The Winter Thief

26

Vahid threw the reins to the liveried servant and looked around in disgust at the wide, graveled drive, somehow clean of snow when the city was suffocating in it. Did Yorg Pasha have his servants melt it with their hot breaths or throw cauldrons of boiling water on it? These were the excesses that softened the empire’s belly, on which foreigners chewed like rats. The empire was being eaten alive because its leaders, like this pasha, traded their loyalty for gold, for fat, for unnaturally clean roads.

He strode forward, overtaking the servant who had come to greet him. The guard stood at attention and let him pass, just as if he had been expected. The massive gilded double doors were held open by yet more servants. This gave Vahid pause, as he had expected to surprise the pasha with his visit.

The pasha’s arms dealing was well known, and Vahid suspected that he had had a hand in the illegal weapons shipment. He couldn’t prove it, but Abel had told him the name of the bank robber and that he had stored the gold from the robbery in Yorg Pasha’s stable. Vahid thought about Abel’s sister, her resilient young body, the sharp note of desire in her voice. He caught his breath. The desire to live. It was intoxicating. Bridget had led him to Sosi, and Sosi to her brother, Abel, and now he was here in the home of one of the most powerful men in the empire. At this very moment, two Akrep agents, disguised as newly hired day laborers, were combing the stables.

Vahid swept into a mirrored entry hall. There he stopped and gaped in amazement. The walls and ceiling were painted with fantastical creatures, horned men with the legs and hooves of beasts, birds with women’s breasts. The images were repeated endlessly in the mirrors. The shamefulness of it-in an entry hall where everyone would see-chilled him. It transgressed any number of laws and norms of society. The worst kind of idolatry, it depicted the human form in a display of lewdness to which no decent woman should be exposed. Clearly only the debauched ever crossed this threshold.

He turned and saw a tall, dour-looking man standing by the entrance to a marble-paved corridor.

“Selam aleykum,” the man said. “I am the pasha’s secretary, Simon.”

“Aleykum selam.” Vahid shed his cape and laid it across a table inlaid with semiprecious stones. He was dressed in immaculate black trousers and a high-collared stambouline frock coat. He dropped his gloves on the table. “My business is with the pasha.”

“And you are?” Simon asked.

“Vahid. I’m a business associate. Please tell the pasha I wish to see him.”

Simon appeared unflappable. “I’ll see if he’s available,” he said mildly, turning and walking down the hall. After a moment, Vahid followed him.

He trailed the secretary down connecting corrridors, each hung with lavish tapestries with scenes he could not make out. Vahid wondered about the secretary’s name. Was he Jewish?

He almost stumbled into Simon’s back when the secretary abruptly stopped.

“Please wait here.” Simon opened a door, entered, and shut it behind him.

Vahid hesitated in the hallway, then he pushed through the door.

The room was empty. The secretary had vanished.

The small room was hung with tapestries, one of a hunt, the other of a horse with a single horn on its forehead trapped in an enclosure. Vahid wandered around the room, examining the embroideries, pulling one up occasionally to see if an exit lay behind it.

A door clicked open, so cleverly designed that it was indistinguishable from the wall. A dignified older man in a brocade robe entered, his sharp eyes taking the measure of his guest. Despite his advanced age, the pasha filled the room with his size and presence.

He smiled and gestured at a comfortable chair. “Please, Vahid. Join me in a cup of coffee. I’ve just received a shipment from Yemen. The beans have been fermented in the bellies of goats that live in trees. You’ll find the flavor most delicate.”

More fantastical creatures, Vahid thought. Coffee shat by goats. The old man watched him as if he could read his mind.

The pasha took a seat opposite Vahid in a large armchair. He smiled politely, waited for Vahid to respond, and, when he didn’t, nodded at Simon. Vahid saw the secretary hesitate before he left the room. Well, at least the Jew had enough sense to fear him, Vahid thought with satisfaction.

“I’m interested in doing business with Gabriel Arti. It would be to your advantage also. I understand he’s staying with you.”

Yorg Pasha rested his chin on his fist and regarded Vahid thoughtfully. “Are you in the caviar business as well, or do you simply wish to supply your house?”

The caviar business? That was almost funny. At least Yorg Pasha didn’t deny knowing him. “Neither,” Vahid answered. “I’d like him to handle a shipment of goods from Istanbul to Trabzon. If you agree, your secretary could act as expediter and draw up the documents. It’s a sizable cargo, worth around eighty thousand British pounds.”

“What kind of cargo is it?”

Vahid almost said “salted cod,” but that would have been too obvious, or unbelievable if the pasha didn’t know about the arms shipment, which Vahid didn’t for a moment believe. “That’s between me and Monsieur Arti. Suffice it to say that it involves something of historic significance originating in the Choruh Valley.”

If Yorg Pasha knew anything about Arti’s real purpose in coming to Istanbul, Vahid thought, he would have understood his coded communication by now. That it would be to his benefit to give the man up, and that Arti’s cause was lost, the settlement in Karakaya discovered, that they had tracked eighty thousand British pounds’ worth of loot to Arti and Arti to Yorg Pasha. Even if the pasha was just Arti’s unknowing pawn, he might still tell him where the socialist leader was or, as important, the gold. Vahid itched to have his men search the mansion, but Yorg Pasha was powerful, and without any proof of wrongdoing, Vahid’s hands were tied. Still, if he could prove that Yorg Pasha had harbored a terrorist, then the pasha’s property would be forfeited and he would be reduced to living like the rest of the world.

Yorg Pasha shook his head and said in an aggrieved voice, “I would warn you off doing business with Gabriel Arti, Monsieur Vahid. He left yesterday morning with several of my best horses and a carriage. Without paying for them. He seemed such a respectable gentleman.”

With a rush of anger, Vahid understood that the pasha was not going to cooperate. “Do you know that your guest is also a wanted terrorist?” He sat back to see the effect of his words on the pasha but was disappointed.

“A terrorist? How remarkable. What is he accused of?”

“Murder, theft, inciting a revolt against the empire.” He leaned forward and continued in a concerned voice. “Do you realize the danger this puts you in?” The pasha was silent, but Vahid could see the fingers of his right hand stroking the velvet of the chair arm. “You could be accused of harboring a terrorist.” Vahid crossed his legs. “The penalty for treason, may I remind you, is death.”

“My dear sir, the coffee will be here in a moment. In the meantime, let me tell you a story,” the pasha said. “It’s a sad story about a boy whose father didn’t want him but preferred another boy, an illegitimate son whose mother had taken him away when he was very small. The father enshrined that missing boy in his mind as a golden child that outshone all else in his life-his job, his wife, even his legitimate son. The golden boy’s name was Iskender, and he was the product of the union between the man and his Greek mistress.”

All of Vahid’s muscles contracted. He wanted to smash the pasha’s head so he would shut up, but instead Vahid found himself paralyzed. How could Yorg Pasha know about his father, about his half brother, Iskender?

“His family desired a better match and refused the marriage,” Yorg Pasha continued, “so the woman took her son and moved to another city, where she married and her son shone or didn’t shine with another father in another family. But to the man left behind, the universe had gone black. He married the young virgin of a good house his family had chosen for him and did his duty by her. They had one son. The father lived with them but cared nothing for them. Perhaps he didn’t even see them. When he died, he left no inheritance but bitterness and loss. What do you think happened to that boy, the second son? What could ever make him whole?”

“What nonsense are you spouting, old man?” Vahid found himself on his feet. He paced up to one of the tapestries. A familiar pain had arisen just under his skin, beneath his jaw, along his back, over his heart. His hands itched with it so that he wanted to tear his skin from his flesh.

In the lines of the tapestry, he saw his father standing by the rail of the Galata Bridge, where he stood every night, looking down into the black water. Vahid, a young boy of seven, beside him, heart pounding, not knowing what his father would do. Scold him for disturbing him, ignore him? Anything would be better than silence. If only his father let him stand there, Vahid had pleaded desperately with fate. Passersby would know he was his father. They would be thinking, Look at the man and his son watching the ships together. Just then his father reached down without moving his eyes from the water and put his hand on the boy’s thin shoulder. Vahid remembered closing his eyes, terrified that his father would remove his hand. When the moment came, it was almost a relief. Vahid had blinked back tears of love, of gratitude, of released fear and looked up at his father with a small, tentative smile. His father flung his cigarette over the railing and, without looking at him, began to walk away. Vahid could still hear his father’s voice calling to him over his shoulder, “Let’s go, Iskender.”

Vahid came to, staring at an image of a hound in the tapestry. He swung around. “I tell you you’re facing the hangman,” he snapped, “and you tell me a fairy tale.” He found the pasha’s sympathetic look unbearable. Vahid took a step forward.

Simon moved between them. At that moment a servant entered the room carrying a tray. At the sight of Vahid, he stopped. The room filled with the chink of fine porcelain shivering on the tray. Then there was a crash as the china hit the floor.

The servant squatted to pick up the shards. “Leave that and bring fresh coffee,” Simon instructed him, keeping a wary eye on Vahid.

“Where is Arti?” Vahid demanded, using his anger to push away the image of his father. “If you tell me-and after all, what is he to you? — I’ll keep your involvement in his crimes quiet, and you can continue amassing your goat shit coffee and your obscene decorations without hindrance”-he gestured nonchalantly-“at least by me.”

He felt certain that the terrorist was still nearby. He decided to take a further risk. “By the way, Arti has an acquaintance, perhaps more than an acquaintance, a woman named Lena Balian. I feel certain he would like to know that she is well and under my protection. If Gabriel Arti wishes to see her, he just has to let me know. Tell him that if you happen”-he emphasized the word-“to see him.”

Vahid watched Yorg Pasha carefully, but he seemed not to recognize the name. Perhaps he had the wrong woman after all, not Arti’s wife or lover but simply a stupid girl.

“Have you met a young Russian woman by the name of Vera, by any chance?” Yorg Pasha asked suddenly. “She’s the daughter of a business acquaintance. She disappeared several days ago and her father is very worried.”

Vahid looked up sharply. Was the pasha agreeing to trade Gabriel for this Vera? The pasha’s eyes were on the tapestry behind Vahid’s shoulder, on the delicate penned horse with the horn on its forehead.

“What’s her family name?” Vahid would send his men out to look for her. He noted the fractional hesitation before Yorg Pasha responded.

“Ivanovna. Vera Ivanovna.”

Vahid was certain her name was Vera Arti. He rose. “If I learn anything, I’ll let you know.”

Yorg Pasha nodded politely, “Go in peace.” He looked exhausted. Like a man out of options, Vahid thought triumphantly. As soon as his men located the stolen gold in Yorg Pasha’s stable, not even the pasha’s high position would save him from a charge of treason.

As soon as he was inside the carriage, Vahid fished in his pocket for a piece of wire and wound it tightly around his hand. Then he made a fist so that the wire cut into his flesh. His shoulders buckled at the pain, at the sweet release.

When his breathing and heartbeat returned to normal, he put the wire away and wrapped a handkerchief around his hand. His mind cleared of shadows, Vahid banged on the roof of the carriage. They moved off down the drive, but when they were just outside the walls, the carriage slowed. A man approached the carriage door.

The Akrep agent leaned in. “Nothing,” he told Vahid. “There’s no gold in the stables.”

Vahid’s fist punched the seat beside him. “Then tell our agent inside the house to look around,” he ordered. “Discreetly,” he added, recalling the broken china. He slammed the door shut.

The carriage rumbled off. Vahid vowed that he would burn the pasha and his obscene house to the ground. No one but Vahid had the right to his memories.