Yorg Pasha, like the sultan, preferred Albanian guards because they were noted for their fearlessness and prowess with arms, but many had not learned the local language beyond what was required for their duties. Vera hoped they wouldn’t notice Apollo’s accented Turkish. Even if they did, Apollo had reassured her, Ottoman officers could hail from anywhere in the vast empire, so it wouldn’t matter much.
“I have orders.” Apollo’s firm voice carried across the pier to the ship. She saw him whip out a case, extract a document, and hand it to the guard. The man took it but didn’t look at it. Perhaps he couldn’t read, Vera thought anxiously. Instead the guard barked out a name, and, after a few moments, a man emerged from a small house adjoining the storage area. The house was faced by neatly tended rosebushes, a contrast with the rumpled appearance of its inhabitant, an unshaven, jowly man in his fifties. He looked out at the ship, then shuffled over to the guards.
He said something to the captain as the guard handed him the document.
“This is urgent business,” the captain responded tersely, his voice loud and officious.
The clerk took the document and twisted his head to read it in the half-light. Apollo and one of the men on board who was an engraver had labored hours over a forgery of Yorg Pasha’s seal. The clerk squinted at the captain and waved the document. Vera couldn’t hear what he was saying, but she feared their subterfuge had been discovered. She saw Apollo’s lieutenant, a young Armenian named Yedo, adjust his rifle.
Apollo reached for the document. The clerk hesitated, then, to Vera’s relief, gave it back to him and turned to instruct the guards. Apollo was already striding toward the warehouse doors. Vera saw the clerk shrug and pull his robe around him as if he were cold, then shuffle back to his house. As soon as the door shut behind him, a neat file of uniformed men emerged from the ship and marched in formation down the pier. Vera remained behind as lookout.
Before long, a line of men moved between the warehouse and the ship, where they wrestled the barrels onboard and stowed them. The Albanian guards stood idly by, smoking. It took less than an hour to load all fifty barrels.
By the time they were done and had cast off, it was fully dark. From the deck, Vera could see a light bloom in the clerk’s window. The tension was unbearable. She couldn’t believe they had pulled it off and expected at any moment to see a pursuing warship in their wake.
“Hush,” Apollo whispered to the excited group that clustered around him, all discipline forgotten. “Sound carries at this time of day.” He grinned at Vera as he stripped off the captain’s jacket that, at these close quarters, revealed its patchwork nature. The fifteen comrades embraced her and one another in barely restrained joy. One waved his fiddle in anticipation.
The engine huffed and the gears meshed as the steamboat headed up the Bosphorus toward the Black Sea and Trabzon. Strapped in its belly were a thousand rifles, pistols, and ammunition-the full shipment that had been confiscated by the police and then, to Apollo’s great advantage, released by the authorities to be stored in Yorg Pasha’s warehouse. This many rifles, he had told Vera, would ensure the survival of the commune. When they reached the open waters of the Black Sea, Vera allowed herself to breathe.
69
The Minister of Justice, Nizam Pasha, received Kamil in his private suite at the ministry, which resembled a library. On every wall books and manuscripts climbed neatly to the ceiling. Kamil breathed in the familiar smell of leather and parchment that reminded him of his father, who also had surrounded himself with books. As a boy Kamil felt jealous of the books his father read and wished he would pay attention to him instead. But before long, Kamil had discovered an entirely new geography of feeling within those leather-bound volumes and found solace there. He felt little of that peace now, having been summoned by the minister of justice to discuss his upcoming trial for the murder of Sosi. He stood just inside the door, trying to marshal his thoughts.
The minister was dressed in an old-fashioned black wool robe and sat in an armchair beside a low table on which were piled papers and books, all of them clearly in use, the only sign of disorder in the office. He regarded Kamil steadily behind a curl of smoke from the chibouk pipe in his hand, his expression unreadable. Nizam Pasha gestured toward a chair facing him. “Sit, Kamil Pasha.”
“Thank you, Minister.” An invitation to sit in the presence of Nizam Pasha was a good sign, Kamil decided, relaxing slightly and taking a seat. He kept his eyes respectfully lowered.
“So, how was Bekiraga Prison?”
“Not to be recommended, Your Excellency.” A lingering cough still woke Kamil at night.
“You should know that there has been great outrage at your mistreatment. That includes myself. We cannot have men of our class subjected to such abuse. I can’t imagine what possessed Vizier Köraslan to authorize it.” He took a long pull at his pipe. “Yorg Pasha and some other powerful friends of your father, may he rest in peace, have opened a front to clear your name.”
“I’m honored that they think me worthy of their attention,” Kamil said, wondering who his defenders were and feeling an enormous sense of relief and gratitude.
“I’d like to know, between us, did you kill the girl, Sosi?”
“Of course not,” Kamil’s head jerked up in outrage. He saw a faint look of amusement pass over the minister’s face.
“Then how did your watch get in the dead girl’s hand?”
“I noticed my watch missing after I visited the Akrep commander, Vahid, the day before the girl was found dead.”
The minister’s pipe stopped halfway to his mouth. “How is Akrep relevant to this?”
Kamil wondered how much Nizam Pasha knew about what was going on in Akrep’s basement behind the walls of Yildiz Palace. He thought about the room Rejep, the policeman, had described seeing, furnished with restraints, tools of torture, and a viewing gallery.
“I believe Vahid to be responsible for the murder.”
“That’s convenient. Did you give him your watch?”
“He collided with me at the door as I was leaving his office. He could have taken it from my pocket then.”
“You’re saying that the Akrep commander pickpocketed you?” The minister ventured a dry smile.
Kamil shrugged. “It’s the only explanation.”
“You understand that you’re making a serious accusation. Do you have any evidence for it?”
Kamil took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to the minister. “This corner of a document was found in a room in the basement of Akrep headquarters,” Kamil said. “We believe it’s part of the passport of a Russian woman, Vera Arti, who we know was being held there.”
Nizam Pasha approached the window and examined the torn piece of paper in the light. “How did you get this?”
“With the help of the police. We were looking for the woman.” Kamil didn’t explain who Vera Arti was or why they were searching for her. He saw that Nizam Pasha had noticed this omission.
“Did you find her?” Nizam Pasha asked, giving Kamil a long look.
“We believe she escaped before our arrival. However, the police examined the basement. One of the rooms appears to have been used for torture.” Kamil described the viewing gallery. “That’s where the police found this.” He indicated the piece of paper in the minister’s hand.
The minister said nothing, but Kamil saw his face tighten with anger and disgust. He held up the scrap of paper. “And what does this have to do with the girl, Sosi?”
Kamil had no answer. Yet he was certain that Sosi too had been held in Akrep’s basement. He told Nizam Pasha about the cut wounds on the English nanny Bridget’s arm made by a mysterious “policeman,” whose description matched Vahid’s exactly. “The cuts on the nanny’s arm were similar to those found on the dead girl’s body.”