The Abyssinian Proof

38

Omar jumped up from sleep, fully alert. Avi was pulling at his arm. “Chief, Chief. The Frank is at the village. He followed Amida from the jail and then he left and came back again with two men.”

Omar was immensely relieved to see Avi. “Alright. Calm down and tell me what you saw.”

Mimoza had been asleep on a mattress in the corner. She sat up and asked drowsily, “Where’s the fire, husband?”

“Right here,” Omar retorted. “Where else would it be? Don’t worry, I’m not going to see my mistress. She’s still asleep. Like you should be.”

“Avi.” She blushed to see that the boy had overheard. “What are you doing up so late? It must be midnight.” When she saw Omar and Avi turn to leave, she jumped up and tried to block their way. “He’s a child, Omar. Not a policeman.”

“Worry about me. I’m the policeman.” Omar kissed her on the cheek and pushed past.

A carriage waited in the lane. Omar leaned down and asked Avi, “How did you get the driver to bring a beggar boy across Fatih in the middle of the night?”

Avi pulled out his sack of coins, which had shrunk considerably. “I went to the station first, but they said you had gone home.”

“Good boy. Now I need you to go get the magistrate.” He gave the driver directions and told him to hurry. This mission would keep Avi out of harm’s way.

As soon as the carriage had pulled away, Omar ran for his horse. They had waited at the station all evening for Amida’s signal or Avi’s return. Finally, Kamil had suggested they each go home, in case Avi had gone there instead. Omar had left instructions at the station to inform him at once if the fox sketch or Avi arrived.

One mistake after another. Most of all, Omar berated himself for falling asleep before Avi had returned safely. Allah was right not to have entrusted a son to him. If he went to the station now to fetch his men, Owen might slip away before they reached Sunken Village. He cursed. He should have sent Avi to the station first. He decided to go to Sunken Village and keep an eye on Owen until Kamil arrived. He’d stick to Owen like a nit.

When he got there, Omar tied up his horse, ran down the stairs into Sunken Village, and, keeping his back against the wall, moved slowly toward Amida’s cottage. He crept up to the windows. The curtains were drawn and he couldn’t hear any voices. He checked the other cottages and Balkis’s house. There was no sound or movement, as if this were a normal chilly autumn night and everyone was asleep.

Suddenly the sounds of a piano drifted from Amida’s cottage.

Omar found an open window to a back room and climbed over the sill. The door of the room was ajar, and he saw a light and heard voices that he guessed were coming from the direction of the sitting room. Pressing his back against the wall, he edged toward the light. He heard footsteps approaching in the corridor. Just as someone pushed open the door, Omar disappeared into the wall.

Kamil galloped through the black, deserted streets of the city over the back of Pera hill, past the cemetery, and down to the Old Bridge. Avi had said three men, so Kamil had taken Yakup with him. They were both armed with revolvers. Avi had strenuously objected to being left behind.

They clattered across the Old Bridge, through Oun Kapanou Square, and down Djoubalou Boulevard. Finally, the enormous shadow of the Sultan Selim Mosque rose before them. Kamil and Yakup jumped off their horses and ran down the stairs into the open cistern.

It had taken them over half an hour to reach Sunken Village. Add to that the time it had taken Avi to get to Beshiktash, and Kamil reckoned Omar had already been in Sunken Village for an hour. He hoped the police chief had taken reinforcements, but knowing Omar, he had barreled in like a bear after honey. He supposed he might have done the same. It was their only chance to arrest Owen, and neither of them wanted to let him slip away. For a moment, he pictured a satisfied Omar with three criminals all trussed and ready to be carted to jail. No, he thought, three men were too much even for Omar to handle by himself.

The village was still and dark, the central square deserted. There was no sign of Omar. Kamil and Yakup split up and made a circuit, keeping close to the walls, then converged on Amida’s cottage.

Kamil froze. From the curtained windows he heard the strains of a sonata, perfectly executed. Not Amida. Owen.

Kamil told Yakup to wait outside the front door, then crept around the side of the house. He found the open window, climbed in, and felt his way through the room. Light seeped under the inner door. He pushed it open slowly and peered out. He was in a corridor leading to the sitting room. Cautiously, he edged his way forward until he could see into the room beyond.

The room was brightly lit by Amida’s Venetian lamps, two of which stood beside each other on a table by the sofa, as if someone had needed extra light there. Owen was sitting at the piano. Behind him was a man Kamil had never seen before, idly flipping a deck of playing cards. He didn’t see a third man, or Amida, or Omar. Kamil’s eyes were drawn to the floor, where a leg protruded from behind the sofa.

Suddenly his head exploded with pain and he dropped to his knees. His vision was blurred, but he recognized Remzi standing over him, cudgel in hand.

The piano playing ceased. “Kamil,” Owen called out, his voice betraying his surprise. “Is that you?” He got up and came toward him. “What the blazes are you doing here?” He reached down his hand to help Kamil up.

Kamil struggled to stand on his own. He pressed a hand to his head and it came away bloodied. He felt nauseous, but his vision gradually cleared. Remzi had disappeared. Behind Owen stood a tall, powerfully built man with ginger hair, who was wearing a suit too small for his massive shoulders. He had sharp, wary eyes in a blunt face and the revolver in his hand was pointed at Kamil.

Owen turned and frowned at the man. “Put that away.” To Kamil, he explained, “This is my associate Ben. He acts as my bodyguard. You can’t be too careful in this part of the city, especially at night.”

Kamil waited.

“Why don’t we go somewhere you can wash up?” Owen suggested, blocking Kamil’s view of the body behind the sofa.

“No, thanks.” Kamil had no intention of confronting Remzi, who was somewhere behind him. To reach the front door he’d have to get past Ben, who was eyeing him intently. His weapon was still in his hand, although it was no longer pointed at Kamil. Still, Kamil could sense Ben was aware of his every move.

Owen and Kamil stood facing each other. Through his blinding headache, Kamil regarded the tall, lanky Englishman’s face, his pale eyes, patrician nose, and ever-present smile. Kamil thought Owen looked momentarily lost.

Owen’s smile grew wider. “What’s the use,” he said lightly. “You’re always one step ahead of me, Kamil.” He settled back on the piano stool and reached for a glass and a bottle on a nearby table. “The Ardbeg is almost gone, I’m afraid, but there’s a drab left. The beggar has good taste in whisky, at least.” He poured some of the amber liquid and reached the glass out to Kamil. “This’ll help.”

Kamil took one step and staggered as a jagged edge of pain ripped through him. The next step was passable and the third bearable. He could see more of the body behind the sofa now. It was still hidden from the waist up, but from the slender calves Kamil could tell it wasn’t Omar. He was relieved.

He took the glass of whisky from Owen and drank it down.

“Your gun? I presume you have one.” Owen put out his hand. “Please.”

Reluctantly, Kamil drew the Colt from the holster under his jacket and handed it to him. Owen placed it on the table next to the bottle. Kamil reached out his glass and Owen refilled it, a parody of the gracious host at a dinner party.

“Why are you here, Kamil?” Owen asked. “I really wish you hadn’t come,” he added sadly. “I was rather fond of you.”

Kamil noted the past tense. “Where’s Amida?”

Owen nodded toward the sofa. “There he is, poor chap. Had a bit of a whack.”

Taking his glass, Kamil approached and bent over the body. Amida lay on his stomach between the sofa and a low table, illuminated by the two Venetian lamps. He was naked from the waist up. His back was tattooed with wings, one of them complete, the other an outline waiting to be filled in.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Owen commented. “Wouldn’t mind having a set of those myself. Bet it’d be a big hit with the ladies.”

“Is he…?” Kamil turned Amida’s face to the side and examined it.

“Dead? No, I don’t think so. There appears to be life in the fellow yet. ‘And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago, blushed at the praise of their own loveliness,’” he recited.

Kamil set his glass of whisky within reach on the table. He sat on the arm of the sofa, facing Owen on the piano bench across the room, and fished in his pocket for his cigarette case. Ben tensed and took a step closer. Kamil held up the cigarette with a thin smile, then leaned over and picked up Amida’s ormolu device to light it. “What do you want with Amida?” he asked Owen.

“We had some business to discuss.” Owen flapped his hand in the air. “I know, I know. It seems a devil of a way to discuss anything, but believe me, it was necessary. That fellow was playing me for a fool.”

On the floor, Amida groaned. Kamil knew how he felt.

“He’ll have a bump in the morning,” Owen explained apologetically, “nothing more.”

“What business does a cultural attaché have in Charshamba in the middle of the night?” Kamil asked.

“I could ask the same of the good magistrate.”

Tired of the standoff, Kamil decided to place his cards on the table, “You’re here for the Proof of God.”

Owen looked impressed. “Bravo, Kamil. Bravo.”

“Why do you want it?”

“Why does one want anything, Kamil? What do you want? Wealth? Fame? Glory?” He let his fingers trickle along the piano keys as he sipped his whisky and regarded Kamil’s impassive face. “No, I think not. You’re not ambitious, my friend. And neither am I. We’re nourished by the goodwill and respect of our fellow men. We’re very much alike in that regard. This is nothing more than a simple business transaction.”

“Well, fill me in, then,” Kamil suggested calmly. “Have you found what you were looking for?”

“Can’t tell you that. It’s a matter of some discretion. You understand.” Owen turned around, crossed his legs, and leaned toward Kamil. “What have you got your heart set on, my friend?” he asked earnestly. “I’m very well connected. Maybe I can help.”

“You haven’t got anything I want. Your associate Remzi already found that out.”

Owen looked offended. “I thought you and I were on the way to becoming friends. But clearly I haven’t yet earned your trust.”

Kamil held out his empty glass and gestured toward the bottle. “That’s good whisky.”

Owen chuckled and handed him the bottle. “Leave a finger for me.”

In filling his glass, Kamil managed to drop his cigarette and spill whisky on the sofa. Suddenly, his eyes froze on Ben across the room. He had taken out his gun and was training it on Kamil.

“What are you doing?” Owen demanded.

“He’s up to something,” Ben grumbled, shoving the gun back in his waistband.

Owen craned his neck at Kamil. “Surely not.”

Kamil took out his handkerchief and blotted the sofa. “We were discussing the Proof of God,” he prompted, leaving the damp handkerchief draped over the back.

“I’m intrigued. How do you know about it?”

Kamil didn’t answer, but took another cigarette from his case and lit it with a match, keeping the matchbox in his hand.

“I didn’t think anyone besides these Melisite types knew about it.” Owen gestured toward Amida. “Although this young man has exhibited more bravado than good sense. He told us he knew where it was, but I believe he knows nothing.” He looked at Kamil quizzically. “In fact, he thinks you have it. He said he followed you, hoping to wrest it from you.” When Kamil didn’t answer, he asked, “Unlikely, I know, but what do you make of his assertion? Do you have it?”

“You’re right,” Kamil answered. “He doesn’t know where it is.”

“And you do?”

“I do.”

“Ah. Will you tell me?”

“Maybe. First tell me what happened to Malik.”

“Who’s Malik?”

The fact that Owen didn’t even know the name of the man whose death he had occasioned infuriated Kamil. “The caretaker of the Kariye Mosque.”

Owen took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Believe me, Kamil, that wasn’t my idea. I simply asked one of my local associates to find a way to get the man to talk. He was uncommonly stubborn. Why should he care? It’s only a packet of old papers. It’s beyond me, really, why anyone should care. The buyer in London belongs to some kind of group that reveres-I’m not exaggerating, reveres-this thing. It’s utterly ridiculous. I sense that you’d agree with me on that, at least.”

“Were you there?”

“Where? In the mosque?” Owen paused. “I owe you the truth. I was there, with my two associates. And, believe me, I was disgusted. These Orientals have their own ways of getting things done, but one mustn’t interfere. Only in this case, it did no good. A waste, an utter waste. But that will all be redeemed now when you tell me where it is.”

“I don’t think so.”

Owen began to pick out a tune on the piano with one hand. “That’s a shame. I have a lot of money riding on this, my friend, enough to finance a small kingdom.” He shook his head in amused disbelief. “For a pile of paper in a crushed silver box. It’s inconceivable to me why my buyer is willing to bankrupt himself to get it, but,” he gave Kamil a charming, lopsided smile, “his loss is my gain. I’d be happy to share the profit with you.”

Kamil was becoming impatient. Where was Omar? He couldn’t tackle all three of these men by himself. Yakup was outside waiting for his signal, but he wouldn’t be fast enough to cross the room before Ben could fire off a shot.

He had no choice but to stall for more time. “What will you do with all that money?” he asked Owen.

“Retire to an estate and finally claim the position in English society that I should have inherited from my father. You know what I mean, Kamil. You’re the son of a lord, just as I am. We’re naturally drawn to one another. Birds of a feather.” He leaned forward. “You should trust me.”

“You can let Amida go. He’s of no use to you. I’m the only one who knows where it is.”

“He’ll be fine here. How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

Kamil looked offended. “You know better than that.”

“Yes, I believe I do,” Owen said thoughtfully, regarding Kamil with a sad smile. “I believe I do.” He turned back to the piano and played a few bars of what Kamil thought might be Mozart.

Kamil calculated the distance between himself and his gun on the table beside the piano. Owen could easily reach it from where he sat.

Owen turned around and gave a mock bow. “What can I do to convince you, Kamil?”

“You can let Amida go and answer some questions about those chests full of antiquities and jewelry.”

“I thought that had to be you. No one else could have worked it out. Congratulations. And what about that flaxen-haired damsel, Miss Elif? Amida said you went out on a limb to rescue her.” Owen chuckled. “My dear fellow, is that the mark of a casual acquaintance? But you can’t be beside her every moment, old chap. I’d be honored to ensure that no harm comes to her.”

He began to recite, “‘And thou art dead, as young and fair / As aught of mortal birth; / And form so soft, and charms so rare, / Too soon return’d to Earth!’”

“‘Look around and choose thy ground, and take thy rest,’” Kamil responded in a hard voice, furious at Owen’s implied threat.

Owen looked enormously pleased. “My dear friend. You know Byron too! How wonderful! That’s from ‘My Thirty-Sixth Year,’ isn’t it? What a delightful change from the rather uninspired company I’m forced to keep these days.” He gave Ben a toothy smile. “Sorry, old man, but you’re not exactly a poet, though you have many endearing qualities. Kamil, you know we’d be smashing good friends if you gave me half a chance. Tell me where the Proof of God is and let’s split the proceeds. Right down the middle. No one will know.”

Kamil looked down at Amida.

“Oh, he won’t say a word. I can guarantee you that,” Owen assured him.

The confidence of his prediction sent a chill through Kamil.

Suddenly a shot rang out. At Kamil’s feet, Amida’s body writhed, then lay still. The carpet pattern began to blur. Kamil turned to see his gun in Owen’s hand.

“Not to worry. Nothing serious, although the next one will be. I’m in a bit of a rush. I’ll trade you Amida’s life, and Elif’s, for the Proof of God. Now that’s surely a bargain you can’t refuse? It’s a pile of paper, for heaven’s sake. Surely it’s not worth two lives.” Owen smiled. “You see, Kamil, I do know you. I know your type.”

There was no more time to stall, Kamil decided. Omar or no Omar, he had to act now. He picked up one of the Venetian lamps and hurled it onto the sofa so that its delicate glass belly shattered and oil spilled over the cotton cover, already soaked with whisky. The second lamp followed. Kamil grabbed the ormolu device and ducked behind the sofa just as Owen released another shot. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Ben heading toward him. Kamil pressed the lever and a flame shot out. He held it to the oil-soaked handkerchief draped over the back of the sofa, and when the cloth caught fire, he flung it onto the seat.

Ben was almost on top of him. Kamil scuttled around the other side of the sofa just as a bullet screamed by his head. He lit another part of the sofa with the flame from the device, praying that, in spite of everything he believed, this time there was a God, and he was looking his way.

Crimson and yellow flames shot up as the lamp oil caught fire and spread to the straw stuffing. Black smoke began to fill the room.

Owen slammed the piano lid down. “You can’t win this,” he shouted and ran toward the corridor, Ben behind him. They stopped briefly to confer with Remzi, then they were gone.

Kamil threw himself across the floor and tore open the front door.

Yakup burst into the room, gun drawn. The draft caused the fire to bloom.

Outside the cottage, excited voices shouted, “Fire! Call the fire brigade!”

Kamil instructed Yakup to bring Amida outside, then turned to pursue Owen and his men.

In the corridor, he paused and listened. He heard a noise coming from the bedroom and peered around the door. Ben was trying to squeeze his girth into the opening in the wall that led to the tunnel.

Just then, smoke boiled into the room and the rafters cracked.

Ben disappeared, but the smoke had become so thick Kamil couldn’t follow. Coughing, he turned and ran out of the house, his jacket singed, ashes glowing in his hair.

“Damn,” Kamil said, resting on a large stone beneath the cistern wall. “Damn.” Spurred by the implied threat to Elif, he had sent Yakup to alert the guard at Huseyin’s house while he helped put out the fire, part of a human chain that passed buckets of water from the well. Exhausted, his head aching, Kamil surveyed the damage both to the cottage and to his case. He was also worried about Omar.

It was sheer luck that Balkis’s house and the other cottages hadn’t caught fire. There had been enough men around to put out the blaze quickly. During the day, most of them would have been at work, but in the middle of the night, all were at home. The fire brigade arrived-a team of muscular young men running in unison, carrying a water pump on their shoulders-but by that time, the fire had been tamed. The piano remained upright like a large smoldering creature rooting in the rubble. Amida was being looked after by Courtidis and Saba. He had been shot in the lower back. Courtidis was not sure whether he would recover. There was no sign of Owen or his men. Kamil boiled with frustration that he had let them slip away. He had expected them to run out the front door, where Yakup was waiting. He should have remembered that Remzi knew about the tunnels.

It was almost dawn. A pall of white smoke filled the cistern like a bowl, making it difficult to see. A tall, thick-necked man in a ripped shirt approached him. His face was scratched and dirty, as were all their faces. Kamil assumed it was a villager coming to thank him. If only they knew he was the one who had started the fire, Kamil thought glumly.

“Well, where the hell were you?” Omar asked him with mock anger.

“Where was I?” Kamil jumped up and cried out. “Where was I while you were getting your beauty sleep?” He took a closer look at Omar and noticed for the first time the cuts and bruises. His eye was beginning to swell. “What happened to you?”

“You don’t count punches in a fight.” Omar tried to smile, but ended in a grimace of pain. “What happened to you?” He leaned closer and examined Kamil’s blood-caked hair.

Kamil smiled bleakly. “We can compare war stories later.”

“Well, come along, then. I have a present for you.”

He led Kamil through the smoke to a tumbledown cottage at the edge of the compound.

“It’s used for storage,” Omar explained and flung open the door.

On the floor, bound like two neat packages, were Ben and Remzi, bloodied and black with soot. Ben’s face was swollen like a cantaloupe. Remzi lay quietly with his eyes closed, blood trickling from his ear.

Kamil pounded Omar on the back. “How did you do it?”

“There are those who can ride a horse, and there are those who can’t,” Omar replied, making no attempt at modesty. He pointed to the back of the cottage, where steps led down into blackness. He shrugged. “Two against one, in the dark? It was better than kissing a pretty woman.”

After making sure their prisoners were under lock and key, Kamil and Omar sat at the back of the Fatih station, drinking tea. Dawn threw strange halfhearted shadows on the floor, as if the day were only practicing and still unwilling to commit its full strength.

“I can’t believe Owen escaped.” Kamil’s voice was hoarse from inhaling smoke. He worried about Elif and wondered if Owen would make good on his threat to harm her or whether he’d just try to leave the empire the fastest way possible. Kamil had ordered every customs station, port, and train station to be watched, and sent gendarmes to notify every stable in the city where Owen might rent or purchase a horse and carriage. Huseyin’s liveried guards were armed and on full alert.

“Why haven’t we been able to find out where the bastard lives?”

“None of his associates ever met him there. And he has money. That buys you anonymity.” Kamil stood. “I’ll go and get cleaned up and this afternoon we can hand Ben over to the embassy. Remzi is all yours until his trial.”

“This time he’ll squeal like a bitch. His Charshamba gang is out of business. When I round up the rest of them, believe me,” he added in a deadly voice, “they’ll be sorry they ever laid a hand on my men. At least I know Remzi will get what’s coming to him when he goes to trial. Open and shut case. My friend the warden at Sultanahmet Prison has reserved a nice dark cell for him in the basement where he can chat with the rats. But it really eats my liver about Owen. He’s the one responsible for the murders, but we don’t have a thing on him. I bet if we handed him over to the British, they’d fine him a thousand liras for smuggling, then cut the bastard loose.”

“At least we’ve severed his smuggling artery. The thefts should dry up now.”

“We’ll make it so hot at this end that the bazaaris will look like us if they so much as go near a stolen icon.” Omar pointed to Kamil’s singed hair.

Kamil laughed, but his eyes were cold.

While Omar returned to Sunken Village to check on Amida, Kamil rode through Fatih, across the New Bridge, and up the hill through Galata. The Grande Rue de Pera was still relatively deserted. Doorkeepers returning from the bakery carried loaves of fresh bread in string bags or tucked in paper under their arms. A few women, probably servants, hurried past, heads down.

Kamil turned into Agha-Hamam Street and dismounted before a wooden door.

“Your arrival pleases me,” the hamambashou Niko boomed, quickly hiding his surprise at Kamil’s appearance.

A red-checked peshtemal towel hung around Niko’s neck, doing little to hide his barrel chest. Another covered him from waist to knees. Kamil came here every week to bathe and to suffer brilliantly under the blows of Niko’s muscled arms. This week, he was early.

Niko led Kamil into the cooling-off room and indicated a cubicle, a simple wood-paneled room with no ceiling that contained a comfortable padded bench, a wardrobe, towels, high wooden clogs, and a hamam bowl of tinned copper, indented in the center to fit the bather’s middle finger when he poured water from the basin onto his head and shoulders.

Kamil stripped. In the enclosed space, the stench of charred wool was foul. He piled his clothes in a corner and wound a towel around his waist. Then he lay on his back on the bench and looked up gratefully at the calm, blue-tiled dome above him. His head throbbed, but distantly, like a storm at sea. The voices of other men echoed about him, distorted by the marble and tile walls.

Restless, he got up and called Niko. He pointed to the pile of clothes and told him to dispose of them and to send someone to his office for new ones.

The air became increasingly dense as Kamil moved from the cooler rooms to the hot domed hall, where Niko waited with a silk-weave washcloth and a bar of olive-oil soap.

An hour later, Kamil arrived at his office freshly scrubbed and dressed.

A soft knock on the door announced Avi. “This is from Mimoza Teyze.” He held out a packet redolent with the scent of freshly baked börek.

“Thank you.” Kamil unwrapped the börek and offered a piece to Avi. “How do you like living at Chief Omar’s house?”

“Mimoza Teyze lets me help,” Avi responded. “I get to bring the water from the fountain. That’s my job,” he added proudly, taking a bite. “And the garden. I’m helping Omar Amja build winter beds. He showed me how to do it. See?” He held out his hand. The blisters had healed, but Kamil saw a new bruise. “I’m not so good with the hammer yet,” Avi said, chagrined. “But I will be.”

Kamil clapped the boy on the shoulder. “Well, you’ve done a wonderful job for us. Who knows, you might end up a police chief instead of a magistrate.” He pushed the börek in Avi’s direction. “Now eat up. The padishah expects his officials to have meat on their bones.”

After Avi left, Abdullah handed Kamil a letter. It was from Nizam Pasha, reminding him that his seven days were up and ordering him to appear at the Ministry of Justice that afternoon.

Where could Owen live, Kamil wondered, without the local muhtar, who registered everyone in the district, or the police being aware of him? The only answer was in a district of villas, konaks, and mansions like Huseyin’s. The rich kept to themselves. But they had servants, and servants gossiped. There must be a way to find out.

Abdullah announced a visitor. Tailor Pepo’s apprentice came through the door, hands clasped before him, head bowed.

“Pasha, Tailor Pepo sends his greetings. He asked me to tell you that Monsieur Owen has ordered two new shirts. He paid extra to have them made up right away.” He held out a piece of paper. “Here’s the address we delivered them to.”

Perhaps he should believe in miracles after all, Kamil thought.

There were no servants and the house appeared deserted. It was a small villa in Nishantashou, not far from Huseyin’s mansion and an easy ride to the apartment in Tarla Bashou and to the British Embassy. Surrounded by a great iron fence and set within an overgrown garden, the villa was barely visible from the street. Kamil asked a passerby if he knew who lived there, and was told that the place was empty, except for a caretaker. But no one had seen him for several months.

The gendarmes took up positions around the house. Kamil instructed Captain Arif to make sure nothing, not even a hare, got through. “We believe there’s only one man in there, an Englishman. Chief Omar and I will go in first.” He took out his revolver. “I hope he’ll come quietly. But if you hear shots, you know what to do.”

“Yes, pasha.”

Kamil and Omar circled around the back, where a carriage waited in the dusty lane.

“You can get in and out back here without anyone seeing you,” Omar remarked. “But not anymore.” He grinned. Owen wouldn’t escape again.

Suitcases and bundles were stacked inside the carriage, and the back gate was ajar. They ran to the house, keeping out of sight behind the bushes, and slipped in the back door. The notes of a piano sonata drifted through the hallway. They followed the sound to a large central room lit by French windows. Although the house was shabby on the outside, inside it rivaled a small palace in the opulence of its furnishings and the quality of the art that covered every surface.

Owen sat at a grand piano with his back to them, engrossed in his playing. A large suitcase lay open on the floor.

Omar circled the room to sneak behind him.

“Going somewhere?” Kamil asked, pointing his gun at Owen’s back.

The notes ceased. Owen froze, then turned around. “My dear friend. I really am impressed.”

Before Omar could reach him, Owen suddenly pulled out a gun and shot at Kamil.

Omar leapt onto Owen’s back and pulled him to the ground. He stamped on his wrist until the gun fell from his hand, then hit him on the head with his pistol.

Kamil lay on the floor. Captain Arif and ten of his men fanned into the room, guns out, unsure where to aim.

“Get the medical officer,” Omar bellowed. He turned to Kamil and tried to staunch the wound. “Still alive, I see. The high and mighty must be bulletproof.”

“Did you get him?” Kamil groaned.

Omar nodded toward the figure slumped beside the piano.

“Good.” Kamil struggled to rise. His jacket was soaked with blood. “Did you kill him?”

“Maybe.” Omar looked unrepentant.

As two soldiers, led by a worried-looking Captain Arif, hurried Kamil’s stretcher out of the room, he saw Omar standing over Owen’s body. The last thing he remembered was hearing Omar’s voice ordering the remaining soldiers to get out.