The Abyssinian Proof

9

At one in the morning, Kamil rode across the Old Bridge to Oun Kapanou Square. Against a backdrop of enormous stone warehouses and shuttered shops, the only light came from a few fires around which slumped shadowy figures. They were probably peasants from the countryside, Kamil thought, looking for work and huddled together for safety in the square near the police station. He was relieved and excited to be taking action again, although he hoped that this night would end better than the last. Marko’s face remained vivid in his mind.

Kamil dismounted and gave the reins of his horse to a policeman on guard by the station door. Inside, six men sat around a table, playing cards. The table was littered with half-full tea glasses, a bowl of cigarette butts, and the remains of a meal.

“You’re killing me.” Omar threw his cards on the table and pushed back his chair. “Tea, Magistrate? Are you hungry?”

The other men ignored him and concentrated on their game.

When Kamil tipped his chin to indicate no, Omar asked, “Are you armed?”

“Of course.”

“Let’s go, then.”

They rode slowly along Djoubalou Boulevard, the padded feet of their horses making almost no sound. The line of shops gave way to warehouses and depots. In the dark, Kamil couldn’t read their signs, but knew they contained the empire’s stocks of oil, flour, tobacco, and other export goods. To his left stretched a long open lot where heaps of scrap iron made fantastical shapes in the dark.

“I told you our ear in Charshamba heard that a big shipment of antiquities is going out tonight,” Omar said in a low voice. “But we don’t know where they’re loading. One possibility is the wharf behind the Ottoman Tobacco Works.” He spat on the ground. “Ever since the French took over the tobacco monopoly, all we get is shit.”

Kamil agreed. “I heard that the Greeks and Armenians have moved their factories to Egypt.”

“Can’t blame them. The women work for less money there. Although I hear someone reads to them while they roll cigarettes.”

“Reads to them?”

“Beats me. Keeps their fingers limber?” Omar threw out with a snort. “My cousin was stationed there. Saw it with his own eyes. Someone reading newspapers out loud to the workers. I think it’s a bad idea. Limbers up their minds too, never a good thing in a woman.” He smiled broadly and smoothed his mustache with his forefinger. “They should be limber elsewhere.”

“The Tobacco Works next to the Golden Horn, isn’t that the office where they print the tax stamps? It must be well guarded.” Kamil remembered a hulking brick building with large windows overlooking the water.

“That’s right. The actual depot is on Hissar Altou Street. But the smugglers aren’t interested in the offices. There are archways leading from the basement of the Tobacco Works to the pier. No guards back there. We think the basement connects to a tunnel. Someday, I’d like to see where the other end comes out, but the French don’t appreciate the police poking around in their basements unless we can prove there’s a reason.”

“But if you know stolen goods are coming through there, why haven’t you raided it?”

“We were waiting for a big shipment. Otherwise, we’d have wasted good knowledge on small results. By the will of Allah, tonight we’ll have our proof.”

When they came to a marble depot, Omar pulled his horse up next to Kamil’s and whispered, “From here, we go on foot.” He pursed his lips and cooed like a dove. Five men in uniform emerged from behind the marble slabs, like Greek statues coming to life. All of them were armed and two carried large lamps. Kamil recognized Ali from the Fatih station and nodded to him. Ali grinned, clearly pleased that Kamil remembered him.

One of the policemen was so young that he had only black down above his lips instead of a mustache, although his white, bony wrists had outgrown the sleeves of his uniform. Ali seemed to have taken the young man under his instruction. Kamil heard him explain in a low voice, “Rejep, never take your gun out unless you’re willing to use it. If you hesitate, someone will get it away from you and then use it against you. Just keep your eyes open and your gun tucked away unless the chief tells you otherwise.”

One of the other three men was short and stout like a barrel, but unexpectedly agile. The other two were unremarkable, short and slim like many local men. If Kamil had been able to see their features more clearly, he would have expected gaunt, prematurely old faces, perhaps some missing teeth, incongruously youthful dark eyes, and luxuriant mustaches.

With Omar and Kamil in front, the group made its way single-file down an alley leading to the port, keeping close to the wall of the depot. There was no moon and the stars were obscured by clouds. Kamil’s world consisted of the sound of his own heartbeat and the bulk, felt rather than seen, of Omar before him.

They reached the wooden pier and turned left, keeping close to the enormous warehouse gates. To their right, the thick, almost tangible blackness of night on water pressed against them.

Suddenly, Kamil felt the spring of wood give way to flagstones beneath his feet.

Omar stopped and put his lips to Kamil’s ear, “This is the wharf. There’s another pier straight ahead.”

Kamil nudged him and pointed to a pinprick of light that had appeared on the water.

The light went out. They watched and waited until it blinked again. Suddenly, in front of them a door opened, emitting a dim light, but was shut again almost immediately. They heard scurrying sounds, footsteps on wood, scraping as if a heavy object were being dragged toward the water. Finally, the noises stopped and low voices drifted toward them from the pier.

His senses fully alert and his heart racing, Kamil whispered to Omar. “Now.”

As Omar passed the signal to his men, Kamil calmed his breathing. Cloaked in darkness, he crept silently forward onto the pier, followed by Omar and the five men.

When the voices were close by, Omar gave another signal and the two policemen quickly lit their lamps and rushed forward, illuminating the scene: a rowboat in the water piled high with sacks and a large wooden chest. A man balanced in the boat, securing the load. Three men on the pier were momentarily blinded by the sudden brilliance. Kamil ran past them and sprang onto the man in the boat. As they struggled, the boat rocked wildly. The other smugglers turned and ran along the pier with Omar and the policemen right behind them, shouting at them to stop. Panicked, one of the smugglers jumped into the water. Kamil heard him struggle, then call for help. Kamil realized that the man couldn’t swim.

Kamil subdued the man in the rowboat and used a piece of rope to tie his hands, then threw a length of rope in the drowning man’s direction. “Grab the rope!” he called, but the man continued to flail and, with a surprised gasp, he suddenly disappeared.

Kamil hauled his prisoner out of the boat and onto the pier. There he found the policemen squatting over the other two smugglers, their heads pressed against the wooden planks, arms pinned behind them. Kamil handed his captive over.

“He’s finished,” Kamil answered to Omar’s questioning look at the water. “Let’s see what we’ve caught.”

While Omar held the lamp, Kamil stepped back into the boat, slipped his knife from his boot, and slit open one of the sacks. He pulled out a tin box with a red lid. On the lid was the image of a silver sickle moon and star and the words, Régie des Tabacs De L’Empire Ottoman, Constantinople. He opened it, then turned and showed Omar. The box was filled with cigarettes, the musky odor lifting pleasantly to their noses. Kamil could see Omar was as disappointed as he was.

“May it profit Allah,” Omar exclaimed, throwing the box into the water in disgust. “For it hasn’t profited us.”

Kamil took out another box and looked at the cigarettes closely in the light. “No tax stamps.” He slit open the other sacks and soon the boat was knee-deep in tin boxes and cigarettes.

“Run-of-the-mill smugglers’ fare,” Omar said dejectedly. He handed Kamil a heavy-bladed knife.

Kamil used it to pry open the wooden chest, fully expecting it to hold more of the same. But when Omar held the lamp closer, both men smiled broadly. The light glinted from a hoard of gold and silver items, some set with jewels. Kamil recognized objects from across the ages, a highly decorated Roman silver platter, a gold Byzantine chalice, and what appeared to be a silver candleholder engraved with the sultan’s seal that could have come from any imperial mosque. He pulled aside some of the pieces and spotted a nielloed ewer. He pulled it out and examined it.

“This was stolen from Fatih Mosque,” he concluded.

“So we’re on their tail,” Omar said with undisguised pleasure. “Let’s go and sit on these thugs and see what information they spill.”

They closed the chest and hauled it onto the pier, then turned to the five policemen standing proudly over their three captives.

“Well done,” Omar told them. His good mood infected the men, who grinned and nodded at one another.

Omar pulled aside the stout policeman. “You, Shishko, I want you to ride as fast as you can to Oun Kapanou station. Tell them to send five more armed men and two wagons. When you get back, take the prisoners to the Fatih jail in one wagon and that chest to the Fatih station in the other. And hurry.”

The man pressed his fist against his heart and bowed his head. “On my honor.” Then he ran off into the night.

“And you,” Omar singled out one of the older policemen, “make sure the chest is still here when he gets back.”

“Chief?” The man looked confused.

“Aren’t we going to wait for them?” Kamil asked Omar.

Omar stared at the archways at the back of the building. “I’d like to look for that tunnel,” he confided to Kamil in a low voice. “They won’t use it again, but we need to see where it goes.”

“Better in daylight,” Kamil cautioned. “You’ve got your proof now,” he pointed to the boat, “so the French will allow you to search the basement. At least wait until reinforcements get here.”

“If we wait, they might block off the tunnel.”

“That may be so, but it’s too risky. We don’t know how many men are in there.”

Omar walked up to the door the smugglers had used and yanked it open. Beyond was darkness. “They’re long gone.”

“You don’t know that.”

Kamil took stock: three trussed prisoners and four policemen, now that Shishko had been sent for reinforcements. If he and Omar went into the basement, four armed men should be enough to guard the prisoners. Kamil could see the policemen’s faces in the light and found them to be energetic, muscular young men, not the faded civil servants he had imagined. One was a particularly handsome youth, with a head of dark curls and an easy smile. They were joking around, but Kamil sensed this was to cover their apprehension.

“These donkeys stink,” the older man said. “Shall we roll them off the pier and wash them before they stink up the station?” He nudged the captive at his feet with his boot and asked him, “Can you swim?”

Two of the captives struggled crablike against their ropes, eliciting more laughter from the policemen. The third, the man Kamil had subdued in the boat, lay still. At first, Kamil thought he was unconscious, but then he noticed the man looking about him with hard, observant eyes.

Kamil called Omar over and pointed him out. “That’s their leader.”

Omar watched the prisoner for a moment, then nodded and went over to speak with his men. Kamil noticed their hands moving to their revolvers.

When the prisoner noticed he was being observed, he closed his eyes.

Omar returned, Ali and Rejep trailing behind. “Coming?” he asked Kamil.

“If you take Ali and Rejep, there’ll be only two men to guard the prisoners,” Kamil objected. “What if the other smugglers come back?”

“My men are armed,” Omar pointed out. “And if there are others, they’ll be inside and have to get past us first. We won’t be long. I just want to find the damn tunnel before they have a chance to block it off. They could be doing that right now while we’re standing here jabbering.”

He took a baton from one of the policemen and walked over to the prisoners. He bent over and neatly and systematically bashed each of them on the head once, hard enough to make them go slack but not hard enough to draw blood. A master in full control of his tools, Kamil thought grimly.

“Was that necessary?” he asked.

“Just putting your mind at rest. They won’t be giving anybody any trouble.”

“It’s not them I’m worried about.”

The policemen remaining behind looked serious now. They shifted about, staring into the darkness. Kamil snapped open his cigarette case and held it out to the young men. They shoved their revolvers into their holsters, accepted the cigarettes, and cupped hands for each other to light them, grateful for something to do.

“Omar, don’t do this,” Kamil appealed one last time.

“We’ll be back before they finish those cigarettes. Friends, have your guns ready.”

The men snapped to attention and pulled out their revolvers. Kamil wondered if any of them had ever fired a gun before.

“Ali, Rejep, come on.” Omar grabbed the second lamp and headed through the door. Kamil swallowed an expletive and followed the men into the basement.

They passed along a damp corridor that smelled of mold and urine and led steeply downward. Despite his wool jacket, Kamil was chilled. Omar’s light wavered up ahead. They emerged into a large room with brick walls, and Kamil could just make out a vaulted ceiling. The room felt limitless and cold as a grave. The lamplight picked out carcasses of rusted machinery, broken crates, piles of crumbling bricks.

“Ah, you decided to join us, Magistrate,” Omar said, his voice magnified in the cavernous space.

“If the basement is as large as the building, you’ll be here for hours.”

“We’re here now. Let’s see what we can see.” Omar moved forward with the lamp. Greek and Roman capitals sprouted like enormous mushrooms from the dark rubble of the floor. Marble pillars were stacked like firewood, some cut into roundels to be used as building material.

Despite his unease, Kamil found he was fascinated. He remembered what Malik had said about empires building upon the remains of earlier civilizations. Given its size and the pattern of brickwork, Kamil guessed the basement had once been the foundation of a Byzantine palace. Perhaps these columns had been harvested by the Byzantines, sliced and stacked and inventoried in their own version of technological progress. The Ottomans had built a modern factory on top of it all, full of printing devices, stamping and calculating machines, the clatter of modernity. But in its hidden recesses, the Ottoman Tobacco Works was infested with history, its subterranean heart riddled with ancient tunnels. They passed the rusting hulk of a large machine that looked like a press or printing device. A thick iron square hung suspended in the air like a giant hand blessing the unidentifiable remains beneath it.

Suddenly Omar stopped and pulled out his revolver. Kamil and Ali followed suit. The light picked out the whites of Rejep’s eyes. He looked very young and frightened.

“What is it?”

“Over there. See them?” Omar whispered, pointing.

Just beyond the edge of the light, Kamil could make out what appeared to be a group of men facing them only meters away. He heard Rejep’s sharp intake of breath and Ali whispering to him to stay calm.

Kamil signaled to Omar, then stepped sideways into the darkness. He moved quickly and soundlessly toward the waiting men while Omar held the light in their eyes.

Suddenly, one of the figures toppled over.

“They’re dummies.” Kamil walked into the circle of light, pulling one of the figures behind him, its cloth body black with mold, straw and wool swelling through its disintegrating skin. “Dressmaker’s forms. Look, this one still has scraps of some kind of uniform on it.”

Omar started laughing, the sound multiplying as he did.

“Quiet,” Kamil commanded. “If there are men around, they can hear us.”

Suddenly one of the figures moved its head. An enormous rat glared at them before hurling itself from its perch. Its piercing cry rattled Rejep, who whispered to Ali in a frightened voice, “Maybe it’s like the magistrate says. Maybe it’d be better to come during the day. I heard some of these rats eat children.”

“Go on, you drag tail,” Ali teased him, pushing him ahead. “That’s a rat and you’re a man.”

Rejep moved closer to Omar, who held the lamp. Rats scuffled close by, but Kamil thought the men all felt easier now, as if their laughter had sucked the poison from the night.

Rejep turned around to Ali, smiling. “That was some rat,” he chuckled. But before he could finish, he stumbled to a halt and said Ali’s name in a breathless, quizzical tone. “Come on, don’t joke with me like that.”

“What is it, Rejep?” Kamil asked.

Omar had forged ahead and the edge of the lamplight receded from them.

“Omar,” Kamil called in an urgent whisper. “Omar.”

Omar turned and held up his lamp. “What?”

“Ali’s gone.” Rejep’s voice trembled.

Omar walked back to them. “What do you mean, gone?”

“Gone. He was here a second ago. Now he’s gone.”

Omar and Kamil held their revolvers ready. Omar held the lamp high as they searched the room, calling Ali’s name, but the only response was the squeak and scrabble of rats. The darkness seemed to swallow the light.

Rejep followed behind. “They took him,” he said in a wavering voice. “It’s my fault. I should have kept him in my sight. I looked away and now he’s gone. It’s my fault.” Rejep raised his gun with a shaking hand. “They’re going to kill him,” he cried. Then he pulled the trigger.

The report shattered the air with a violent sound that filled the basement and rolled over them from all directions like a physical force.

“Allah protect us,” Omar exclaimed.

Kamil peered intently into the darkness, ears alert for any movement.

Rejep was on his knees, eyes wild, breathing raggedly, his revolver fallen to the floor.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he repeated.

Omar took his collar and yanked him to his feet. “Get up,” he bellowed. “What are you, a virgin? I’ll fuck you if that’s what you need. Get up like a man. Take your gun.”

Still trembling, Rejep reached down for his gun, failed to find his holster, so stuck it in his waistband.

Omar shook his head. “Now we’re all deaf,” he snarled.

They continued the search for Ali, calling his name. Finally, Kamil had had enough. “We’re getting out. We need more light and we need help,” he said in frustration. “Give me the lamp.”

Omar hesitated, then handed it over.

“Let’s go,” Kamil said curtly. “Watch our backs.”

Kamil retraced their steps, orienting himself with difficulty by the pillars and piles of bricks and machines, until he saw the corridor. Relieved, he ran along it, then pushed through the door and onto the pier. It was dark. The other lamp was gone. So were the prisoners and the two guards.

Omar cursed. “They must have come from the station and taken the prisoners. Where are the extra men?”

Kamil laid a warning hand on Omar’s arm and pointed to the pier at their feet. Pieces of cut rope snaked across the wood. They exchanged a sharp look.

Kamil drew his gun once more and gestured to Omar to follow him to the end of the pier. Kamil held the lamp out over the water. The boat was gone. He leaned over farther. Bobbing against the pilings of the pier were the bodies of the two policemen.

Kamil wondered how long they had been in the basement. It seemed like forever but he thought it had only been a few minutes.

Omar walked up to the shaking Rejep and took him by the collar. “Take one of the horses from the marble works and ride as fast as you can to Oun Kapanou station and get help. That’s the closest station. Don’t let anyone there put you off, you scrawny-assed bastard. Overturn their card table if you have to. Understand? Tell them there are two dead policemen and there may be more if they don’t get their asses over here. Do you think you can do that?”

Kamil could see from Rejep’s face that anger was beginning to displace his fear. Kamil was furious at Omar for insisting on this disastrous adventure, but at some level he had to admire the police chief’s understanding of men.

When Rejep was gone, Kamil gave Omar his revolver, took off his jacket, and let himself fall into the water. It enfolded him, absolving him for a moment of the need for thought. His boots clung to his legs like a second skin and seemed to buoy him. Then his head broke the surface and he found his nose just a hand’s breadth away from the younger man’s curly hair. He tucked the man under his arm and dragged him through the water to the wharf, where Omar waited to pull him onto the flagstones. Kamil went back for the second man. He saw the body of the drowned smuggler snagged under the pier, but decided to let the police fish him out.

They laid the policemen out in the lamplight. They were handsome men, Kamil thought. Both wore slim gold bands. Their wives might have admired them like this in sleep, their faces defenseless, easier to adore. He remembered the younger man’s smile and he imagined that they had been happy, rich in life if not in wealth. Perhaps they had children. He pictured a young black-eyed boy with curly hair and an easy smile and felt inexpressably sad.

Omar shook his head, clicked his tongue, and pointed to the single slash in each man’s uniform just above the heart. “Perfect cut.”

A master of his art admiring the handiwork of another, Kamil thought angrily. If Omar hadn’t stubbornly insisted on looking for that tunnel, his men would still be alive. But then he saw Omar’s face and reconsidered his wrath. The police chief looked harrowed.

“Stupid,” Omar whispered harshly to himself. “Stupid to risk the lives of my men. I would never have done that in the war. For what? So I could prove there was a tunnel. Of course, there’s a tunnel. Allah. Allah is the enemy of pride.”

“That’s probably where they took Ali,” Kamil pointed out in a neutral voice, not trusting himself to say more.

He heard a commotion and looked around to see Rejep jump from his horse and run toward them, Shishko at his heels with the original backup force. They were too late, Kamil thought.

Dozens of policemen with lamps and torches swarmed through the basement of the Tobacco Works, islands of light floating through the darkness.

“It’s got to be here,” Omar shouted, flinging debris aside. “I know it’s here. It has to be here.”

Kamil wiped his face and walked over to him. Omar sagged suddenly, as if the puppet master had dropped his strings.

“We’ve gone over every fingernail’s worth of this wall. Nothing. So the entrance has to be through the floor, but look at the size of this place.” Omar swept his hand around. “And it’s full of junk. We’d need an army to look under everything.”

“Let’s keep looking,” Kamil responded tiredly, walking over to a large, draped object. He pulled at the cloth but had to retreat, choking on the dust he had dislodged. Why couldn’t they find the tunnel entrance? he berated himself. Ali hadn’t just disappeared into the ground. Or had he? Kamil looked down at the patchwork of cracked marble and grimy stone slabs that extended beneath his feet.

“You know, the number two rule in the army is to watch out for your men.” Omar’s eyes were red and ferile, like a rat. “You never leave one behind.”

“What’s number one?”

“Stay alive, no matter what.”

Those two rules contradicted each other, Kamil thought, but didn’t say anything.

He surveyed the enormous space. “We’ll never find him this way. Let’s get a few hours of rest. Then we can think what to do next.”

“Rest,” Omar spat. “You go. I’m staying.”

“The men will continue the search, Omar,” Kamil said sternly. “You’ve only got two hands and two eyes. Let the men do their job. They’re just as anxious to find him as we are.”

Djoubalou Boulevard was unrecognizable in the daylight when he and Omar emerged. Kamil checked his watch and realized it was almost noon. They rode past the scrap-iron yard. Farther along, storefronts were festooned with painted signs, and displays of wares spilled from doorways. Kamil found the color and motion of everyday life somehow obscene, as if the world should be in mourning for the men lost that night.

He left Omar at the police station in Oun Kapanou Square. Men stood in small groups in the yard, smoking and looking anxiously toward the street. Kamil pushed his horse through the crowd in the square and crossed the Old Bridge, his eyes on the water as if he expected to find Ali there.

Kamil rode slowly along the crest of the hill, past the cypresses of the Turkish cemetery and the municipal gardens. His clothes had almost dried but felt clammy. Some distance behind him another rider followed. Kamil had first noticed him crossing the Old Bridge at Oun Kapanou, and since then he had kept glancing back, keeping the rider in his sight, his hand near his gun.

Kamil traversed the shadow of the British Embassy’s high wall and turned down Hamal Bashou Street, where he dismounted, leaving his horse in the care of a boy. He stepped into the mirror-lined dimness of the Brasserie Europe and sank into a chair in the corner, far from the other diners and facing the wall. Recognizing Kamil, the waiter brought him a glass of water, then another when he drank the first down.

Just as Kamil expected, after a few moments the man who had been following him entered. Before the man’s eyes could adjust to the gloom, Kamil had sized him up in the mirror. He was long-limbed, with black hair and a mustache, and was wearing a fez, Frankish trousers, and a short, tight jacket. His thick calves and shoulders and thin joints gave him the appearance of a large articulated insect. Kamil didn’t recognize him, but felt sure the man had followed him from the Tobacco Works. By the time the man’s eyes found him, Kamil was engrossed in the menu.

Kamil took his time eating a generous portion of lamb nested in smoked eggplant puree. When he emerged into the street, his head was clear again. He walked his horse the rest of the way to the court building, aware of the man still following a short distance behind.

At the courthouse, Kamil took out his watch and placed it on his desk. It wasn’t fifteen minutes before Abdullah knocked and announced a visitor who wished to speak with him about a case. Kamil slid his desk drawer open and sat back as the man walked into his office.

“Good afternoon, Magistrate. My name is Remzi.” His voice rasped and he continually cleared his throat. Several of his front teeth were missing and the rest were stained a dark brown.

“Please sit.” Kamil motioned toward the chair in front of his desk, but the man remained standing. He looked around the office carefully, as if systematically noting potential weapons and exits. Kamil wondered what his real name was.

“A bird sang to me about what happened last night.”

“Pardon?”

“Last night. At the Tobacco Works.”

“What do you mean? What happened?”

“The police pushed one of my friends into the water and he died.” The man looked genuinely sad, Kamil thought. Even thieves mourn friends.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Kamil noted that the dead friend couldn’t have told Remzi what happened. Either Remzi had been there himself or the escaped smugglers had told him. “Why are you here?”

The man laughed dryly as if Kamil had told a joke. “I always go right to the top.”

“Where do you live, Remzi?” Kamil was in no mood to play games.

“Here and there.”

“If you want me to help you,” he said angrily, “I need to know who I’m dealing with. Your address?”

“I live in Fatih.”

He sat back in his chair and regarded Remzi levelly. “What do you want?”

As if Kamil had given him a cue, Remzi sat down in the chair before Kamil’s desk. He leaned back with a knowing smile on his face, his unfortunate friend forgotten. “I’m here to pay my taxes.”

“What? Don’t waste my time.” Kamil wondered where this elaborate ruse was leading.

“I’m a good citizen,” Remzi said slyly. “I pay my taxes, then I get taken care of. That’s the deal.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My friend, he always said, ‘Go right to the top.’”

“What do you want?” Kamil kept his exasperation in check. This man knew the smugglers-he was probably one of them. The bit must be inserted slowly so he didn’t buck.

Remzi seemed to struggle with himself, perhaps wondering if he should leave, but then a confident look appeared on his face. He took a small, heavy sack from his pocket and placed it on Kamil’s desk. “Go ahead and take a peek, Magistrate, and tell me if this isn’t the best deal you’ve been offered in a while.”

“What is it?” Kamil asked.

“My taxes. Come on, Magistrate. Take it or leave it.” He showed his stained teeth. “I’ve never yet seen anyone leave it.”

Kamil leaned forward threateningly, his hand near his desk drawer. “Are you calling a magistrate of the court a thief?”

Abdullah opened the door and looked in inquiringly, but Kamil waved him away.

“No, Your Honor. No.” Remzi looked flustered. “Just taxes.”

Kamil pulled the sack over and looked inside. It was full of gold lira coins, a year’s salary for an official. He pushed the sack back to the middle of the desk.

“I’m asking you for the last time. What do you want?”

“Leave your hands off our business.”

When Kamil opened his mouth, the man interrupted. “Don’t go asking what business, as if you’re some innocent virgin. We do business like anybody else and you have no right busting us up.”

“Smuggling isn’t business. It’s a crime.”

“Oh, and what’s this?” Remzi indicated the sack with a dirty hand.

“I haven’t accepted it.”

“Allah save us from whores who play virgins,” Remzi grumbled and got to his feet.

Kamil repressed his desire to smash his fist into the man’s face and then clap him in irons. He needed more information. “Sit,” he commanded.

Remzi was reluctant but sat back down. The sack of gold coins lay unacknowledged and unclaimed on the desk between them.

“What do you ‘export’?”

“The usual stuff,” Remzi answered grudgingly.

“Tobacco? Gold? Jewels? What?”

“Not our customers. We’ve got what you call,” he drew the words out, “a steady clientele.”

“And who is that?”

Remzi didn’t answer.

Kamil smiled pleasantly. “Of course. Your professional discretion is admirable. What is it, then, that you’d like me to avert my eyes from? I have to know what it is, don’t I, so I know what I’m not seeing.”

He could see Remzi’s mind frantically winnowing what could be told from what could not.

“My boss does business in antiques. Strictly legit.”

“Of course.” Kamil leaned back comfortably.

“There are regular shipments and he doesn’t want them disrupted.”

“Of course not.”

“So you keep the police off our backs.”

“At the Tobacco Works?”

“Not just there,” Remzi responded petulantly.

“Well, you have to tell me where,” Kamil said reasonably. “Otherwise, how am I supposed to keep the police away?”

“There’s a mark on the stuff. You tell them whenever they see the mark, they let the shipment go through. You tell them it’s a legit shipment.” He pulled out a piece of paper and showed it to Kamil. It was the same mark as the one on the body at the Fatih station.

Kamil suddenly remembered some lines burned into the top of the chest of antiquities they had found behind the Tobacco Works. He hadn’t realized their significance.

“The mark refers to your master?”

“Yes, no. I mean, it’s his mark.”

“So let me get this straight. You want me to tell the police all over Istanbul to let through any shipment carrying this mark?”

“Now you’ve got it.”

“What makes you think I have such a wide reach or that anyone would listen to me?”

Remzi looked incredulous. “You’re the magistrate,” he said. “And you’re a goddamned pasha. What do you think?”

It worried Kamil that the man knew he was titled. Did they also know where he lived?

“Can you narrow the area down? Istanbul is a big city. I could do a better job if I knew where to concentrate my efforts. My resources aren’t unlimited.”

Remzi thought this over. “From the Old City up through Beshiktash.”

“Well, that narrows it down,” Kamil said sarcastically.

“That’s all I can do,” Remzi answered harshly.

“And what do you have to offer me besides this?” Kamil tilted his chin at the sack of liras.

“Well, the magistrate’s got balls,” Remzi snickered. “You want to come work for us, maybe?”

“Where’s the policeman?”

“What policeman?”

Kamil rose and walked nonchalantly but swiftly behind Remzi’s chair and before Remzi could rise, had slipped the knife from his boot and was pressing its blade against his throat. “I could slit your throat and claim that you came here to bribe me,” he said quietly, “and when I refused, you attacked me. Who do you think they’d believe? I’m asking you again. Where is the policeman?” Kamil put enough pressure on the blade that it cut the first layer of skin. Tiny drops of blood beaded along its edge.

Remzi took shallow breaths, trying not to move. “Can’t talk,” he choked.

Kamil released the pressure, but kept the knife poised over Remzi’s throat.

“He’s in Charshamba.”

The knife moved closer.

“I don’t know where they’re keeping him. I swear it.”

“Who are they? Give me names.”

“They don’t give us their names. We’re just hired help. I wasn’t there. That’s all I know.”

“Where does the tunnel lead?”

“What tunnel?” Remzi’s question ended in a gasp as the knife drew blood. “Sunken Village is what I heard,” he whispered. “Please.”

When Kamil was satisfied he had obtained all he could from the man, he called out for Abdullah.

Abdullah’s eyes widened when he saw the knife and the blood.

“Get Ibrahim and some rope.”

As Abdullah and Ibrahim tied Remzi’s hands, Kamil wiped his knife on a handkerchief and slipped it back into his boot. “Arrest this man,” he instructed them, “and charge him with attempting to bribe an official.”

Kamil grabbed a pen and paper. “Tell the guards to take him to Chief Omar at the Fatih station.” He sealed the letter and handed it to Abdullah. “And give Chief Omar this note. Hurry.”

Putting his face close to Remzi’s, Kamil said softly, “If anything happens to that young man, I’ll consider it your fault.”

From the look of fear in Remzi’s eyes, Kamil suspected it was already too late.