The Abyssinian Proof

39

Instead of the reception hall, the clerk at the Ministry of Justice brought Kamil into Nizam Pasha’s private chambers. Kamil had never been there before and wasn’t sure if this change in routine was good news or bad. It might simply be that it was late in the day, and Nizam Pasha no longer had any reason to be sitting in the drafty hall.

Exhausted by pain, Kamil wore a cloak instead of his stambouline jacket, to accommodate his bandaged shoulder. The military surgeon had assured him that the bullet had gone right through the muscle and that the wound would heal cleanly, but Kamil had refused to take anything for the pain. He wanted a clear head for this interview. In life, he mused, philosophers say that the straight path is best, but they didn’t know Nizam Pasha.

The clerk ushered him into a room lined with books that had several comfortable-looking chairs and a modern desk piled with books and papers. The books were bound in soft leather and embossed in gold. A ladder used to climb to the higher reaches was propped against the shelves. Kamil stopped, assuming this was where he would be received, but the clerk urged him on through another door at the back.

They walked along a corridor, then emerged into a room in the old Ottoman style, with little ornamentation but an abundance of space and light. In the center a fountain burbled inside a small marble pool. To one side, the floor was raised to make a room within a room. The higher room was furnished with only a simple divan that stretched on three sides around a large blue and yellow silk rug. Dressed in a subdued gray robe and turban, Nizam Pasha was propped comfortably against cushions, his legs tucked under him. He was puffing on a narghile and a tiny china cup of coffee rested within arm’s reach.

Kamil struggled with one hand to take off his boots, then took the pair of finely tooled leather slippers the clerk held out. He stepped up to the room where Nizam Pasha waited, bowed deeply, and uttered the usual polite phrases.

“Sit, Magistrate, and give me your report.” Nizam Pasha snapped his fingers and told the clerk to bring Kamil coffee. He glanced at the bandage visible under Kamil’s cloak, but said nothing.

Kamil sat down on the divan opposite Nizam Pasha, grateful to be off his feet. It would have been impolite to look at his superior directly, so he directed his gaze toward Nizam Pasha’s right shoulder.

“We apprehended the thieves, Minister, and I’ve broken the connection to Europe.” He told him about Magnus Owen and his embassy export business. He detailed the many antiquities that had been recovered on the ship and in Owen’s apartment and villa, including the icon, the Ahrida Torah, the chalice, and other Byzantine valuables from the Fatih Mosque. He told him about the Rettingate shop. “The London police are raiding it as we speak. I expect we’ll get information leading to more arrests once they’ve had a look at their books. Much of the illegal trade from the empire went through this dealer’s hands.”

Kamil didn’t mention Malik’s murder. Although he was a civil servant himself, he had an instinctive distrust of bureaucrats and what they might do with information about something as potentially inflammatory as the Melisites or the Proof of God. Be loyal to the state, he thought, but trust whom you know. The Proof of God was better off in the hands of Hamdi Bey, who at least appreciated it as a rare antiquity that needed to be preserved, if not as a theological triumph or the heart of a religious sect.

Nizam Pasha listened with lowered lids, then looked directly at Kamil. “The bodies of the two Englishmen will have to be handed over to the embassy.”

Startled, Kamil said nothing, still digesting the news that Owen and Ben were dead.

Nizam Pasha appraised him. “You surprise me, Kamil.” There was a note of respect in his voice. “It’ll be a delicate matter.”

“Delicate, Minister?”

“You’ll have to explain the ears.” Nizam Pasha pulled on his narghile, his eyes intent. “Was that a joke? Why did you cut off their ears?”

At first, Kamil didn’t understand. Then, in a rush of horror, it became clear to him-Omar must have taken his revenge for Ali’s mutilation in the Tobacco Works tunnel. Omar had once mentioned, with a kind of admiration, warriors who strung up their enemies’ ears and wore them as necklaces. Kamil struggled to hide his shock from Nizam Pasha, who was watching him intently. What possible explanation could he come up with to account for such brutality that didn’t implicate Omar?

Kamil settled on a lie so close to the truth it was almost indistinguishable. “An unfortunate incident. Before we could lock them up, they were killed by a rival gang. That was the gang’s signature.”

“Good enough. The embassy will believe it.” He fixed Kamil with his gaze. It was clear that Nizam Pasha did not believe this lie.

“Yes, Minister.”

“I had mentioned that there might be an opening in the Appellate Court. I regret that this opening did not become available after all.” Nizam Pasha examined Kamil’s face for his reaction.

Kamil kept his relief to himself. “I serve the empire in whatever capacity I can,” he responded, then added quickly, “and the sultan, may Allah give him health.”

Nizam Pasha looked amused. “I think you serve him best where you are at present, perhaps better than I had expected. But the padishah’s benevolent eye is upon you. In his name, we thank you for your service.”

As Kamil stepped, pale and shaken, into the street, he had a disturbing thought. Had Omar cut off the men’s ears before or after they were dead? What was the difference between atrocity and vengeance?