“A telegram.” He handed it to Kamil.
Kamil read it, his expression darkening. “It’s from Yorg Pasha. There’s been an attempt on the sultan’s life by Henchak Armenians. The sultan was spared and is in good health, praise be to Allah.”
“You think your friend Vahid set that up?”
“Of course. It was just the push the sultan needed to send his army east.” Kamil waved the telegram. “It says here that a punitive expedition is being sent. Not just to the commune but to the region.”
“Just coincidentally while the sultan’s envoy, Kamil Pasha, is here,” Omar said venomously. “Vahid’s after you too.”
“He’s after much bigger prey. Vahid thinks he can get the sultan in his pocket by warning him that he’s in danger, that the empire’s in danger, and then miraculously saving them.”
“He already plays Vizier Köraslan like a puppet.” Omar danced his fingers around. “I wonder what he has on the old fellow.” He told Kamil about the kidnapping and murder last year of a young man, a friend of the vizier’s son. “There was never any evidence that he was kidnapped, but there are plenty of rumors that Köraslan’s son killed him.”
Kamil frowned. “I can’t believe Vizier Köraslan would go along with a cover-up.”
“Not even if the alternative was arresting his only son and losing his family’s reputation?”
Kamil held up the telegram. “We have to warn the commune. Those people must leave immediately.”
“Fine, we tell the socialists to pick up their tails and wag them out of here. But what about the local people?”
“I’ll inform the governor, but I can’t imagine the army would attack peaceful towns like Trabzon or Ispir.” Kamil took out his map. He estimated that the town of Ispir was about seven days’ travel, not far from the site of the commune but separated by mountainous terrain. “All right,” he announced, putting the telegram aside. “We’ll stop here for a day, then push on to Ispir.”
Omar picked up the telegram and read it again. “Did you see the date?” he asked, his voice tense. He held it out to Kamil. “This arrived a week ago. If the sultan sent troops, they could be here by now.”
Kamil looked at the date, then called out, “Yakup.” When his servant appeared at the door, Kamil told him in an urgent voice, “We move out tomorrow at first light. Get everything ready. We’ll need animals and supplies.” He began to fold the map. “Omar, go tell the soldiers. We’ll need a local guide.”
“Damn. I could have used some decent food,” Omar announced, patting his belly.
“You, the tough old soldier!” Kamil teased him. “I thought you could live on boiled boot leather. You’ve become too fond of your wife’s cooking.”
Omar didn’t respond and stalked out, leaving Kamil wondering whether the police chief had taken offense.
Later, over a meal of stewed lamb, Omar said between bites, “That explains all the goodwill and offers of free merchandise in the shops. The whole town has known about the contents of the telegram for a week. They’re expecting the worst. They probably think we’re the punitive expedition. People are practically throwing their valuables at me as I walk down the street.”
Kamil was appalled. “I hope you didn’t accept any of it.”
“Of course not,” Omar announced in an aggrieved voice, turning away. “What do you think I am?”
“If we convince Gabriel and his associates to leave, that should solve the problem. They’re the ones Vahid has accused of starting a rebellion. It’s absurd. They’re socialists. Why would the Russians help the very people threatening the czar’s government?”
“That’s why Vahid is calling them Armenian rebels and not mentioning the socialist part to the sultan. Our padishah isn’t dumb.”
“That puts the rest of the Armenian population here in danger too.”
“Didn’t you say the sultan was sending Kurdish irregulars?” Elif’s voice startled the men. They hadn’t heard her enter the room. She sat down and picked up a spoon. “You can’t put a boiled sweet in a child’s mouth and then hope to take it out again. The only thing that will stop men like that is a direct order from Istanbul, and even then…” She let the sentence dangle. “Some men just can’t let go.”
Kamil and Omar stared at her.
76
Almost all the commune gathered by the fire to listen to Apollo’s lecture. Tonight he was discussing the philosophy of fate versus free will. Vera sat outside the circle, wrapped in her quilt, watching Apollo’s profile and eloquent hands as he held his audience spellbound, as much with his charisma and melodious voice as by what he had to tell them. The lectures had begun informally. Whenever Apollo explained something, a group had gathered around him. Two weeks later, they had become regular events. Only Gabriel was absent, haunting the storerooms, chopping wood, like a spooked horse, too restless to think about anything other than survival. They had not made love since Vera’s arrival. He came to her every night after she had fallen asleep, curved himself around her, and held her close. When she woke, he was already gone, but she felt the trace of warmth where he had pressed against her. They had had almost no time to talk, beyond exchanging the most necessary information. She had begun to want him again. Her blood coursed more freely as his warmth and his presence, faint though it was, became familiar.
There was a commotion at the door. The landlord, Levon, strode into the hall, followed by five tall, broad-backed men dressed in furs, their heads wrapped in red cloths.
Gabriel hurried over to welcome them. Vera watched from the shadows.
“This is my son, Taniel,” Levon announced, indicating the young man beside him. Father and son resembled each other, both sporting enormous mustaches, Levon’s yellow with age and nicotine, his son’s brown and luxuriant. Neither smiled, their hard eyes roaming the room. Vera could see that they weren’t impressed by what they saw.
Gabriel seated them near the fire on the best quilts. The commune had neither carpets nor proper cushions. Victor and Apollo joined them, and the men talked for a while in Armenian. To Vera, the visitors’ tone seemed peremptory.
A platter of rice and grilled game was placed before the men on a low tray, but they didn’t eat. This, Vera knew, was a bad sign.
Instead Levon said, “We have news from Trabzon. There was an attempt on Sultan Abdulhamid’s life by Henchak Armenians. The sultan is going to attack us in revenge.” He fixed Gabriel with an accusing stare. “Why are we being punished for something that happened on the other side of the empire?” Levon pushed the tray aside and stood. The platter of food clattered to the floor. His voice rose accusingly. “We know who these Henchaks are.” He looked around the hall, where members of the commune were rising to their feet in alarm. “They’re right here, playing innocent farmers. Do you think we’re stupid shepherds, that we don’t know what’s going on in the world?”
He marched over to a barrel top that was being used as a tray and held it up. “This is Henchak,” he said, pointing to the figure of an ax daubed in red on the wood. “You are Henchaks.” He dropped the tray and regarded the stunned faces in the room. “You are all fools. You are dead fools.”
“Please calm down,” Gabriel said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I told you we are socialists. Some of us are Armenians, that’s true, but not Henchaks. Look at us.” He swept his hand about the hall. “We’re from everywhere.”
Taniel approached Gabriel, his hand on his knife. “You’re lying.”
Apollo conferred with Gabriel in rapid Russian.
“Why are you speaking Russian?” Taniel demanded.
Vera heard the click of rifles being cocked. Levon’s men had taken up positions at the back of the room.
“Let’s just leave them to be killed, Father,” Taniel remarked over his shoulder. “Why bother with them?”