The Abyssinian Proof

7

Kamil found the British cultural attaché slouched on a bench in the Municipal Gardens at the crest of the Pera hill, one lanky leg draped over the other, revealing an expanse of white silk sock. Between thumb and forefinger of his right hand, he pinched a thin cigar, the picture of the insouciant gentleman. Pink clouds had begun to gather to the west as the sun weakened.

“Mister Owen?” Kamil asked.

The man turned his head. He was in his forties, with a long, pleasant face, an aquiline nose, and thin lips curved in a friendly smile.

Owen’s pale blue eyes regarded Kamil with amusement. “You’ve found him,” he drawled, and then motioned with his cigar for Kamil to sit beside him. “Like to come up here and sit.” He leaned back and took a deep breath. “Get away from those ghastly fumes.” He looked to Kamil for sympathy. “The price of progress, eh?”

Kamil sat down. “I’m afraid so.” As the weather grew colder, a suffocating haze from the coal and wood with which people heated their homes had descended on the city. The public gardens were atop a bluff and a steady breeze kept the air relatively clear.

Owen wore a well-cut gabardine suit, a brocaded waistcoat, and a shirt that Kamil recognized as the work of a Beyoglu shirtmaker. Kamil owned several shirts made by Tailor Pepo, with their trademark rounded collar and distinctive stitching, and he was surprised to find Owen wearing one. Tailor Pepo was a well-kept secret. He could make only a limited number of shirts, so his devoted customers generally didn’t share his address.

Owen pulled out another cigar and offered it to Kamil. “Rare, but the best.”

“Thank you. I prefer cigarettes.”

“Your English is good,” Owen remarked. “Been to the home country?”

“Cambridge.”

Owen looked at him with interest. “Well done.” He puffed on his cigar. “Been to London, of course.”

“Yes, it’s a marvelous city.” Kamil reached into his jacket for sketches of the missing objects. “Let me show you…”

“Are you much for classical music?” He leaned toward Kamil. “Mozart? Bach?” He shook his head distastefully. “Germans, I know, but what’s to be done? No one better. Do you play?”

“If you mean the piano, no, I’m afraid not, although I do appreciate good music when I hear it.”

“Dash it. I miss my music. I play piano. Not bad at all. But, without an audience…You know what they say, if a musician plays to an empty room,” he smiled, showing a row of gleaming white teeth, “is it really music?”

“There’s some good music in the city. The concert and theater season has just opened. I don’t remember seeing Bach on the program, but there’s a performance of Bizet’s Carmen this week at the Palais de Cristal.”

“Thank you for the tip, my friend. Will I see you there?”

“No time, I’m afraid. Would you mind taking a look at these?” Kamil held out the sketches. “They were stolen recently. I’m particularly interested in these.” He pointed to the sketches of the icon and the diamond chalice missing from the Fatih Mosque.

Owen lifted one of the sketches up to his face. “Are these jewels?”

“Diamonds.”

Owen whistled.

“The icon is unique and, if it appears on the market, could easily be traced.”

“Then it’ll be sold privately.”

“That’s what I’m worried about.”

“What makes you think I know anything about them?”

“My contact in the London police suggested you might be able to help. Many of the stolen objects are ending up in London, but we don’t know how they’re getting there so quickly.”

“Makes a certain amount of sense, but I’m not sure what we can do to help you, short of searching every shipment that leaves the country and the baggage of every British traveler.”

“I wish that were possible,” Kamil admitted. Ottoman customs agents had few rights to search British citizens, leaving huge loopholes in the antiquities laws.

“But, of course, it’s entirely impractical,” Owen pointed out. “The embassy barely has enough staff to handle its own shipments.”

“There’s more at stake than the actual thefts,” Kamil explained urgently. “You’re a man with political experience. You know that when people lose their heritage, it ignites deeper fears, especially these days.”

“It’s a tragedy what’s happening in the provinces. Her Majesty’s government is very concerned.”

Kamil knew the British wanted a strong Ottoman Empire to stand between themselves and the Russians. The empire was the prey that kept the bear occupied.

“Then I’m sure you’ll be willing to help us. We’d like permission to search the cargo of any vessel leaving for England. You’re welcome to send a representative to oversee the operation.”

Owen raised his eyebrows. “I’ll ask the ambassador.” He puffed on his cigar. “Don’t expect too much.”

Kamil was disappointed but not surprised by Owen’s lack of enthusiasm. He frowned into the distance, where smoke rose from what appeared to be a large fire. The smoke drifted upward, a dark smudge against the sunset.

“How long have you been here?” Kamil asked, momentarily distracted by the fire.

“Arrived six months ago,” Owen answered.

Kamil turned to him. Something had struck a discordant note. “It’s odd, but I feel sure we’ve met before.”

“You must be mistaken, old chap. Tall, balding, blue-eyed Englishmen are as plenty as blackberries, as Shakespeare would put it.”

Kamil thought of the former British ambassador, another tall, balding Englishman with faded blue eyes. Owen was probably right.

“How do embassy personnel send things home?” Kamil asked, remembering the frail former ambassador and his daughter Sybil standing forlornly on deck of the ship that would take them back to England.

Ash from Owen’s cigar fell onto his knee and he brushed it off with an angry flick of his hand. “Diplomatic pouch. There’s a special steamer that goes directly to London. Why?”

“Just curious. Does everyone at the embassy use the pouch?”

“It’s for diplomatic correspondence,” Owen explained, “not your auntie’s quince jam.” He rose, threw his cigar on the dirt path, and ground it under his shoe. A sparrow fluttered down and pecked at the red and yellow label. “My good man,” he extended his hand, “it’s been a pleasure, but I must get back.”

“Of course.” They shook hands. “Thank you for your time. I’ll call on you again, if I may.”

“Absolutely, old chap. Perhaps we’ll meet at the Palais de Cristal. And I’ll see what I can find out about your problem. I’ll be in touch.” He flashed Kamil a smile and, with a wave, turned and strode down the path.