The Winter Thief

2

Kamil Pasha, magistrate of Beyoglu, strode into Yorg Pasha’s reception hall carrying a rifle. He was trailed by the liveried doorkeeper and two secretaries, who seemed unsure about their right to halt the unannounced intrusion of the tall young pasha, equal in status to their lord, and appeared unnerved by his weapon. As a compromise, they expressed their disapproval by sticking close to Kamil’s coattails and uttering obsequious inquiries, none of which Kamil deigned to answer. His face was lean and determined, his moss green eyes aimed straight ahead. He was dressed in a fashionable dinner jacket, now rumpled and grimy.

Yorg Pasha sat on a raised dais at the front of the hall in an armchair decorated with gold lion heads. He himself looked like an aging lion, his broad chest accentuated by a robe embroidered in gold thread that made him appear even more massive. His face beneath his turban sagged with age and fatigue, but his eyes missed nothing. Three secretaries sat at writing desks by his side, and a phalanx of other staff stood at attention along the wall beneath a painted frieze of wild animals gamboling in a forest.

Kamil knew that Thursday was Yorg Pasha’s receiving day, when his employees, clients, and anyone else wishing to make a complaint, beg a favor, or pledge their fealty could approach him. A portly man dressed as a prosperous merchant fell to one knee on the dais, his face bowed over Yorg Pasha’s hand, and kissed his heavy gold ring.

Kamil pushed his way through the crowd of waiting men and stepped onto the platform. The merchant rose and, at the sight of Kamil’s gun, stumbled backward. Yorg Pasha gestured at a grim, narrow-shouldered man in a fez whom Kamil recognized as the pasha’s secretary, Simon. A few moments later, the pasha’s guards pushed the crowd out the door, some objecting loudly that they needed to speak with the pasha. “Come back next week,” the guards answered.

Yorg Pasha patted his stomach and said amiably, “Kamil. It’s been months. Last time I saw you was at the Swedish ambassador’s house. Lovely wife, but the food.” He shook his head and grimaced. “What brings you here?”

Kamil indicated the servants in the hall. “In private.”

Simon helped Yorg Pasha to his feet, then stepped back and bowed. Yorg Pasha lumbered down from the dais and led Kamil to a silk-paneled room at the back of the receiving hall.

They sat facing each other over a small table, surrounded by a forest of silk-screened palms and clambering monkeys, stalked by other beasts. “You’re looking well,” Yorg Pasha offered. Kamil had been up all night at the docks and had just come from a frustrating interview with the British ambassador. He was in no mood for small talk but reached gratefully for the tiny porcelain cup of coffee the pasha’s servant offered him. He sipped the thick brew scented with cardamom and waited for the room to clear.

“What’s happened, Kamil?” Yorg Pasha asked, leaving his coffee untouched. “I lied. You don’t look well at all.”

Kamil was caught off guard by Yorg Pasha’s tone of concern. The old man had been a close friend of his father, Alp Pasha, when he was governor of Istanbul. Yorg Pasha had taken an interest in the lonely boy in the governor’s mansion, and Kamil had spent many hours in his company learning the inner workings of clocks, one of the pasha’s hobbies. When Alp Pasha committed suicide two years ago, Yorg Pasha had sent for Kamil and sat with him, recounting stories of Alp Pasha in his youth. It was a gift of family history Kamil had been grateful to receive, for his father had spent little time with him.

A chime struck four times and reminded Kamil of the waning afternoon. A British-owned ship full of armaments had been discovered in the harbor last night, and he was no closer to finding out who had sent them or for whom they were meant. Yorg Pasha was an arms dealer.

“Pasha,” he said formally, placing the rifle on the table between them, “I’m sure you know about the shipment of rifles last night. Forgive me for asking, but do you know who they belong to?” Kamil meant, Were they his?

Yorg Pasha ignored the gun. “I hear they’re all Peabody-Martinis, the best. You’ve confiscated them?”

“The gendarmes have. Yes.” The local police didn’t have the manpower to guard a thousand rifles and pistols, so Kamil had called in the military police. A contingent of soldiers now surrounded the ship. The British ambassador had insisted the ship was British property and that it be released immediately. Kamil had refused, arguing that if the British claimed the ship, then they would also be accepting responsibility for the illegal arms, creating a diplomatic incident between the British and Ottoman empires. The ambassador had backed off, but Kamil suspected it was merely a tactical retreat. He had a premonition of unseen forces assembling to impede his investigation.

“If you need to dispose of them when the case is over…”

“Do you have any idea where they’re from and who they’re meant for?” Kamil asked again, knowing that despite their relationship, the pasha wouldn’t answer such a question, even if he knew, without receiving something in return.

Yorg Pasha picked up the rifle and examined it carefully, then took a magnifying glass from a drawer and peered at the serial numbers. “Standard forty-five-caliber Peabody-Martini rifle from the Providence Tool Company in the United States.” He sniffed the barrel. “This has been fired, but not recently.”

“All the guns appear to be used. It’s a British-owned ship, but the captain is Alexandrian and claims he had no idea he was carrying guns. They were in barrels, supposedly salted fish.” The captain and crew were now guests of Police Chief Omar Loutfi in the Fatih district jail. If they knew anything, Kamil was sure Omar would find it out.

Yorg Pasha placed the rifle gently on the table. “Where was the ship coming from?”

“Malta via Cyprus. Before that, the manifest says New York.”

“These probably were loaded at New York. They don’t salt fish on Malta, not in these quantities.” Yorg Pasha rumbled a laugh.

Kamil thought back to the British ambassador’s denial that morning. He had seemed sincere enough, even shocked when Kamil told him how many guns were involved, more than a thousand. But it was typical of the British to vow support for the Ottoman Empire while undermining it. British ships had delivered Martini rifles to the Iraqi Bedouin by way of Kuwait, ostensibly to protect them against tribal disputes. They had given gifts of guns to tribal sheikhs and the heads of dervish convents around the Arabian Gulf. Now those rifles were trained against the Ottoman Sixth Army. No, Kamil didn’t rule out British meddling, even if the guns had originated in the United States. But who were the British supporting and why Istanbul? Perhaps the guns were meant to be moved elsewhere.

“I suppose the British could have bought them in New York. Who in the United States would have a reason to ship illegal weapons to Istanbul?”

Yorg Pasha didn’t answer. Kamil thought he looked worried. Despite his affection for the aging pasha, Kamil didn’t trust him. He was the unseen middleman in procuring many of the Ottoman Army’s weapons, but Kamil had heard of problems, jammed mechanisms, rotted stocks. Nothing was ever traceable back to the pasha himself.

After a few moments, Yorg Pasha said, “You have a difficult job ahead of you, my son. I wish I could help you, but I can’t. The empire’s enemies are countless. You know that. Armenians, Greeks, Russians, the British, the French, Young Turks sitting in the Porte, plotting to reinstate the parliament. They all have support abroad, and all could use a shipment of guns.” He regarded Kamil for a moment with an affectionate smile, then reached across the table and rested his hand on his arm. “Come and visit me again soon and tell me how your investigation is going.” He pushed himself to his feet. Simon hovered nearby, not quite touching the pasha’s elbow as he followed him from the room.

Yorg Pasha’s labored breathing reminded Kamil of his father, and he felt his heart contract. His parents were dead, and soon all the people who had known them best would be gone, erasing their presence in the world even further. He sat for a few moments, pulling his mind back to his work, and tried to parse what the pasha had said. He knew from experience that Yorg Pasha never spoke idly. A group with foreign support needed a shipment of guns to plot against the empire. That much was obvious. But which group? The pasha had said he wanted to help Kamil but couldn’t. Did that mean Yorg Pasha was involved in the shipment? The thought saddened Kamil. The guns could have cost many lives. But Yorg Pasha had invited Kamil to return, and that Kamil resolved to do.

After a servant brought his horse, Kamil rode uphill toward the suburb of Nishantashou, where his brother-in-law lived. Huseyin worked at Yildiz Palace and had the ear of Sultan Abdulhamid. He would have heard if there was a revolution afoot in Istanbul. Kamil didn’t know Huseyin’s exact function at the palace, but his brother-in-law always seemed to have his finger on the pulse of information.