The Winter Thief

27

“I can’t go.” Gabriel sat shivering by the fire. He thought he would never feel warm again. The beginning of a thick russet beard covered the lower half of his face. He looked a decade older than three days ago, when he had berated Vera for visiting the publisher with the manifesto.

“You’ll do more harm by staying,” Simon told him. “Akrep knows you’re here, and it won’t help your wife if you’re sitting in jail too. There’s nowhere you can hide in this city that Akrep can’t find you. Trust me. We’ll try to get your wife out. What can you do? Nothing. He’s using her to lure you into a trap. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

Gabriel fixed his eyes on the floor, trying to beat down feelings of shame and impotence. He wanted to hit Simon, to beat him with his fists. Gabriel no longer resembled the peaceful man who had spent the last ten years forging his idyllic vision on the anvil of labor and self-denial. Instead he was back in the woods of Sevastopol again, driven by rage and bloodlust. He hated himself.

“A grain boat is on its way from Thrace to the Black Sea. It leaves Karaköy pier tomorrow morning. I’ve booked you a berth. In your cabin you’ll find a trunk with warm clothing. You’ll need it in the mountains, so you don’t lose your fingers altogether.” He nodded at Gabriel’s bandaged right hand. “There’s also a rifle and some ammunition, although it doesn’t look to me like you’ll be doing any shooting for a while. The trunk has a false bottom with gold liras and jewels from the bank worth thirty thousand British pounds.” Simon held out a key.

Gabriel looked up, the question clear on his face. He took the key clumsily. The cuts on his hands had begun to heal, but the tips of two fingers on his right hand remained lifeless.

“It’s enough to last your group through the winter and to buy food, guns, loyalty-whatever it is you need. We deducted what you owe for our assistance in facilitating the shipment.”

“But I never received that shipment.”

“That wasn’t our fault. You said yourself one of your own men probably tipped off the police. The amount we retained also includes our commission and the cost of your trip to Trabzon. The shipping company will help you purchase supplies. You’ll need a fleet of animals and carts. The mountain roads can be impassable in winter. Wait a couple of months before you try to bring in supplies. If you want to buy new guns, I’d be happy to help you do that.”

Gabriel put the key in his vest pocket. Simon’s businesslike tone made it seem almost sensible that Yorg Pasha was keeping more than half the gold, were Gabriel not aware of what was at stake in the eastern mountains. Dozens of comrades should have arrived at the commune by now from all over Europe and America, each bringing weapons and supplies. Surely, they would survive the winter without him. The valley had seemed so fertile and protected. They had even seen lemon trees on their previous visit. But he was unconvinced. He pictured them freezing in the unheated monastery, starving, unable to defend themselves against marauders. He had little faith that the local landowners would come to their assistance.

Simon waited by the door, arms folded, his forehead creased in a frown. “The pasha has been accused of treason for harboring you. He could have gotten out of it by handing you over, but he didn’t, for reasons that escape me.” He lifted a heavy fur cape from a chair by the door and threw it at Gabriel. “Get ready. Every moment that you’re here is another length of the pasha’s shroud.”

Gabriel dropped the cape on a chair and went to stand beside the fire, massaging his forehead. “I can’t leave without Vera,” he announced. He felt disgust at his inability to protect anyone who had ever been in his trust.

He heard Simon take a deep breath, the only sign betraying the secretary’s impatience. “Do you know anyone named Lena Balian?”

Gabriel’s head jerked up. “That sounds familiar.” His fingers burrowed into the fur of the cape, his eyes far away. He saw Vera giggling by the waterfall, a crown of daisies slipping from her hair. They had strayed from the group on a spring hike in the mountains around Geneva and found a secluded meadow where they could be alone. He had splashed her with water and, shivering with cold, she had slipped so naturally into the circle of his arms. He recalled the silken curls of her hair, strewn with white petals, and her voice as fresh and voluble as the waterfall as she talked wistfully about her family in Moscow, her sister, their dogs. That was it. Lena Balian was the daughter of the forester who trained Vera’s father’s dogs.

“She’s a friend of Vera’s in Moscow. Why do you ask?”

“I think we may have found your wife.”

Gabriel’s mood soared. “Where is she?” he cried out.

“Where you thought. She’s being held by the secret police.”

“Can you get her out?” Gabriel realized as he spoke these words that he had now abdicated responsibility for helping Vera to Yorg Pasha. Simon was right. There was nothing he could do on his own. Redemption, he thought with a pang, was short-lived.