The Abyssinian Proof

36

“Owen is still in the city,” Omar pronounced. “I can feel it in my bones.”

They sat on stools in the small square behind the Fatih police station, enjoying the dusty autumn light filtering through the yellow leaves. It was a warm morning. Steam from the previous night’s rain misted the air so everything looked, Kamil thought, like an Impressionist painting. He unbuttoned his jacket and took another sip of tea.

First thing that morning, he had presented the icon to the Greek Orthodox Patriarch and watched with satisfaction as it was reinstalled in the church before a weeping congregation. Then he had ridden to the Fatih Mosque and convinced its reluctant imam that the diamond-studded chalice and other Christian artifacts he had recovered were better off being displayed in the Imperial Museum than locked away in his storage room.

Kamil had one more day before he had to face Nizam Pasha, but he no longer cared about that. So much else had happened in the past few days that Nizam Pasha’s demands seemed as distant as the chirp of a sparrow in the shrubbery. Kamil wanted Owen brought down before he infected anyone else with his rabid insouciance, inspiring atrocious acts in his name, then branding them with his initial as if they were works of art. Ottoman law wouldn’t allow Kamil to arrest him, but he would like to make sure he was put in the hands of the British police and punished.

“He’s not going anywhere until he gets his hands on the Proof of God,” Omar went on. “He’s like a wolf that’s smelled blood. He thinks Amida’s a sheep and he’s got one claw through his hind leg. So we set the bloody sheep out, pinch it to make it squeal, and wait for the wolf to come for its meal.”

“Omar, you should have been either a butcher or a zookeeper.”

“Not a farmer?”

“Farmers don’t risk their sheep to catch a wolf.”

“Point taken. What do you think?”

“You mean we let Owen think Amida actually has the Proof of God?”

“Exactly. The problem is he knows someone tried to arrest him when he met with Amida, so he’s not going to trust him to set up another meeting. He’ll come to Amida, just as he said. At his home. Tonight.”

“Owen must know we’re on to him.” They still had no clues as to his whereabouts.

“Of course someone will have squealed that the great Magistrate Kamil came looking for him and discovered he was smuggling stuff through the diplomatic post. That kind of news spreads like wildfire. Even the embassy kitchen maid will know, and if she knows, everyone knows. That he killed Malik, Ali, and the boy in Fatih, those cards are still in our hands. We have him for smuggling. He doesn’t know we have him for murder too.”

“There’s no proof that Owen killed anyone himself,” Kamil reminded him. “You weren’t able to extract a confession from Remzi, even with your modern methods.”

“What about the murder weapon, that cross thing, right in his living room?”

Kamil shook his head. “The Tarla Bashou apartment was rented under another name and the descriptions we got of the owner are too vague to prove that it was him.”

“Remzi couldn’t have killed Malik alone. He couldn’t have walked two steps after the special treatment we gave him. He would’ve had to be carried out of jail. I bet Kubalou was there that night.”

Kamil considered this. “You’re probably right.”

He wondered about the buyer Amida said Owen had lined up in England for the Proof of God. Could it be one of the sects Ismail Hodja had warned him about? Arresting Owen wouldn’t be the end of the story and he worried about Hamdi Bey. Did the gentle old man realize how dangerous possession of the Proof of God could be? It would make the museum a lightning rod for unscrupulous people like Owen and fanatics willing to stop at nothing to get their hands on the treasure. He hadn’t shared this with Omar, who was still unaware of the contents of the Proof. Omar knew only that it had been placed in the museum with the other antiquities.

“Kubalou has no idea where the Proof of God is and Amida made a pretty good show of knowing where it was the other night, so let him think you still have it. That way he still believes he can lay his hands on it.”

“By attacking me or Elif Hanoum again.”

“So now you’re fainting at the first sign of danger?”

Kamil didn’t rise to Omar’s jab. Omar would understand he was concerned about Elif, not himself. “Let’s talk to Amida again.”

“Like I said, send a thief to catch a thief. One nail drives out another.”

It took several hours to track down Amida. He had spent the night in an apartment in Balat. A boy with a harelip answered the door and told them Amida had already left, but then they found him hiding behind a wall in the back garden. They brought him to the Fatih police station.

The ruse was simple. They made a deal with Amida. He would let Omar know if Kubalou contacted him again about the Proof of God, or they would throw him in jail for theft and murder.

“What do I tell him if he asks me?” Amida looked nervously at the window. “I don’t have it.”

Kamil smiled pleasantly. “Arrange a meeting where you promise to hand it over, then tell Chief Omar about the meeting. Didn’t Kubalou say he was going to be visiting you this evening?”

Amida gulped and nodded. “How do I tell you he’s there?”

“Send someone to the station with this.” Kamil handed him Malik’s sketch of a fox. Avi would also be watching and report back if the Frank appeared.

“If Kubalou finds out I’m lying, he’ll kill me.”

“Not as long as he thinks you know where the Proof is.”

“The minute you tell him you don’t, smart-ass, you’re a dead man,” Omar added. “And don’t think we’re blind. You won’t see us, but we’ll be watching you.”

Amida didn’t move. “What if there’s more than one guy. What about Remzi? And Kubalou has another man, named Ben. If you arrest one, the other one might still kill me.”

“We can lock you up,” Omar offered. “You’ll be safe here.”

“No thanks.” Amida buttoned his jacket and waited uncertainly.

“Go home.” Omar gestured toward the door.

Kamil and Omar stood at the window and watched him walk away.

“Do you think we should have told him about his mother?” Omar asked.

“No.” Kamil thought of how great Saba’s sorrow must be and wished he could comfort her. She was his sister, after all. And he was the better brother.

Amida hesitated in the square and looked around, then hurried down Kemer Altou Street. Behind him strode a tall man in a cloak and turban. A beggar boy ran up and tugged on his robe, asking for alms, but the man brushed him away.