An Evil Eye

17

“ It seems we have two options.” The grand vizier raised his heavy lids. “Instinctively I would prefer to do nothing.”

Yashim coughed politely. “The Russians almost certainly know what happened.”

The vizier blew through his nostrils. “Your little friend on the boat.”

“If he was working for them-”

The vizier waved a hand. “Yes, yes. You know the situation with Russia is delicate. We have certain treaties, certain… obligations.”

Yashim knew how heavily the Russians pressed upon the empire. For decades they had advanced steadily south, dislodging the Ottomans from the northern coast of the Black Sea. Tartary was theirs, and the Crimea, too. Their navy now cruised in what had been an Ottoman lake, the Black Sea. That was humiliation enough; but then the Egyptians had attacked.

In 1836 Mehmet Ali Pasha’s well-trained Egyptian army swept up the Mediterranean coast. Sidon, Acre, Beirut, had all fallen to the overmighty vassal of the sultan, who had appealed in desperation to the only power capable of protecting Istanbul.

The tsar and his generals had been only too happy to assist. The Russians had moved closer to Istanbul-and politely withdrew when the danger was past.

“Meanwhile,” the vizier added, “we have lost one sultan, and gained another.”

He stared at Yashim as he might stare at a spot on the wall, thinking.

The silence extended. One minute. Two minutes.

“You will inform the Russians,” the vizier said finally. His eyes regained their focus and he gave Yashim a rare, and rueful, smile. “Perhaps that will be the last decision I make.”

“I hope not, my pasha,” Yashim replied.