An Evil Eye

29

“ Balzac!” Palewski exclaimed, as Yashim came in. “Acceptable in small doses, with brandy. I thought you’d never come.”

“It’s Thursday,” Yashim objected. “I always come.”

“I know,” Palewski said, tossing the book aside. “You have nobody else to cook for.”

Yashim raised an eyebrow. “The Prophet, may he be praised, instructed the faithful to give charity,” he replied, turning to the kitchen. “Especially to the friendless.”

“Litwo! Ojczyzno moja! ty jeste jak zdrowie,” Palewski declaimed. “I am alone in a foreign land.”

While Yashim set out the dishes, Palewski grumbled about the new bridge. “Ghastly. I had hoped, with the Kapudan pasha away with the fleet, that work would grind to a halt. No such thing-it’s all modern methods now.” He picked up a slice of stuffed mackerel and held it in midair. “You look tired, Yashim.”

Yashim gave him a weary smile. “Husrev Pasha thought the Russians should know about their missing friend. The Fox was not very informative.”

“And the Totenkopf?”

“He barely reacted. Picked up the skin and dropped it into the wastepaper basket.”

“The Galytsins, Yashim, have lied for the tsar since the time of Ivan the Terrible. I once met a fellow who had been tutored in the Galytsin house. He said even their tutor told lies. Alexander Petrovich was a very good pupil, apparently.” He ate the mackerel dolma. “Why did Husrev decide to let them know?”

Yashim shrugged. “In the interest of neighborly relations. Better it came from us than from the little man on the ferry.”

“Hmm.” Palewski reached for another dolma. “A Russian murdered on the islands. Russian ambassador demanding explanations. A useful little crisis for the grand vizier.”

“Useful?”

“Dust in the sultan’s eyes, Yashim. Something to frighten him a bit. Husrev wants to show his mettle. You’d almost think that if this crisis hadn’t arisen, he’d have been tempted to invent it himself.”

Yashim shook his head. “The man had been in the water for weeks. Husrev Pasha couldn’t have known the sultan was about to die.”

“We all knew, Yashim.”

“Not to the day. Not to the week.”

Palewski sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Husrev’s no shrinking violet, but getting a Russian agent killed on the off chance? It’s too much.” He reached for another dolma. “And in the middle of nowhere, too.”

“Chalki?”

“It’s an island, for goodness’ sake. A place you go to escape the heat, or for Greek lovers to meet by prearranged chance.”

Yashim nodded. “That’s been bothering me. Chalki is only for monks and fishermen.” He picked up a cabbage leaf stuffed with pine nuts and rice. “I’d understand if a Russian military agent ended up dead in a Tophane backstreet. But Chalki’s a trap for the killer.”

“True.” Palewski pursed his lips. “Why not meet in the Belgrade woods-or in a quiet cafe up the Bosphorus?”

Yashim blinked. “Because Chalki was where they had to meet.”

Palewski looked perplexed. “Had to meet, Yash?”

“Obviously, yes, if the Russian came to meet someone who was on Chalki already.”

“One of the monks?”

Yashim wasn’t thinking of the monks.

His mind roved back to that afternoon on the rocks, among the Greek fishermen.

“Tomatoes!” Yashim slumped back into the chair. “The pasha’s mansion-that konak, among the trees.”

“The garden of forbidden fruit? The fisherman said it was empty.”

“That’s not quite what he said. He said the pasha had gone away.”

“He did, you’re right. What pasha?”

“The Kapudan pasha,” Yashim said slowly. “He took the fleet off, before the sultan died.”

The admiral of the Ottoman fleet was always known as the Kapudan pasha: the term was from capitano, borrowed-like so many other Ottoman nautical words-from the seafarers of Italy.

“The Kapudan pasha? Fevzi Ahmet, of the ghastly bridge?”

Yashim sank his head into his hands. “Fevzi Ahmet Pasha,” he murmured. “Commander of the fleet. I should have known.”

“Known what, Yash?”

“That he could do a thing like this.”

Palewski raised an eyebrow. “I had no idea you knew him.”

“Oh, yes,” Yashim replied softly. “I knew him-very well.”