The second guard returned and ushered Kamil in. Despite its drab exterior, the building’s interior was lavishly appointed. The walls were faced with colored marble, and the grand hall was furnished with Western-style sofas and tasseled curtains. A massive pink and green Murano chandelier hung from a coffered ceiling. The guard led Kamil through double doors painted white and gilded, as if he were being ushered into the presence of the sultan himself.
Kamil knew Vahid immediately. The impeccable black hair, sensual lips, and cold eyes could have belonged to no one else. He wore ostentatiously high black boots and a tightly fitted, wide-shouldered black uniform with no emblem.
Vahid stood behind his desk and smiled when Kamil entered the room.
“Selam aleykum.”
“Aleykum selam. Thank you for receiving me.”
Vahid gestured for him to take a seat on an uncomfortable-looking chair, set at an angle, so Kamil would have to look up and sideways at Vahid.
“I’ll stand.”
“As you like.” Vahid sat down on his padded leather chair.” I’ve heard of you, Magistrate.”
“Have you?”
“You’re the sultan’s hunting dog. Whenever there’s a problem, he sends you to sniff it out and break its neck. You’re quite good, I hear.”
Being compared to a dog was an insult, but Kamil heard the guarded respect. Good, he thought, let him fear me. He scanned the room, noting entrances and exits, the position of the room vis-à-vis the rest of the house. If Akrep was keeping prisoners here, they would most likely be held in the basement. He walked to the window and leaned against the sill. It wouldn’t do to bring up the subject of Lena Balian directly, thereby giving her importance in Vahid’s eyes.
“Well, what can I do for you, Kamil Pasha?” Vahid asked, unable to keep the impatience from his voice. “I’m sure you came here for a reason.” He squinted at Kamil, who was backlit against the window.
“I’m investigating the Ottoman Imperial Bank robbery. I believe you also have an interest in that case. If so, I suggest we’re better off pooling our information, rather than working at cross-purposes.”
“You mean you need our help.” Vahid leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers. “Lost your bite, Magistrate?”
Kamil ignored Vahid’s smirk. “If it’s a matter of assigning credit, then by all means take the credit. I don’t care about that.”
“You have nothing to offer me, my friend. It’s a much bigger case now, and your investigations, to be honest, are irrelevant.”
“I don’t know what you mean. We get the gold back. We arrest those responsible. That’s the case.”
“Hardly. The robbery was the first shot fired in a revolution against the empire. Terrorists have set up an armed camp, ready to take the entire east and place it in Russian hands. They’re aiming to assassinate the sultan himself.”
“What are you talking about?” Kamil asked, completely at a loss.
Vahid tilted his head and chided him. “You really have not been keeping up, Magistrate. There’s a terrorist camp in the Choruh Valley, and the entire population has gone over to them. They’re armed. They even have howitzers. The stolen gold is financing them, and that shipload of weapons we diverted would have made matters worse. It’s proof of the danger. Sultan Abdulhamid realizes it now too. My main concern is to protect our padishah and to eradicate that Armenian scum in the mountains.”
It dawned on Kamil that Vahid was talking about a massacre. He thought of all the refugees crowding Istanbul’s streets, having fled just such carnage in the empire’s provinces. He remembered Elif’s gaunt, horror-filled face when she first arrived from Macedonia. The killings wouldn’t stop at the Choruh Valley. It would galvanize Armenians who had been loyal citizens to take up arms against the sultan, and it would certainly draw the attention of the Europeans and the Russians. So far the foreign empires had been content to chew away at the edges of the Ottoman lands, but the massacre of a Christian minority would provide the excuse to invade the empire’s core outright. It would be a disaster of the greatest dimension.
Kamil stared at Vahid and the thought came to him that by using the knife in his boot now, he would save countless lives. It took all his moral strength not to do it. No man’s death is unaccountable, he told himself firmly.
Vahid watched Kamil with a contemptuous smile on his face, as if he knew what Kamil had been tempted to do but was too weak to carry out.
“You’re misinformed,” Kamil told him. “That group in Choruh is an international socialist commune. They have no plans to join Russia-the czar’s troops would throw them all in prison.” In the back of Kamil’s mind a suspicion nagged-was it he who was misinformed? How far could he trust Yorg Pasha’s information?
“Ah, so you know about them,” Vahid said, drawing the words out. “Yet you were silent. Do you think a group of armed socialists is nothing to worry about?”
Kamil felt that he had been put on the defensive. “So you do know that they’re socialists and not Armenian revolutionaries.”
“What’s the difference? What matters is what our great padishah thinks. And he’s already ordered his troops to put all those traitors to the fire.”
“And you’ll have saved the empire,” Kamil said, his voice sharp with sarcasm.
“And Sultan Abdulhamid’s life. We’ve learned that there’s going to be an attempt on it soon.” He stood and moved to the front of his desk, where he could better see Kamil against the glare from the window.
The man had said this too blithely, Kamil thought, almost as if he had planned it himself. He didn’t think Vahid would be capable of assassinating the sultan, but a failed attempt would bring him greater power. Kamil was horrified and amazed at Vahid’s ambition and insensitivity to human life and honor. He thought of Yorg Pasha’s description of the blind cruelty of the scorpion, but he also remembered something he had seen on one of his botanical trips to the east. The village boys had built a ring of burning vegetation and set a scorpion in the middle of it. As the ring of fire drew close to the animal, the scorpion buried its stinger in its own back, preferring to kill itself. If only he could trap Vahid in his own lies.
He should warn the sultan, but without evidence, no one would believe him. They’d probably put it down to professional jealousy, part of the eternal turf war between the judiciary and the secret police.
He walked up to Vahid, so close that Kamil could smell the cloves he chewed on his breath. “Do you play chess?”
Vahid didn’t answer. Kamil could sense his discomfort. The odor of stale sweat became stronger.
“I’m sure you know what ‘checkmate’ means, don’t you?” Kamil felt certain that the only way to deal with someone as unscrupulous as Vahid was to get him off balance, to inspire fear and doubt. After all, Vahid had no idea how little Kamil knew, and Kamil was sure that this was a man with a great deal to hide.
“This is not a game.” Vahid took a step backward and put his hands in his pockets, giving Kamil a cynical smile. “Or perhaps it is, my pasha.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
Kamil turned on his heel to leave.
“Kamil Pasha,” Vahid called to him. “There’s no need to end on such a sour note.”
Kamil waited as Vahid came up to him, holding out his hand. Reluctantly Kamil held out his own, but to his surprise, Vahid used Kamil’s hand to pull him close, patting the back of his jacket with the other hand.
Kamil jerked away from this overly intimate embrace, certain that Vahid was up to something. Irritated and on edge, Kamil turned to pass through the door but found it partially blocked by Vahid. As Kamil brushed past him, Vahid jammed his shoulder into Kamil’s so hard that it hurt. In the blink of an eye, Kamil slipped the dagger out of the sheath in his boot and pressed it against Vahid’s throat. Two of Vahid’s men came running from the outer office. They hovered close by, hands on their weapons, uncertain what to do.