are always paid.”
Gabriel panicked. “You can’t take the gold. It’s not mine.”
At that Yorg Pasha laughed, a startling, deep well of sound. “Well, that’s true enough.”
Gabriel faced the fire, then turned back to Yorg Pasha. He had thought things couldn’t get any worse, yet in the space of an hour they truly had. He had no idea what to do now. His confusion must have been apparent because Yorg Pasha said in a conciliatory tone, “Gabriel, the chests are guarded, so don’t think you can spirit them away from under my nose. But I’m a fair man. Tell me what you planned to do with the gold and then I’ll consider our options.”
With the feeling that by doing so he was condemning all his comrades in Karakaya to death, Gabriel told Yorg Pasha about the commune. He tried to convince the pasha of the beauty and justice of their cause, of the fragile hopes of their community at New Concord, hoping to appeal to the pasha’s sense of honor so that he would release the gold and not be tempted to turn them in.
When he had finished, the pasha sighed deeply and said, “Very noble, although I feel obliged to tell you, also incredibly naïve. The news that foreigners are gathering in the Choruh Valley on the Russian border,” he emphasized, “has already reached the ears of Sultan Abdulhamid, and he’s about to order troops into the area. By spring your friends most likely will have no use for weapons or gold or anything else. They’ll all be dead.”
Gabriel turned white.
Yorg Pasha considered him for a moment, pity showing on his face. “There’s more. You need to hear this so that you have a complete picture. Your friends won’t be the only people to suffer. If the sultan sends in troops, they’ll likely be Kurdish irregulars. Judging by their previous interventions, I expect they’ll lay waste to the entire region. And do you know why Sultan Abdulhamid would send his least discriminating and most feared troops on this particular mission?”
Gabriel’s mind whirled with images of the sun-laced villages and orchards of the Choruh River valley put to the torch, its inhabitants arrested or killed. “Why?” he rasped, knowing what the answer would be. It was his fault.
“Because a shipload of illegal weapons was found in the Istanbul harbor and the next day the Ottoman Bank was robbed and blown up. Your incompetence has convinced the sultan that there’s a major revolt afoot.”
Gabriel’s head jerked up. “But I didn’t-”
Yorg Pasha cut him off, his voice rising. “And, dare I mention it, you have dragged me into the center of this enormously dangerous plot by using my house and my name to carry it out.” At this, the pasha’s anger broke through, and he slapped his hand against the arm of his chair. He stood and added, “And you come here asking me to help you find your wife.” He nodded once at Simon and headed for the door.
Gabriel jumped to his feet. “I didn’t blow up the bank,” he called after the retreating pasha, desperate to save at least a shred of his honor.
Yorg Pasha turned around. “What do you mean?”
“I only took the gold. I heard an explosion, but I was already on the road. I had no idea it was the bank.”
“How do you explain that?”
“I have no explanation,” he stuttered.
Then suddenly Gabriel remembered. His driver, Abel, and his odd unconcern about the explosion. Abel had been sitting atop the carriage and would have seen it. He must have known it was the bank. Abel would have had time to set an explosive charge while Gabriel was inside gathering the gold and jewels. Was it Abel who had told the police about the weapons shipment? To what end? Why undercut their mission?
Gabriel sank back into his chair. Somehow he was certain that Father Zadian was behind this. He buried his head in his hands, unaware that he had been spinning these thoughts silently.
Yorg Pasha stood quietly for a moment, then walked over and let his hand rest on Gabriel’s shoulder. “You remind me of a friend’s son. Like you, he’s always chasing shadows. But I’m glad to say he’s a lot more competent.” He sat down in his armchair.
“Now, tell me who did blow up the bank.”
Later, after Gabriel had returned to his room, Yorg Pasha thought about what the hotheaded young man had told him about the commune, an experiment the pasha suspected would be short-lived. He couldn’t help being unpleasantly reminded of his own twisted path through Ottoman society, a world that he had always believed was ready to crush his every initiative in the vise of tradition. He had had innovative ideas and had hoped he could leave a progressive mark on his world, but now the remnants of his idealism wouldn’t fill a thimble. There was no escaping a system that even controlled the roads leading away from it. He had listened to Gabriel’s ideas and, whatever he thought of the man-and he thought him a fool-the idea of the commune inspired him. He was too old to join such an endeavor now, but he thought there should still be a place in the empire for dreaming.
15
Vera sat in the chair by the stove and considered what she could do to protect herself when Vahid returned to the room, as she was certain he would. After hitting her in the face, he had become gentlemanly, helping her to the chair, patting the blood on her chin with a handkerchief. He spent another half hour in the room with her, sitting so close that their shoulders were touching, saying little, and running his hands through her hair. Stunned and frightened, she didn’t move. Only when she saw him reach into his jacket pocket and pull out a knife did she start away.
He smiled at her, a smile that could have been mistaken as sweet if she hadn’t seen his eyes, hard black onyx that gave her reflection back. He took a handful of her hair and sliced it off at ear level. The knife was sharp, so she felt no more than a slight tug, but when he pulled his hand away, her head felt disembodied. She reached up involuntarily now, as then, and felt for the phantom weight of her missing locks.
She was no match for him physically, she thought, so when he came back she would have to outsmart him. He had seemed interested in her in some odd way. Perhaps she could use his attraction to convince him to bring her to another place, somewhere she could escape. A bedroom. She beat back thoughts of Gabriel. She had caused him enough grief. She would be the revolutionary wife he wanted and she was ready to make any sacrifice for the socialist cause. The words sounded hollow. The thought of being with a man besides Gabriel was monstrous.
She heard the key turn, but it wasn’t Vahid. Two men entered, both wearing polished black boots, black breeches, and tight-fitting jackets without insignia. They grabbed her arms and marched her out the door and down the corridor, thrusting her into a small room lit by a single lamp. It contained little more than a platform, a bucket, and a table on which were jumbled objects that she could not identify but that frightened her.