An Evil Eye

85

But Palewski’s Jesuits, however fallible, proved right about Fevzi Pasha.

At nightfall an Ottoman cutter swept in beneath Seraglio Point to deliver a trembling lieutenant at the gates of the grand vizier’s offices.

“I have urgent intelligence for the grand vizier!” he cried. “I have news of the fleet!”

The old vizier listened impassively as the lieutenant outlined the series of events, but his face grew pale.

“He took the fleet into port?”

“Yes, my pasha. We were out on patrol, so we received no orders. He sailed into Alexandria, and there was nothing. No firing.”

Husrev Pasha wiped a hand across his face. “Your actions will not be forgotten, young man. You have a report in writing?”

The lieutenant produced his report, and Husrev laid it on the pile beside him.

“Tell me, lieutenant, how many men have you aboard your ship?”

“Fifteen, my pasha.”

“Good men? Loyal?”

“They strained every nerve to reach Istanbul. Unswerving, my pasha, in their devotion to the sultan’s service.”

“Your words gladden my heart. They know, then, what you have just told me?”

The lieutenant bowed. “They witnessed it. They were as stupefied as I was.”

“Of course.” Husrev’s fingers moved out for the bell. Reluctantly.

“Shall I bring the ship in now, my pasha?”

The pasha nodded thoughtfully. “Your cutter has not docked?”

“I’ve held her in the channel, awaiting your orders.”

Husrev’s fingers relaxed. “Rejoin your men. Isn’t there some flag to run up the mast when you have pestilence aboard?”

“Pestilence, my pasha?”

Husrev waved a hand. “Typhoid. The plague. A yellow flag? I’ve seen it.”

“The yellow flag is used for ships in quarantine, my pasha.”

“That’s it. Take your cutter, anchor in the Marmara roads, and fly that flag. Don’t let a soul on or off your ship. I’ll see that you get supplied. And rewarded, too.”

Light broke on the young lieutenant’s face. “We are loyal men.”

“Your loyalty is not questioned. Do exactly what I have said.”

When the young lieutenant-what was his name? — had gone, the grand vizier sat for a few minutes rubbing his eyes and pondering the news he had just heard.

He rang a bell.

“Send to the palace at Besiktas. Inform the sultan-wake him, if necessary-that the grand vizier has summoned the divan. A matter of urgency. His presence would be-advisable.”

Years ago-in another century, another life-Husrev Pasha had spent a summer with his uncle, driving a mule train across the Balkans. The tracks were bad, often blocked by falls of stone and scree, so that young Husrev had been sure they would have to turn back. His uncle, though, had simply stamped up to the rockfalls and let his eyes wander over the mountainside, probing the ground with his stick. “The road is blocked? Then we must turn the blockage into our road,” he used to say. Eventually he would wave his nephew to come on with the lead mule.

That was how Husrev came to Sarajevo, and was recruited into the army.

Now, as he sat contemplating this new obstacle in his way, he leaned over and cracked his huge knuckles, one after another, holding his hands close to his belly.

The fleet was gone. Out of a clear blue sky, if the lieutenant was to be believed, Fevzi Pasha had simply turned over his command to the Egyptians.

And I am an old Bosniac who fears the sea.

Husrev’s position-perhaps his very life-hung in the balance. It counted for nothing that the decision to deploy the fleet had been taken by the late sultan. Fevzi’s defection was a blow to the empire’s pride, not to mention the public purse-and it had happened on his watch.

Worst of all, Fevzi’s defection left Istanbul defenseless against an invader.

Husrev snorted through his nose, like a seal blowing air. The Russians had been here before. Who could say that they would not come again?

The Ottomans were afraid of Russia. She pressed against their borders, roamed their seas, bullied them, protected them and took her price. Russia’s designs on Istanbul itself-Constantinople, the jewel in the Orthodox crown-were an open secret.

Husrev cracked his knuckles again.

He rang the bell. His uncle was long dead. “I want to see Yashim,” he said.

Then he glanced up.

Yashim was already there.