An Evil Eye

115

“ I am sure you can appreciate your friends’ position,” Fevzi Ahmet said. “The ambassador made an effort to rearrange it, but you see I was able to change his mind.”

Palewski spoke without turning his head. “I’m sorry, Yashim. I thought it was you earlier, on the stairs.”

Yashim tasted bile in his mouth.

The pasha smiled. “I won’t detain them longer than necessary.”

“Necessary for what?”

“Securing your cooperation.”

Fevzi Ahmet folded his arms. In ten years his face had grown thinner, and his hair was gray. He had lost some of the thuggish beauty that had attracted the late Sultan Mahmut to him, but his black eyes were as deep and cold as ever.

What do you want?”

“Just put your hands up, over your head.”

Yashim glanced at Marta. Her eyes flickered toward him as he lifted his hands. He saw her jaw clench, and her eyes rolled upward. She blinked slowly, then looked at Palewski, and forced a little smile.

Palewski rubbed the tablecloth with his fingertips and held her gaze.

“You wonder why I have risked coming back to Istanbul?”

“Of course.”

Fevzi Ahmet considered him for a while.

Yashim glanced back at Marta. Kadri: Kadri wasn’t here. He was upstairs. Asleep.

“Just before I left with the fleet,” Fevzi Ahmet said, “one of Galytsin’s agents came to see me. He brought me some unwelcome news.”

“A Baltic German, blond, scarred. He was blackmailing you. You killed him.”

Fevzi’s eyes were like snow holes. “Four out of five. You’re losing your touch.”

Fevzi Pasha sat down in Palewski’s armchair, making Yashim wince. He picked up the poker and riddled the fire. A log crashed down, emitting a shower of sparks. “I need your help.”

“You seem to have help already,” Yashim said, nodding to the man with the gun.

“Oh yes, the caiquejees. Splendidly loyal, I must say, to one of their own. But I’m afraid this is rather beyond them. Beyond any man, except you.”

Yashim frowned. “Why me?”

Fevzi Ahmet let out an exasperated sigh, and stabbed the fire. “Four years ago, when I was promoted to Kapudan pasha, the Russians approached me with an offer.”

“I thought it was earlier than that,” Yashim said drily. “Saint Petersburg? Ten years, at least.”

“Saint Petersburg, Yashim.” Fevzi Ahmet frowned. “The Russians gave me a whore…?”

Yashim looked at him. “You gave Batoumi away.”

“Batoumi was already lost. My job was to let it go.”

“What do you mean, it was your job? To exchange Batoumi for a woman?”

A flash of irritation crossed Fevzi Ahmet’s face. “I took my instructions from the grand vizier. They didn’t involve you-and I thought you were too green. Perhaps you still are.” He fixed Yashim with a stare. “Ironic, isn’t it? Now I need your help.”

“So you say. Four years ago, what offer did the Russians make?”

“Galytsin made me an expensive offer, in return for news. My inactivity.” He shrugged. “All that matters is that I turned them down.”

“Oh?”

“The Russians are hard, Yashim. I didn’t reckon on the cost of ignoring them. A few weeks later my home was burned to the ground.” Fevzi Pasha clinked the poker against the grate. “My wife was inside. A concubine, and the old lala who looked after them.” He paused. “And my daughter, too.”

Yashim looked away.

“But I saved her, Yashim.”

Yashim glanced up quickly. Fevzi Pasha’s eyes were bright with triumph.

“Yes-I saved her. The lala dropped her into my arms.”