The Abyssinian Proof

31

Tailor Pepo’s establishment was down a covered passage off the Rue de Pera that was crammed with shops selling bolts of cloth, ribbons, thread, buttons, and other items needed in the trade. It was only eight in the morning, but Tailor Pepo already stood at a long table, measuring lengths from a bolt of fine white linen. Three apprentices took up the rest of the small room, each hunched over a shirt, needle in hand. They looked up surreptitiously when Kamil entered, but immediately returned their attention to their work.

“Welcome, Kamil Pasha,” the old man said in a voice so low Kamil could barely hear him. “Sorry.” He pointed to his throat. “Doctor says I have a growth. Doesn’t bother me, but can’t speak.”

Kamil thought the tailor had aged since he had last come in six months earlier to be measured for a shirt. The man’s face was gray and his white hair had begun to yellow as if stained with nicotine. He began to cough and one of the apprentices brought him a glass of water.

“Sit. Sit.” Tailor Pepo pointed to a stool.

Kamil explained that he was looking for someone he thought might be a customer of the shop. He took the silver money clip out of his pocket and laid it on the cutting table. The eyes of the apprentices flashed curiously in their direction.

Tailor Pepo picked up the clip and ran his hands over the incised hunting scene, a leaping stag being dragged down by hounds. He turned it over. On the back was engraved the initial M.

“Monsieur Owen,” he said.

Kamil leaned in to hear him better.

“A cruel scene, n’est-ce pas?” He leaned close to Kamil’s ear. “I didn’t like this Monsieur Owen. I can tell a lot about a man by his shirts.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“He first came here about two years ago. One of my regular clients recommended him, said he was the British ambassador’s secretary.” He leaned forward. “I think he wanted to butter Monsieur Owen up for a deal.” He shook his head knowingly, then started coughing again. “I made Monsieur Owen a shirt to help my regular client, and we delivered it to my client’s address. Then six months ago, Monsieur Owen came and ordered another shirt.”

The apprentice hurried over with more water. While Tailor Pepo was drinking, the young man glanced at the money clip.

“Do you remember this?” Kamil asked him.

The apprentice looked inquiringly at the tailor, who nodded his approval.

“He gave an address in Tarla Bashou. Not that it’s a bad area, not like Galata. It’s just families in Tarla Bashou. There aren’t many Franks living there. And since Monsieur Owen said he was employed at the embassy, I found it odd.”

Tailor Pepo stood suddenly and cried out in his diminished voice, “We haven’t offered the pasha any tea.”

The apprentice leapt to the door and called down the passage, then sat down and picked up his shirt.

“With your permission,” Kamil said politely, “I’d like to ask the young man some more questions.”

“Of course. Take your time. We’re all at your service.” Tailor Pepo went back to his measuring, his scissors biting into the material with a sound like tearing silk.

A boy appeared at the door, a tray of glasses swinging from his hand on a thin metal tripod. He plucked one off and handed it to the apprentice, who placed it before Kamil.

“What else can you tell me about Monsieur Owen?”

The apprentice’s hands continued their deft needlework as he answered Kamil’s questions. “I went to Tarla Bashou to deliver the shirt. The apartment was on the second floor. I knocked but there was no answer, so I went to leave the shirt with the doorkeeper. He told me the man who rented the apartment was an agent of trade by the name of Megalos. I wanted to make sure I was delivering to the right address, so I asked him to describe the tenant. The doorkeeper said he rarely saw him, but from his description it sounded exactly like Monsieur Owen. The doorkeeper didn’t think he actually lived there but used the apartment for business. He said the neighbors were always complaining to him about bulky trunks coming in and out and blocking the stairwell. It is odd. I mean, a proper business would have a depot.”

“What do you know about business?” Tailor Pepo rasped from his cutting table.

Agents of trade were go-betweens in business deals, paper shufflers and deal makers, not shopkeepers, Kamil thought. Owen was involved in something quite different.

“There’s one more thing.” The apprentice looked uncomfortable. “It’s just gossip.” He glanced at Tailor Pepo.

“Go ahead,” the old man said. “Leaves don’t flutter unless there’s wind.”

“I heard that Monsieur Owen lost his position at the embassy last year. He was accused of taking bribes.”

Kamil remembered the previous ambassador’s daughter, Sybil, mentioning that her father had fired his secretary. Instead of returning to England, this man stayed in Istanbul and set himself up as an agent of trade.

Tailor Pepo put his hands over his ears and shook his head. “I knew it right away.”

“But he was rehired when the new ambassador arrived.”

“How do you know this?” Kamil asked.

“My brother delivers produce to the embassy kitchen, pasha.”

Kamil finished his tea, thanked Tailor Pepo, and left. In the passage, he stopped, took the money clip from his pocket and regarded the engraving, then flipped it over and looked at the initial. M for Magnus, he thought, but something else danced just offstage in his mind. Suddenly he saw it. Four lines in the shape of two mountain peaks: M.

Was this Kubalou’s brand?

Hurrying out of the passage, he took a shortcut to the British Embassy.

He waited for the ambassador’s secretary on an uncomfortable chair in the ornate receiving hall. The clerk behind the desk studiously ignored him. A clock ticked ostentatiously on the mantel. The previous ambassador had done most of his business from his rooms in the private residence at the back of the British Embassy compound, so Kamil had spent little time in the public rooms.

It gave him time to think. He was jumping to conclusions. Just because a man smoked Cuban cigars and his name had an initial that looked vaguely like a symbol cut into the bodies of dead men didn’t necessarily mean he was guilty of killing them. Malik’s name also began with an M. And perhaps all the trunks the tailor’s apprentice had talked about really were just connected to Owen’s business as an agent of trade. Why was he so ready to believe, Kamil asked himself, that Magnus Owen was Kubalou? Was it that Owen had lied about how long he had been in Istanbul? A useless lie. Kamil wouldn’t have cared one way or the other. But the lie might have stopped Kamil from discovering that Owen had been fired for taking bribes under the previous ambassador.

After half an hour, a short, harried-looking man in a well-tailored suit rushed in. He had great brown whiskers on his cheeks and a bald head, across which lay two streaks of hair that looked as if they had been painted on.

“So sorry, Mister Pasha. Or should I call you Magistrate? Never know what form of address to use here, dash it. I’m Battles, the ambassador’s secretary.”

Kamil had no idea if this was his last name, his first name, or a job description.

“Kamil,” he clarified, reaching out his hand to Battles. “I’m here in my capacity as magistrate for the Beyoglu Court.”

“Well, do come in, man,” Battles interrupted him, leading the way toward a door at the back of the hall. “I know I’ve kept you waiting, Magistrate. I do apologize.”

He swept Kamil into his office and offered him a chair. A very large desk shined to a high polish dominated the room. Three upholstered chairs were arrayed around a smaller inlaid table.

Battles sat down opposite Kamil and crossed his legs. He propped his chin on one fist in a caricature of total attention. “Now,” he said, “what can I do for you?”

“I’m here to inquire about one of your employees, a Mister Magnus Owen.”

Battles suddenly sat upright. “Why is the Ottoman court interested in Magnus Owen? Look here, what’s this all about?”

“I can’t tell you anything at the moment,” Kamil explained. “We’re in the middle of an investigation. Right now I need some information.”

“But we have a right to know,” Battles spluttered.

“You’ll be the first to be informed. I’m sure you can understand,” he said conspiratorially, “that our actions must be circumspect. I’m working together with Scotland Yard on this matter.”

“Of course. Of course.” Battles laid his finger along his nose. “No need to bother the ambassador with this yet. Scotland Yard, eh?” He looked impressed.

“Is Mister Owen here?”

Battles shot up and stuck his head out the door. “Harbinger, is Owen here?”

A moment later, he came back shaking his head. “No one’s seen him all day. Never here when you want him.” He tilted his head and looked at Kamil. “Is Owen involved in something? Drugs, eh? I won’t tell a soul.” He leaned forward intently. “I knew it. I could smell it on that man. I told the ambassador not to hire him.”

“Why did you do that?”

“He was secretary to the former ambassador, but said he had resigned. He was living locally, acting as an agent of trade. Apparently very respectable. As soon as the new ambassador arrived, Owen showed up and asked for his old job back. ‘Well, we have a secretary,’ I said. ‘Me. We don’t need a second one.’” Battles shook his head. “No, I didn’t like the man one bit. Shifty eyes. He went behind my back, convinced the ambassador he had more experience dealing with the natives. Not a lot of staff stayed over from the previous ambassador, you see, so it’s true our sea legs were a bit wobbly, but we were getting the hang of it. The ambassador hired him as cultural attaché. I couldn’t fathom it. He’s about as useful as a two-legged stool.” He leaned forward again. “And then one day I was talking to one of the men from the old days and guess what he told me? Owen hadn’t quit. He was asked to resign, for taking a bribe. Well, when I heard that, I went straight to the ambassador, but he thought it was just gossip. Seems Owen made himself useful. Speaks the local lingo, you know.” Battles shrugged. “I made the best of it. Kept him away from anything important. People like that. They think they’re one of us, but you can smell the street on them. Gives himself airs, he does, plays the gentleman, but I did some checking around.” Battles lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Born on the wrong side of the blanket. Father’s a duke. Did the right thing by him, sent him to the best schools and all that, but beyond his public school manner, Owen’s a fraud. He’s no more a gentleman than old Harbinger out there,” Battles concluded, indicating the clerk in the hall.

Kamil wondered at the depth of his venom. Why would Battles hate the man so much? There was nothing in Owen’s manner that had given Kamil cause to think ill of him. Perhaps, Kamil thought, he wasn’t as finely attuned to the narcissism of minor class differences as the British were. They seemed to have the olfactory sophistication of hunting dogs when it came to sniffing out a man’s standing. Kamil wondered whether a lifetime of harassment by his peers could drive a man to seek out associates like Remzi.

“Interesting information. Thank you,” Kamil said in a neutral voice. “Could you tell me what his duties are here at the embassy?”

“Oh, translating, reaching out to the natives, cultural understanding-misunderstanding more likely.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we don’t know what’s really said, do we? He could tell the ambassador four is five and we’d have to accept it.”

“Is he the only Turkish speaker at the embassy?” Kamil asked, shocked.

“The others all left. The old ambassador worked them to the bone, canceled their home leaves. Some of the poor buggers hadn’t seen England in three years. The new translator shipped out from London last week. Oxford trained. When he arrives, we won’t have to rely on Owen anymore. He’ll be restricted to his other duties where he can do no harm.”

“What other duties?”

“Diplomatic pouch, post, shipping. He said he had done it before, and truth be told, it’s the one thing he does well. We can always count on our post being on time.”

Kamil tried to keep the excitement from his voice. “Would you be able to obtain a list of everything he’s shipped for the embassy over the past month-what, where, when-without him knowing?”

“Certainly,” Battles said. “It might take me a week, maybe two.”

“I need it this afternoon.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

On his way out, Kamil turned back and asked, “Is Owen married?”

“I doubt it,” Battles replied. “He’s always chatting up the ladies at embassy functions. He’s a dark horse, that one. Has an apartment somewhere in the city. Never invites anyone over.” He thought a moment. “I suppose he could have a native wife. I hear they don’t mind that sort of thing.”

Kamil nodded curtly and stepped out the door before a suitable rejoinder could form on his lips.

Kamil left a police guard outside the building in Tarla Bashou, then he, the local police captain, and a fresh-faced policeman climbed the stairs to Owen’s apartment. The hall was narrow and dark, but the steps were scrubbed clean. The stairwell was fragrant with the scent of freshly baked pastry and the noon meal. Every door was slightly ajar and women peered out, their children pressing their faces through the opening.

Kamil knocked on Owen’s door.

A woman spoke from the apartment across the landing. She had a scarf draped around her face and her body was hidden behind the half-closed door. “He’s not home.”

Kamil turned toward her. “Do you know where he is? When he’ll be back?”

“He’s rarely here, but he came in late last night. He’d lost his key so the doorkeeper had to let him in. He made a lot of noise in his apartment and right before the first ezan, a carriage came and they took down some big chests. It woke me and the children up.” As if on cue, a baby began to bawl behind her. The door closed for a moment, then opened again, a bit wider. Kamil could see she had a baby in her arms. A little girl clung shyly to her mother’s shalwar.

If Owen was rarely here, Kamil thought, he must have another apartment somewhere. “Does he get a lot of visitors?”

“I’ve only seen an orange-haired man and some rough local types. They haul large chests up and down the stairs at all hours. I’m afraid one of the children will get trampled underfoot someday. Up and down. Up and down. I sent my husband over with some stuffed peppers once, but he just took them and didn’t even thank us. Didn’t return the plate either. Not that we expected thanks, mind you. But I thought my husband could talk to him about being careful of the children on the stairs. I don’t like the look of those men. This is a respectable house.”

She cocked her head and suddenly ran back inside. He could hear the clatter of pans in the kitchen, then a burnt odor wafted onto the landing.

Kamil took out the key Avi had taken from Owen’s pocket, and inserted it in the lock. He told the policeman who had accompanied him to interview everyone in the building. “I want a description of these men. Get the doorkeeper’s wife to sit with the women while you talk to them.”

Then Kamil pushed the door open and he and the police captain stepped inside.

The room smelled of unwashed clothes with a hint of flowery cologne. There was little furniture, just a table with one chair, an old sofa covered with a purple silk quilt stitched with flowers in silver thread, a wardrobe, and a mattress on the floor with some grimy bedding. On the table was an empty enamel plate. Dust padded the windowsills and collected in drifts in the corners of the room. The wardrobe was empty. Dirty laundry was piled on the floor beside it. Kamil recognized one of Tailor Pepo’s shirts wadded up. The wooden floor was scored from heavy objects dragged across it.

A door led to another room. Kamil pulled back the dusty drapes to let in light. This room was piled high with chests and wooden crates. He opened one and found a cache of ancient coins. Another chest was full of jewelry, not all of it old. Owen must be dealing in stolen jewelry as well. In Europe, it would be nearly impossible to trace.

“Take an inventory of everything in this apartment,” he told the police captain. “Then box everything up and deliver it to the courthouse as evidence. I’m holding you responsible for the safety of these objects.” Kamil was reluctant to leave this undocumented treasure in one man’s hands, but Owen was on the run and he couldn’t spare the time to stand guard over the inventory.

The captain stood to attention. “Of course, Magistrate. You can rely on me.”

As he crossed the room, Kamil noticed an iron stave with an odd-shaped cross at the top. It looked familiar. Then he remembered seeing something like it in the picture Ismail Hodja had shown him from the sect that worshiped the weeping angel. An Abyssinian cross. Perhaps Balkis or Saba could help him identify it. He wrapped it in a sheet and took it with him. He also took the plate from the table and, on his way out, placed it before the neighbor’s door.

A guard was left to keep watch on the apartment. If Owen did return, Kamil would have him turned over to the British Embassy, since by law he wasn’t allowed to arrest a British national. If Owen didn’t return, and Kamil didn’t expect that he would, he would share his evidence with Scotland Yard.

On his way back to the Grande Rue de Pera, Kamil passed the French Hospital.

The gatekeeper called out a greeting: “Peace be upon you, Magistrate.”

Kamil stopped. “Upon you be peace.”

The man put his hand on his heart and bowed. “I wanted to thank you, Magistrate, for opening my fate.”

“I’m pleased for you, but what have I done?”

“Remember the young refugee woman you asked me to care for?”

“Of course. What happened to her?”

“She has accepted my offer of marriage.” The gatekeeper’s smile was so broad it lit up the street.

Kamil was taken aback, thinking that the man had taken advantage of the wretched girl’s situation. But the alternatives ran quickly through his mind. Would it be better for her to be housed in a convent with hundreds of other women and children, being taught a skill that would bring her little money, even if she could find work? Instead, here was a gentle man who seemed genuinely pleased that she had accepted him.

“Congratulations,” Kamil said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

The gatekeeper didn’t notice his hesitation. “She’s living with my mother for now. The baby is a boy, a boy like a lion. My mother is crazy about him. She’s always wanted a grandson. So, Magistrate, I would like to thank you for my family. We would be greatly honored if you would consent to come to the wedding.”

“I’d be delighted.”

Kamil pictured the young woman being absorbed by this family-being fed, protected, embraced-and wondered how she felt about it. He hoped they would be gentle with their love.

Kamil sat at his desk and eyed with dismay the stack of papers that had accumulated over the past few days. He sifted through letters and messages. One was from Hamdi Bey. He eagerly ripped it open and read it.

Hamdi Bey wrote that he had inquired through some trusted friends in the antiquities business in London about the firm of Rettingate and Sons. It was owned by Lionel Rettingate and a silent partner whose name no one appeared to know and whom no one had ever seen. Although nothing had ever been proved, the shop was suspected of selling stolen goods and no reputable dealer would openly buy from them. It was no secret, though, that these same dealers would pass money under the table if Rettingate had something they really wanted.

Kamil was disappointed. He had hoped for a direct link of some kind to Owen.

He sat back and lit a cigarette, then unwrapped the long package containing the cross and carried it over to the window to examine it in the light.

“Good morning, bey.” He heard Avi’s voice behind him. “Would you like me to bring you some tea?”

“Good morning, Avi.” Kamil didn’t turn. He was looking intensely at the cross on top of the long stave. It was made of iron and brass in a flat diamond shape and decorated with a pair of stylized birds, little more than pairs of tiny iron wings. He touched the edge of the diamond and the wings, then held it up to the light and studied the shape from the side and from above.

“Come over here and hold this steady.”

Avi stood beside him and wrapped his hands around the stave of the cross. Kamil noticed the boy’s hands were still scratched and covered in scabs, but they seemed to be healing. He took a clean handkerchief out of his pocket and slipped it carefully between the wings of one of the birds. The white linen came away stained a rusty black. He did the same to other parts of the cross.

He examined the stains for a few moments. “Blood,” he announced. “We’ll get the police surgeon to verify it, but I think it’s blood.”

He suddenly had an idea. “You know the bakery behind the stables?”

“Yes, bey?” Avi said, clearly puzzled.

“Run over there and bring me an unbaked loaf of bread, one that’s already risen. Tell them to wrap it up so it doesn’t fall flat before you get back.” He reconsidered. “Bring two, just in case. Run.”

A few minutes later, Avi and Abdullah watched with fascination as Kamil placed a tray on the floor. The yeasty dough wobbled in his hands. He set it on the tray. The imprints of his fingers disappeared as the dough puffed itself up again into a flawless beige mound. Then Kamil took up the cross by its stave, turned it over so the cross was facing downward, and plunged it like a spear into the dough.

In the moments before the dough repaired itself, they could see a pattern of incisions. It was the same as the pattern of cuts on Malik’s body, the sets of tiny bite-like punctures made by the miniature wings.

When the bread had risen again, they saw that its beige surface was mottled black in a pattern that echoed the cuts. Kamil had Abdullah record what he had done, then gave him his handkerchief to send to the police surgeon for analysis.

And he added murder to the charges against Magnus Owen.

“Does that mean Amida didn’t kill Malik?” Omar asked, looking disappointed.

Kamil had ridden to Fatih station to fill Omar in on the news, and was eating a portion of stuffed mussels he had purchased from a vendor. He swallowed and said, “It appears that way. I don’t understand, though, how he got hold of Malik’s pin.”

“I think it’s time to ask him.” Omar buckled on his revolver and threw on his jacket. “By the way, the watchman found a body behind the Fatih Mosque this morning, with that mark carved into his back. So either Owen or his henchmen are still around. Probably that testicle Remzi,” he added darkly.

“Owen will stick around to see if he can get the Proof of God,” Kamil predicted, wrapping the shells in a piece of newsprint. “He’s probably holed up in his other apartment. I wish I knew where that was. Who was the victim?”

“Dark-skinned boy in his early teens, naked. Might be Habesh. He looked familiar. Probably from Sunken Village. While we’re there, we can ask if anyone’s missing.”

As soon as Saba saw the cross in Kamil’s hand, she exclaimed, “It can’t be. Where did you get that?” She went to a long box in the corner of the room and opened it, then turned to her mother. “It’s empty. Did you know the scepter was missing, mother?”

Balkis was propped on the divan and covered with a quilt, one of her wrists bound in a thick yellow-stained bandage.

“Missing?” Balkis exclaimed. “That’s not possible. I used it on Friday.”

Kamil and Omar stood just inside the door. Kamil trying unsuccessfully to keep his eyes from Saba. He couldn’t quite grasp that this was his sister. She wore a brown charshaf that covered everything but her face, which was pale and drawn, her pallor accentuated by the dark frame of the veil. She no longer looked like a child.

“It’s the scepter we use for our ceremonies,” Saba explained to Kamil. He noticed she avoided looking at him. She reached out for the cross. “I’ll put it back in the box.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t give it to you just yet. It’s evidence. We thought you might help us identify it.” He gave the cross to Omar, who wrapped it in a piece of oiled cloth. “We’re actually here to see your son,” Kamil told Balkis.

It was late afternoon. He and Omar had searched Amida’s house and looked for him in his usual haunts in Charshamba. Kamil didn’t think he had gone far. He was sure Amida still hoped to pluck the golden apple, to sell Owen the Proof of God Kamil had dangled before him. Four thousand gold liras was almost a minister’s salary. It would buy Amida travel and a life far away from here. Four thousand liras would make a modern man of him. He was probably out looking for the manuscript right now. Kamil was certain that had been Amida’s reason for coming to Malik’s house two nights ago. He had probably planned to break in and hoped to find the Proof before his meeting with Kubalou. By now it was safely locked up in Hamdi Bey’s museum.

“Did he take the scepter?” Saba asked.

Kamil remembered that Saba had wanted him to arrest Amida and thought she’d be pleased to know they were here to do just that.

“We don’t know,” Kamil said in a neutral voice. “That’s one of several things we’d like to ask him.”

“I’ll take you to him,” Saba offered.

“Don’t,” Balkis croaked.

“Mama, Amida is a man, so let him take responsibility like a man.”

Saba slipped on her shoes and told Kamil and Omar to follow her.

When they reached the path that led to Amida’s cottage, Kamil stopped and said, “He’s not home. We were just there.”

Saba didn’t answer, but continued along the path. Pushing open Amida’s door without knocking, she went inside. Kamil shrugged and followed. Omar took up a position inside the door.

Saba strode to the piano in the sitting room, lifted the lid and brought her hands down several times on the keys, creating an explosion of noise.

She crossed her arms and they stood waiting in the dying echo.

Amida appeared blinking in the corridor. He seemed surprised to see Kamil.

Kamil and Omar exchanged glances and Omar gave an imperceptible nod.

Kamil was shocked at the change in Amida since last night. His face was unshaven, his eyes bloodshot and swollen and shaded with circles as dark as bruises. He looked shaken and, Kamil thought, anguished.

“Brother, Kamil Pasha has some business with you,” Saba said, her voice taking on a note of concern. She too looked surprised at Amida’s state.

Kamil took Amida by the arm. “Let’s go next door.”

Amida tried to shake him loose, only to find Omar hoisting him by his other arm.

“So where were you?” Omar asked him in the tone he reserved for naughty children. “Hiding in your rabbit warren?”

Amida struggled. “You have no right.”

“Of course not,” Omar agreed. “You’re such a good boy.”

They brought him into Balkis’s house and thrust him into the receiving hall. Omar disappeared back outside.

Balkis’s face was white and slick with sweat. “My son,” she croaked.

Saba turned to Kamil and, for the first time, looked at him directly. Kamil found himself lost in her green eyes, so like his father’s. He blinked and looked away.

“We found this,” he said, and took Malik’s pin from his pocket.

Amida looked surprised and then relieved. He clearly had expected to be arrested for kidnapping Elif and attacking him, Kamil thought, watching his face. The harder an animal squirmed to get out of a trap, the more it entangled itself.

“Malik wore that all the time,” Balkis said, stretching out her hand. “A friend gave it to him, an Irish monk. Where did you get it?”

“The pin wasn’t on Malik’s body, so either the killer took it or someone took it from his house. Whoever killed him was after something much bigger and I doubt they would have bothered with a pin. I think someone went to Malik’s house that night after Malik had already taken the pin off and stole it. Was that you, Amida?”

“What would I want with a cheap pin like that?” he grumbled.

Kamil took it back from Balkis. “I found this in the Covered Bazaar. A dealer named Gomidian had it.”

“We’ve done business with him for thirty years,” Balkis said. “He’s always been fair. What was he doing with it? Did he kill Malik?”

Amida looked wary.

“He said he bought the pin from Amida.”

Amida’s eyes shifted rapidly around the room. “If I tell you, what’ll happen to me?” he asked.

“We’ll arrest you for theft.”

“The theft of a pin?” Amida scoffed.

“Not just that. We can start with the reliquary.”

“You can’t prove I took it.”

“You were seen leaving the mosque, and in your house you have the carpet that was stolen along with the reliquary.”

“I borrowed that carpet from the storeroom at the mosque.”

Omar had returned and stood blocking the door. From the look on his face, Kamil knew he had found the tunnel. He caught Kamil’s eye and nodded.

Saba came to stand before her brother. “I know you took the reliquary, Amida,” she said sadly. “How else could you have known it was empty? Uncle Malik told only me about the Proof of God. You overheard us, didn’t you? But you thought he meant the reliquary. You didn’t know there was a manuscript inside.” Saba’s voice rose. “You have no idea what the Proof of God is and you’re not worthy of being its caretaker.”

“I’m not saying anything,” Amida said, folding his arms.

“Then we’ll arrest you for murder.”

“What? I had nothing to do with that.”

“We think otherwise,” Omar said pleasantly. “You can talk now or you can come with me and talk later. You’ll need bigger shoes, though.”

Amida clearly understood the reference. Beating the bottom of the feet made them swell, sometimes permanently. “Alright. Alright. This man wanted the reliquary, so I took it. I gave it to him. He paid me. That’s all.”

Kamil felt his pulse rise. A crack in Amida’s defenses. Much as he hated to admit it, Omar was right. The bastinado worked. “You stole it,” Saba corrected him.

“It was going to be mine anyway. It’s not stealing when it’s your property.”

“It belongs to the community,” Saba insisted. “It belongs to the world. You have no rights over it.”

“What’s this man’s name?” Kamil asked.

“I don’t know. I gave it to his go-between.”

“What’s this go-between’s name?”

“How would I know? He always contacted me.”

Kamil let the lie go. What he wanted right now was an explanation for Malik’s death.

Kamil lifted the Abyssinian cross. “Did you take this?”

“He’s the only one besides me and Mother who knows where it’s kept,” Saba confirmed.

“So maybe you took it,” Amida suggested. “Malik knew where it was too. Maybe he borrowed it and took it to the mosque for some kind of ritual.”

“How did you know it was in the mosque, Amida?” Kamil asked softly.

Amida was flustered. “It was just a guess.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Saba exclaimed. “Uncle Malik would never take the scepter out and carry it around town. It’s a sacred object. It has to stay here.”

“I went to ask Malik about it and I left it in the mosque by mistake. So what? I’d have had it back in the box by Friday service. No one would have noticed it was missing.”

Kamil lifted the scepter. “Malik was killed with this.”

There was a shocked silence, then all eyes turned to Amida.

“You killed Uncle Malik?” Saba asked, aghast. “Why?”

“I didn’t kill Malik,” he cried out. “I would never do that. He was my uncle.”

Balkis tried to stand, but fell back onto the divan. Her face was a deathly white and she was breathing with difficulty. Saba brought her mother some water, then sat beside her, holding her arm.

“I believe you, Amida,” Kamil said.

Amida looked at him in surprise.

“We can help each other, but I need you to tell me the whole story. What happened the night Malik was killed?”

“Otherwise we arrest you for theft and murder,” Omar interjected pleasantly.

Amida got up and began to pace, arms folded protectively across his chest, his jaw working compulsively. When he walked toward the door, Omar blocked his way.

“Just make sure no one’s out there,” Amida appealed.

Omar shrugged and stepped outside. He came back a few moments later and nodded. “No djinns, no demons.”

“He’ll kill me if he finds out.”

“Who?”

“I told you, I don’t know,” Amida said in an anguished voice. “They call him Kubalou. The man you asked me about, Remzi, is his go-between. I sold the reliquary through him to Kubalou, but then Remzi came back and told me it was empty and accused me of trying to cheat his master. They made me go with them to the Tobacco Works that night, but I swear I had nothing to do with killing those policemen. That was Remzi. He did this too.” He pushed up his sleeve and thrust out his arm.

The raw edges of the wound were in the shape of an M. Kamil was certain now that it stood for Magnus.

“Remzi told me this was a message from Kubalou, although I think he says that to cover up his own crimes. He’s a vicious son of a bitch.” Amida’s eyes found the door. He looked hunted. “I didn’t know there was supposed to be anything inside the reliquary. Saba’s right. I overheard them talking and Malik referred to it as the Proof of God. Kubalou wanted it for an English buyer.”

“You fool,” Saba said softly.

“If I don’t get him the real Proof of God now, I’ll end up like…” Amida leaned his forehead against the wall.

“Who?” Omar inquired impassively.

Amida shifted and looked nervously at his mother. “He knew some things about me.”

“That you lie with boys?” Saba suggested.

Omar raised his eyebrows in amusement. Kamil glanced at Balkis, but she didn’t seem to notice. She was staring straight ahead as if she had nothing to do with the conversation.

Amida stared angrily at Saba.

“There are no secrets in a village.” She became subdued, as if realizing what she had said.

“Was that your boyfriend we found in the graveyard this morning behind the Fatih Mosque?” Omar asked.

Amida nodded miserably.

“Bilal?” Saba exclaimed. “Bilal is dead?” Kamil thought he heard a note of compassion. He remembered the polite, dark-skinned boy who had served him whisky at Amida’s house.

“Yes.” Amida’s voice broke.

“You saw the body?” Omar stepped to the door and glanced outside.

“Bilal left me a note to meet him there at the first ezan, that he had something important to show me.” Amida’s voice was strained. “I thought it was odd. I see him every day and he could have shown me anytime. But I went anyway and when I got there, I found him dead.”

“How did you know the note was from him?”

“I recognized his hand. Or…I thought I did.”

“So someone happened to find him alone in the graveyard, waiting for you, and decided to rob him?”

“No,” Amida groaned. “No, I don’t think that’s what it was. I saw his back.” He held out his wounded arm. “It was the same.”

Kamil could see him struggling for control and, despite his outrage at Amida’s despicable behavior, he felt sorry for the young man. Omar hadn’t seen the joyous smile on Bilal’s face before he noticed Kamil coming through Amida’s door. Bilal and Amida had been close, and Amida was grieving. Just as others might be grieving now over Elif, Kamil reminded himself, if they hadn’t managed to escape from the tunnel.

“You think this is Kubalou sending you his calling card?”

“That bastard Remzi killed him.”

“That must upset you.”

Amida shrugged, but the skin around his mouth twitched. “He helped me at the monastery.” He turned to Balkis. “You have no idea what goes on there. The monks…Bilal took my place so I wouldn’t have to.” He couldn’t continue. “I owed him better than this. I promised I’d take him to Paris,” he sobbed.

The room was silent as they absorbed what Amida had revealed. Kamil couldn’t imagine the dapper Owen killing and maiming anyone, and wondered whether he was aware of the brutality engaged in by his hirelings. Still, Owen must have had a sense of what Remzi was capable of, and Kamil had witnessed the veiled threats Owen had made to Amida beneath the Galata Tower.

Kamil gave Amida’s reserve a last push. “Tell us what happened the night of Malik’s murder,” he prompted.

Amida stood with his back to the wall, away from the window. His eyes flitted about the room as if his tormentor might appear at any moment.

“Remzi told me Kubalou wanted him to search Malik’s house for the Proof of God, so I thought of a ruse to get Malik out that night. I unlocked the mosque door and then went to Malik and told him there was a thief in the building. I left the scepter there to make the story believable and to keep him occupied working out how it had gotton there. I thought he’d take it back to the village and that would give us at least an hour to search his house. I waited for Remzi, but no one showed up, so I left.”

“You didn’t think to go and look for Uncle Malik?” Saba demanded.

“I didn’t know anything would happen,” Amida answered in a subdued voice.

Saba sat on the divan beside her mother, her expression hard. Balkis was hunched over. Kamil thought she looked broken. What must it feel like for a mother to discover her son was involved in murdering her own brother?

“Why did you take Malik’s pin, then?” Kamil asked.

Amida didn’t answer.

“Did you go back to the mosque?”

“Yes,” Amida whispered.

“You didn’t look inside?”

“It was dark. I thought Malik had gone to return the scepter.”

“And forgotten to lock the door? Was your uncle usually that forgetful?”

“No.” He looked at Kamil with a strangled expression.

“The pin?” Kamil asked again. “Did you go into Malik’s house again?”

“I was worried about him.”

They waited. No one looked at Amida.

“You knew, didn’t you?” Kamil asked softly. The stupid boy, unable to face what he had done. Whatever compassion Kamil had had for Amida was gone.

“Malik wasn’t there, so I took some things to make it look like it was a robbery.”

Saba walked up to her brother and slapped him on the face. “You didn’t even check to see if he was still alive, you bastard.”

Amida dropped to his knees before Balkis. “Mother, you believe me, don’t you? I swear to you, I didn’t kill him. Why would I do that?” He began to cry in small, sharp gasps. “I didn’t do anything.”

Balkis nodded and let her hand rest in his hair, too exhausted to respond.

Kamil turned in disgust and left. Omar hesitated, then followed.

When they were outside, Omar asked, “Aren’t we going to arrest him?”

“He’s more use to us as a decoy right now.” Kamil responded. “We need a hare to attract the hound.”

Without another word, they hurried toward Amida’s cottage. Omar led him into the bedroom and flung his arms out. “Want to guess?”

“No.”

Omar walked over to the wall beside the bed and gave it a push. A panel swung aside revealing crumbling stone stairs leading down into darkness. Kamil grabbed a lamp and stepped inside.

Their feet crunched on debris. Unlike the others, this tunnel was dry. Instead of damp and mold, dust and the fetid smell of rat droppings clogged their noses and mouths. It felt airless and very hot. Kamil began to sweat. Omar tramped ahead, just inside the circle of light, treading on his own shadow. After about thirty minutes, they came to a wall of rubble that blocked the tunnel, the wall in which Ali had been entombed on the other side.

Kamil stopped, but Omar kept walking, right up to the wall, and began to haul the stones down, one after another. After a moment, Kamil joined him. They worked until they had excavated a hole big enough to crawl through. On the other side was utter darkness.