Vahid, careful not to move his head, held up his hands, palms out. “Please forgive me. It was an accident,” he said with an ugly smile.
Kamil snapped back his wrist and, sliding the dagger into his belt, where it would be in easy reach, strode out the door. He knew what he had to do. First he had to find out the truth. Then he must warn Sultan Abdulhamid, even though he would be taking a grave risk if the sultan didn’t believe him. He thought about how he might gain access to the padishah, perhaps through Yorg Pasha or through his own boss, the minister of justice. Kamil had never met Sultan Abdulhamid but knew his reputation. The sultan was as distrustful of his own countrymen as he was enamored of European culture. He was fanatically religious and tirelessly modern. In other words, he was unpredictable. But Kamil wouldn’t stand by while the population of the Choruh Valley was massacred to feed the ego of a madman like Vahid.
When Kamil’s carriage was outside the walls of the palace, it pulled over, and Omar and Rejep unfolded themselves from their hiding places inside the hollow seats.
“Well,” he asked them impatiently, “any sign of the Russian woman?”
“We found the back door you told us about, but the place is buzzing like flies on shit, so I had Rejep go in by himself. He told them he was there to clean the rooms.” He nodded at the young policeman, who was dressed in the wide breeches and tunic of a palace worker. “Tell him what you saw.”
“The door led into the basement, which is six rooms along a corridor, three on either side. All the doors were locked except two. One was a sitting room. The other room had a table fitted with restraints and a partition with peepholes so someone could stay hidden and watch.”
“Allah protect us,” Omar muttered.
“I went around sweeping”-Rejep handed Kamil a scrap of paper-“and found this on the floor.”
Kamil recognized Cyrillic letters. It had been torn from a document.
38
Vera backed against the bow of the boat, but her foot tangled in the fishing net and she stumbled and sprawled onto her back. The young fisherman approached and squatted before her. His hands, red and swollen from hard labor, hung between his knees like skinned animals, and he stank of sweat, and brine, and unwashed clothes. He’s not married, Vera thought out of the blue, or someone would have washed his shirt, which she could see was torn and crudely mended.
He must have noticed her glance. He pulled self-consciously at his thinly padded jacket. His eyes were round with awe, but she thought she saw a dawning glint of avarice. A woman on his boat. If something were to happen, no one would be the wiser.
She glanced around for a weapon but saw only rope and net and winches. Everything heavy was attached to the deck. When she looked back, the fisherman was gone. She heard sounds from the cabin. If Sosi were here, she’d be able to speak with him. Had she escaped? Vera hoped so. The girl could return to her family, she thought. At least Sosi had somewhere to go.
Quickly she disentangled herself and moved to the side of the boat nearest the shore. It didn’t seem impossibly far, but she had never learned to swim. The water was choppy and looked cold, the color of iron. She would have a better chance against the fisherman, she thought. She wondered if he could swim.
Just then he returned. In one hand he held a cup, in the other, a tinned copper bowl and a spoon. He extended them to her, not approaching.
Vera moved cautiously forward and took the cup. She gulped the water and returned the empty cup. The man put the beans down, took the cup, and disappeared inside the cabin. The moment he was gone, Vera grabbed the bowl and began to eat. The oily beans tasted better than anything she could have imagined.
The man returned with a full cup and watched while she ate and drank, the expression on his face that of a hunter sighting a fox and not wishing to scare it off. Vera kept her eye on him. He was around seventeen, with matted brown hair and hazel eyes, the outlines of a boy still visible beneath his weather-chapped face.
When she finished, she put the bowl and cup on the deck between them and said in her poor Turkish, “Thank you.”
The man looked startled, then a sweet smile dawned on his face. “You’re welcome.” His voice was surprisingly gentle. “You are lost?”
Vera stumbled into the doorway of Agopian Brothers Publishing House. Her feet were wrapped in makeshift boots that the fisherman had fashioned from sailcloth and bound to her feet with as much care as if she had been his sister. He had left her at Eminönü pier and she had made her way through the back alleys up the hill to Bab-i Ali. It was midmorning as she pushed open the entry door.
“No beggars,” the doorkeeper announced, flapping his hands at her.
She drew herself up and said in French. “I’m here to see Monsieur Agopian.”
Staring at her tattered clothes and filthy rag-bound feet, the doorkeeper asked her name.
“Lena Balian.”
39
Running through the dark toward the vineyard where Vali’s light had disappeared, Feride stumbled and nearly fell. She twisted her head in the direction of the sound that had spooked her and tried to calm herself. It was probably a dog, she thought, embarrassed by her overreaction. Just then a powerful arm encircled her waist and lifted her off the ground. She tried to scream, but a hand covered her mouth. Fear took over her body, which in its rage to be free, arched and bucked. She tried to bite, but her teeth only grazed the beefy palm pressed against her mouth. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe and struggled frantically until the man, realizing the source of her distress, moved his hand from her nose.
This brush with death had the effect of banishing Feride’s panic. In order not to die, she realized, she needed her wits. Ignoring her racing heart, she tried to look about her. They were moving through the vineyard, the man dragging Feride under his arm, another man keeping pace beside him. The moon’s dim light revealed the tortured shapes of bare grape stocks. Where were Nissim and Vali and her companions? She had been only a moment behind them. Surely they would notice her missing and return to look for her.
“Are you sure this is the pasha’s wife?” the man holding her asked.
“Has to be,” Feride heard the other man say. “She’s the only woman in the group.”
“Tell me again why we’re bothering with his wife? I don’t think she knows where her husband is.”
“Well, we can’t find him either. Do you want to go back and face the commander with empty hands?”
“I guess not.”
The men spoke in city dialects, Feride noticed. They weren’t peasants or common highwaymen. Who was their commander? Who would even know her, or that she was here? What did they want with Huseyin? She was shocked by the realization that the men holding her had likely murdered the patient in the Valide Mosque hospital, thinking he was Huseyin.
She sagged to her knees, forcing them to stop. The hand over her mouth slipped momentarily, and she managed to emit a loud bleat. She had to alert the others. Nissim and Vali would put these men to flight in an instant. Then she heard it-shouts and the muffled thud of bodies. A man cried out. Was that Vali? Had they been attacked too?
Cursing, the man picked her up and, holding her tightly against his chest, set off at a fast pace toward the edge of a forest. One arm was grasped tightly by the man who carried her, but with some experimentation, she found she could move her head and the arm pressed against his chest. She lowered her head and raised her arm so that she could pluck from the side of her veil the sharp needle that pinned it closed around her face. It took several tries. When the pin was in her hand, she leaned back so she could see the face of the man carrying her. This close up, she thought he too looked afraid. Then she thrust the needle backhanded at whatever it might reach.