The Winter Thief

18

Omar settled himself on a stool in a corner of the Fatih police station and gestured that Kamil should join him. “Have some tea and then let your frustration out on that mangy dog of a ship’s captain.” Around them the station bustled with petitioners and curiosity seekers. Policemen sat at their desks, taking statements. An old man wandered in, carrying a box of stuffed mussels, followed by a vendor with a tray of simit breads. Both found takers, and before long work ground to a halt as the policemen sipped their tea and snacked. The young policeman Rejep brought a glass of tea to an old woman in a much-mended charshaf who was sitting on a bench, waiting to make a complaint.

Kamil refused the tea and Omar’s offer of a simit, but lit a cigarette. “What have you found out so far?”

“He’s Alexandrian, so I sent in one of my men who’s an Arab from Antakya to talk to him. Tariq over there.” He pointed to a burly policeman with a luxuriant mustache and thick, curly black hair, who was sitting at a desk, cleaning his weapon. “I figured before long they’d be buddies. Sure enough, the Alexandrian broke down, but all we got was an earful of his marital woes. Seems his wife got tired of his being gone all the time and had him declared dead so she could remarry. The new husband paid him to disappear, but the man misses his kids.”

Kamil finished his cigarette, then followed Omar down a corridor to the holding cells at the back of the station. Omar turned the key, and the thick oak door creaked open. “Rejep will be right outside if you need anything,” he told Kamil. Then to the captain, “Old man, tell Magistrate Kamil Pasha about the ship.” He stepped aside to let Kamil enter, then locked the door behind him, leaving the barred window set into the door open.

The captain was propped on his elbow on the narrow cot in his cell, as comfortable as if he were in a hammock belowdecks. This was perhaps more comfort than the man was used to in the tight quarters of a ship, Kamil thought, and offered him a cigarette. The captain was a lean twist of weathered leather, his forearms knotted, and his face burned black by sun and wind. Kamil was surprised to learn he was only thirty years old.

The captain pulled deeply at the cigarette and his eyes flared with pleasure. “What do you want to know?” he asked in heavily accented Turkish. The language seemed to rasp from deep within his throat. “I already told them I picked up the load of salted cod in New York. There are six hundred barrels on board. You think I looked in every one of them?”

“Who was the expediter?”

“The same company we always deal with, Orient Company of New York. It’s on the manifest. Who they got the load from, I can’t say.”

“Who was on the receiving end?” When the man didn’t answer, Kamil pulled out his cigarette case and held it open. The captain raked together half of the cigarettes with a long, dirty forefinger and made them disappear inside his shirt.

“Hope Enterprises. But the names don’t mean a thing. They’re always just middlemen, fronts with no backs. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve been stuck with merchandise rotting on my ship because no one shows up to off-load it and no one has ever heard of the company I’m supposed to deliver it to. I end up dumping it cheap just to earn a few kurush on the load.”

“You realize that you’re in serious trouble. Illegal weapons were found on your vessel. If you have anything useful to tell us, it would help your situation.”

The captain scratched his chest and looked unconcerned. “I was thinking of retiring anyway.”

“Do you understand that you’ll be put in jail for years, and that could be the most agreeable outcome?” Kamil’s expression was cold.

“I’ve been in worse jails. What do you think a ship is like for months at sea? I’ve done my time.” He sat up. “On the other hand, cigarettes and women. You don’t get those at sea and you don’t get them in jail, I suppose.”

Kamil assured him he wouldn’t.

“Well, then, if I tell you something useful, will you let me go?”

Kamil reluctantly agreed. He had learned that this sort of deal was common in Omar’s world-letting a small fish off the hook in exchange for information leading to a bigger catch-but Kamil hadn’t reconciled himself to the slippery nature of the law when it was applied in the streets. He thought justice shouldn’t be bought and sold like grain at auction.

“It was in New York. The barrels were stored in a warehouse, and as soon as we laid anchor I went down to take a look at the cargo. I like to know right away what’s coming aboard, so I can talk to my men before they disappear into the city and come back too drunk to take orders. It was pretty late at night when I went to the warehouse. I didn’t use a light. I don’t need a light to see in the dark.” He pointed to his eyes, sharp bits of flint under leathery sheaths. “There were five young men there, marking the barrels. I watched them for a while and listened. Nothing better to do. I don’t go in for drink and didn’t have the money for a woman. Now my ears, they aren’t as good as my eyes. Too much wind and rigging. But I could hear some of what they said, all right.”

Kamil held out his cigarette case. The captain took two, lit one, and stuck the other in his shirt. “Two of them were speaking Armenian. I get to know a lot of lingos out there.” He swept his hand toward what Kamil assumed was the sea. “It was Armenian, but I don’t speak it, so I can’t rightly say more than that.”

Kamil felt a tug of excitement. It was frail evidence, but it finally pointed him in a specific direction. But an Armenian revolt against the empire? Not only was there no reason that he could think of for such a revolt, but it was doomed to fail. What could they hope to accomplish with even a thousand guns against a corps of Ottoman soldiers? It would be suicidal. There must be another explanation. And why take the risk of smuggling in a thousand guns when you’re planning to rob a bank of enough gold to supply a small army. He was about to rise when the captain stuck out his hand and grabbed Kamil’s sleeve.

“Wait. There’s more. One of them called the other ‘comrade.’” He leered at Kamil. “You know what that means.”

“You’re saying they were socialists?”

“That’s right. And you know what the marks were on the barrels?” He sprang up, all agile muscle, picked up his cigarette butt, and drew on the floor with the crushed remnant of tobacco.

“What is it?”

“An ax.”

“So what does that mean?”

“Well, that’s your business, not mine.” He threw the butt down, folded himself back onto the cot, and sucked at his cigarette. “I’m a seaman. Retired.”

When he refused to say anything more, Kamil got up to leave.

“No jail, right?” the captain called out.

“If your information is of use.” The captain must have known the marked barrels were contraband. Kamil already regretted the deal.

Omar was waiting in the front room of the police station, still sitting on a low stool, smoking and drinking tea. Kamil had never seen him sit at his desk, a vast mahogany ship marooned in the middle of the room.

“What’s an Armenian socialist ax?” Kamil asked as he sat down beside him.

“Is this a riddle?”

Kamil managed a smile, but he was sick with worry about Huseyin and not in the mood for levity.

Omar looked penitent. “Just trying to lift your spirits. As for your riddle, the Henchak symbol is a chain, a sword, an ax, and a red flag.” He called one of his men to bring him a pen and drew a sketch on a corner of newsprint.

“Henchak, the new Armenian socialist group. I remember hearing it was founded by some Russian university students studying in Geneva. What does it have to do with us?”

Omar shrugged. “I don’t know much about it. In Fatih we mostly have people breaking each other’s heads over money or impugned honor. One of my Armenian neighbors showed me their symbol.”

“I thought socialists didn’t go in for nationalism. How can there be Armenian socialists? Isn’t their slogan something like ‘Workers of the world, unite,’ not ‘Armenians, unite’?”

“They’re fools if they think that. It’s always ‘Armenians unite.’ That’s human nature. We run in packs like wolves.”

“It’s an interesting idea, though, you have to admit,” Kamil mused. “To rise above the pack mentality and come together around a cause-like helping peasants and workers better their lot.”

“More like pull down the rich and powerful, a very wolfish thing to do. And then what have you got? Do they really think unlettered peasants will be able to govern themselves? They’re in for a rude awakening. Believe me, I had a bellyful of peasants in the war. They’re as greedy as the wealthiest nabob and as ready to slit your throat over a loaf of bread.”

Kamil rose to his feet, unable to bear any longer the anxiety that had been building in him. “I can’t sit here and talk politics, Omar. I have to tell Feride.”