“An excellent idea. I would appreciate your unbiased impression,” the sultan told Kamil earnestly. “I had been under the impression that this was a revolutionary movement that required a military response, but if indeed this is a peaceful valley and the socialists are not pawns of the Russians, as my advisers have told me, then I would be committing an unforgivable crime.” The sultan’s voice rose by a fraction, but given his previously measured speech, it gave the effect of shouting. “It is haram to spill innocent blood, and may Allah preserve me from it.”
The vizier looked very uncomfortable. Kamil realized he had made another powerful enemy. Kamil had caused the sultan to question the vizier’s judgment, and he would never forgive that. But Kamil realized he had a more immediate problem. It seemed the sultan had taken the vizier at his word.
“Go and find out the truth of the matter yourself,” the sultan continued, “then report back. I’ll put a company of my household cavalry under your command, and you can take one of the royal steamers. I’ll give the order to crush the revolt in thirty days unless you convince me otherwise.”
Kamil held his breath. “The mountains are inaccessible now in high winter, Your Highness.”
“Very well, bring me news by the end of March. You’ll be able to get through by then, and so will my troops,” he added meaningfully.
When the sultan raised a finger from the arm of his chair, the vizier stepped forward and told Kamil brusquely, “You may withdraw.”
“One more thing, Your Highness,” Kamil said hurriedly. “With regard to the threat…”
“The impertinence,” the vizier shouted. “You have been dismissed.” He beckoned the guards.
The sultan raised his finger again, at which all movement in the room ceased. “Go on, Kamil Pasha.”
Kamil felt the sweat run down his sides. “Your Highness, I wish you health and long life. It is my duty to warn you against trusting your source in this. I believe it is possible that the Akrep commander is planning an attack in order to gain your trust by appearing to save you from harm.”
Sultan Abdulhamid’s face showed no trace of emotion. He stared at Kamil, deep in thought.
“On what evidence do you base this serious accusation?” Vizier Köraslan asked, outraged.
“No concrete evidence, my lord. Some words said, that in themselves might mean nothing but that together with other things I’ve learned indicate at least a need for caution.”
“You’re both working on this bank robbery, you and Vahid,” the vizier said, as if the explanation were dawning in his mind. “So you think that by undermining his reputation, you’ll get him out of the way and take the credit for yourself. How despicable,” he growled. “The bigger crime is that you have wasted the padishah’s precious time.”
“You forget yourself.” The sultan addressed the vizier in a neutral voice without even a glance in his direction, but the man immediately fell to his knees, his forehead to the carpet, and apologized abjectly.
“Get up,” he told the vizier. “Your warning is noted, Kamil Pasha. I’ll expect to hear from you by the end of March.”
Kamil murmured the formulas of departure from such an august personage, ending with a call to Allah to rain blessings on the sultan. Head lowered, he backed slowly out of the room to avoid the unforgivable offense of showing one’s back to the padishah, the Shadow of God on Earth.
The meeting with the sultan had left him with an equal mixture of elation and unease. The sultan had listened to his warning, but Kamil had made an enemy of Vizier Köraslan, the second most powerful man in the empire. He would never forgive Kamil for having witnessed his humiliation. And Vahid would probably take Kamil’s accusation about him to the sultan as a declaration of war. Still, Kamil felt satisfied that he had at least postponed an attack on the valley and the commune, even at the price of his having to make the journey east himself. He considered the reprieve he had gained of almost three months. Although the mountains of eastern Anatolia would be snowbound even in March, he would have plenty of time to prepare.
He now thought of Feride and Elif, who had been gone since the day before with no word. He reached into his pocket for his watch but didn’t find it. In the confusion of the past few days, he must have left it at home. Feride and Elif had probably visited a friend and spent the night, he told himself-not surprising given the snow and fog. He should stop worrying.
A flash of orange in a corner of the palace garden caught his eye. He approached and found a tree festooned with kumquats. Kamil picked one and scratched the skin with his fingernail, then held it to his nose and inhaled the citrus scent. Why exactly was he going to the east? His duty was to capture Gabriel and return the gold to the bank. But his ultimate purpose now, it seemed, was to produce proof of the commune’s innocence and preserve the valley from harm. Wouldn’t that be akin to proving the innocence of thieves? He wondered at his own logic.
41
Vahid thrust the window open to let out the smoke that hovered like a noxious cloud in the room. Then he opened the stove door, blew on the embers, and added a ragged chunk of coal. He emerged coughing and wiped his fingers on a rag.
Socialists. Vizier Köraslan had summoned him to ask about socialists, implying that he was wrong about an Armenian revolt brewing in the Choruh Valley. Despite the cold, Vahid was sweating beneath the collar of his wool jacket. He didn’t think Vizier Köraslan would dare demote him, but he needed the vizier’s goodwill and trust if he wanted to become head of the secret service. Sultan Abdulhamid was sending Kamil Pasha to the valley. Vahid would have to make sure that what the pasha discovered when he arrived were armed Armenian revolutionaries. That meant Vahid would have to go east himself to make sure that no one remained alive who could contradict the vision of the valley he had spun for the vizier and, through him, the sultan.
He took off his jacket, folded it neatly, and laid it over the back of a chair. A lace doily, yellow and stiff with age, fluttered to the floor. He picked it up and threw it into the stove.
His mother was asleep in her chair, gnarled fingers tangled in her tatting, snoring softly through lips that hung slightly open. His mother’s lips reminded Vahid of worms after a rainstorm, and he turned away. No wonder his father had preferred the Greek woman. He chided himself for the thought.
Rhea’s lips came to his mind, plump cushions that she had a habit of pursing as if she were sucking on hard candy. He wondered what Lena Balian’s lips tasted like. When his men picked her up again, he would find out. There was no place in Istanbul where she could hide. She had the same pink translucent fingernails as Rhea, and her hair curled around his finger like a baby’s fist. He had smelled her fear and it aroused him. The smoke from the stove brought to his mind the smell of charred flesh. He strode into the kitchen, picked up a knife, and pressed the point against the palm of his hand just hard enough to hurt without breaking the skin.
That bitch Sosi had waited until his men were on a tea break and had let Lena Balian out. Where had Sosi gotten the keys? It had been a mistake to keep her alive. She was too clever. He didn’t like clever girls. He should never have sent her into Lena’s room with food. Women couldn’t be trusted.
“Are you back?” he heard his mother call.
“Yes, Mama, I’m back,” he answered, trying to keep his voice even. He poured water from a clay jar into the belly of the samovar and lit the flame beneath it. “Would you like some tea?”
42
Vera sat on a velvet-covered sofa in the publisher’s parlor, dressed in his daughter’s clothes. His wife fussed over her, refilling her tea and extending a plate of savory pastries. She was a comfortable-looking matron with snow-white hair swept up in a cloud above her face. Her daughter, with the same heart-shaped face, sat across the room, smiling at Vera, unable to hide the curiosity in her eyes.