The Winter Thief

30

The stableboy at the home of bank comptroller Swyndon remembered seeing a carriage parked in the road the day the mysterious “policeman” had visited the household. One of the horses, he noted with professional interest, had a thick pink scar on its flank. The same carriage with a scarred horse, Kamil learned, earlier that same day had brought the “policeman” to the Montaignes’, where he asked to speak to their governess. The girl was away and so presumably was spared Bridget’s treatment.

Someone was following the same trail of clues and frightening their witnesses. Kamil wondered whether the “black man” seen by little Albie might belong to the Akrep organization Huseyin had told him about. How else would the man be aware of what Kamil and Omar had only just learned themselves. Omar had put it more colorfully. Presumably the “black man” thought, as they did, that Sosi was the means to finding the other thieves and the gold. He hoped, for Sosi’s sake, that they found her before the “black man” did.

While Omar returned to the Fatih police station to see what his network of spies had managed to discover about Sosi, Kamil turned his horse toward Nishantashou, where he hoped for a late dinner with Feride to learn whether she had discovered anything about Huseyin’s whereabouts. Surely Elif would still be with her, he thought, aware that it was the delicate golden woman who sent the blood spinning in his head. He realized that his primary motivation was to see her, not his sister, and he was disgusted at himself for his disloyalty.

When he arrived, he was disturbed to find Feride and Elif still out. Doctor Moreno had promised he would bring them home safely. Their driver, Vali, was with them, but given what he had learned that day about his mysterious adversary, he worried that they hadn’t taken any guards with them.

Having left instructions to send a message when Feride returned, he rode slowly home through the banks of fog that made the night seem impenetrable. He was relieved when Karanfil’s lamps, magnified by the mist, bloomed in the darkness before him, and he crossed over the threshold of light.

Yakup came out with a lamp and took the reins. When Kamil had discarded his wet coat and hat in the entry hall and wiped his face with the towel Karanfil held out to him, he saw on the salver the letter with Yorg Pasha’s seal.

“I apologize for bringing you out so late, my boy, and on a vicious night like this. Would you like a whiskey?”

Kamil sat on a divan in a part of Yorg Pasha’s mansion he had not seen before. It was in the old Ottoman style with cushioned benches around three sides of a raised, carpeted platform. Below the platform extended a marble-paved floor, where a small fountain burbled. The ceiling was painted with fantastic birds. Yorg Pasha half reclined on the facing divan, propped on cushions, in his hand a narghile pipe, his eyes half lidded. A brass mangal brazier warmed the air.

Kamil accepted the glass of whiskey Simon brought him. Yorg Pasha famously kept a cellar of the finest wines and other heady liquids for his guests, though he himself never drank alcohol. The amber potion opened a welcome path in Kamil’s chest. Yorg Pasha sipped from a glass of boza, sweet, fermented millet. He passed Kamil a dish of roasted chickpeas.

“To tell you the truth, amja,” Kamil said, presuming on their closeness, “I’m glad to be here. This hasn’t been a good day and I’m bone tired.”

Kamil saw Yorg Pasha’s eyes glow with pleasure when he called him uncle. The old pasha had three sons, but respect required them to be distant and formal with their father, as Kamil had been with his own. Why was that a virtue, Kamil wondered, when sons hungered for their fathers? Surely it was natural for fathers to desire their sons’ affection. Because they were not related, Kamil realized sadly, he and the old pasha were free to like each other. Suddenly the whole world tasted sour, and he felt so tired he had to fight not to lie down on the divan.

“I’ve had two interesting visitors lately,” Yorg Pasha began. “One of them has robbed a bank but claims he did not blow it up.”

Kamil sat up, fully awake, and put down his glass.

“The other,” the pasha continued, “would like to trade a Russian lady for the bank robber.”

Kamil had a hundred questions but chose to wait.

“It’s already a dilemma worthy of a saint,” Yorg Pasha said. “But there’s more. The gold my first visitor stole is meant to support a commune in the Choruh Valley populated by a group of naïve socialists who are courting death either through starvation, irritating the local landowners, sheer idiocy, or official eradication by order of our padishah. My question to my guest was, Who then blew up the bank that caused the latter to become the most likely outcome? Can you guess?” Yorg Pasha smiled, clearly pleased with the effect of his riddle.

“Socialists in the Choruh Valley?” Kamil repeated stupidly.

“They’re setting up these utopias everywhere these days. From Ukraine to Palestine. Foolish young people come to a place with no knowledge of farming, local conditions, or even the local languages-just a head full of dreams.”

“I’ve heard of the Palestine settlement,” Kamil replied. “I suppose I thought it was an admirable thing to attempt, naïve perhaps, but, well, someone needs to dream. An egalitarian society may not work, but where’s the harm in trying?”

“My thoughts exactly.” Yorg Pasha surveyed Kamil over the mouthpiece of his water pipe. “Perhaps I’ve delegated some of my own dreams to you, more so than my own lazy children. I cannot afford to have dreams myself. I’m too old and fond of power.”

“Pardon the question, amja, but are you sure this settlement is harmless?”

Yorg Pasha nodded. “Simon has looked into it. The locals doubt it’ll last the winter, and it seems many hope it won’t. They’re right to be suspicious of outsiders. It can only bring them trouble.”

“And this socialist claims he didn’t blow up the bank? I find that hard to believe.”

“His name is Gabriel Arti. He thinks his driver, Abel, did it.”

“Why? It would have been smarter to leave quietly and not draw attention to the robbery.”

“They’re Armenians.”

“The socialists?”

“The socialists hark from many nations. Their only commonality appears to be their naïveté. Gabriel is Armenian, from Russia. His driver also is Armenian, a local man from Kurtulush.”

“I didn’t know there were Armenian socialists in Istanbul.”

“As far as I know, there aren’t. An Armenian socialist is a mythological beast that doesn’t exist in nature. The Armenians want their own state, but an Armenian one, not a socialist one. I suspect Gabriel Arti doesn’t understand the difference. An Ottoman Armenian can no more be a socialist than a fish can fly.”

“One hand working against the other. I suppose that’s possible. But why the explosion?”

“Think about it.” Yorg Pasha waved the mouthpiece of his narghile in Kamil’s direction. “What did the explosion accomplish that a robbery might not have?”

“Well, it certainly captured the interest of the palace. A robbery would cause concern, but a violent act sends a shiver up the spine of the government.”

“Exactly.” Yorg Pasha agreed, drawing deeply on the mouthpiece of his pipe. “Explosions draw the secret police like honey draws a bear.”

Kamil watched the smoke curl from the pasha’s mouth toward the ornate ceiling. He would have liked a cigarette himself, but it would be rude to light up before an elder. His father had never seen Kamil smoke. Society’s rules were there to create order and civility out of the rabble of our emotions, he reflected. You may hate your father, but by not smoking in front of him, you show your respect. He hadn’t hated his father, but he hadn’t known him either, and this seemed to him as great a tragedy, the inadmissibility of love.

“I don’t understand the motivation of the local Armenians, though. All they’ve accomplished with their explosion is to endanger their own people. What’s the point of their playing along with the socialists only to undermine them? If they object to the socialists setting up a commune in an Armenian valley, the local residents can just drive them out. You said they were barely surviving anyway.”

“This is a radical group within the Armenian community. They wouldn’t be the first to orchestrate an attack on their own people in order to get attention for their cause. It’s brutal, but it works. They grafted their own interests onto Gabriel’s socialist experiment. They set him up. Now it will all look like his doing. And if there’s a massacre of socialists and Armenians, the blame will fall on the socialists and their commune for inciting it. The British press, no friends of ours, would pick up the news of a massacre and push for their government to get involved. The Armenians would expect the British to help them carve out a homeland where they’d be safe. That’s what they’re hoping anyway. A remarkable plan.”

“Let me understand this. A group of Armenians in Istanbul are hoping that blowing up the bank will prod the sultan into cracking down on the Armenians in Choruh?” Kamil shook his head in disbelief. He leaned back and let his eyes play over the colorful plumage of the birds pictured on the ceiling. He smacked his hand hard on the divan. “I bet it was the local Armenians who reported the weapons shipment to the police. And told them about the commune. How else would the secret police know about the settlement in the Choruh Valley? Someone inside Gabriel Arti’s circle must have told them.” He emptied his glass, feeling energized as ideas clicked into place.

Yorg Pasha exhaled a plume of sweet-scented smoke. “The male of a certain species of spider allows himself to be devoured by the female after they’ve mated,” he said. “It’s his final, magisterial investment in the success of his offspring.”

Kamil grimaced. “That’s grotesque.”

“It’s heroic. The Cause is always greater than individual lives.”

“The second guest you mentioned,” Kamil asked, “was he tall, with a pointed beard?”

“Ah, well done. Always a step ahead. His name is Vahid, commander of Akrep, the sultan’s very own poisonous creature.” The pasha set down his pipe and reached for the glass of boza. Simon stepped up from the lower room, picked it up, and handed it to him. “Unlike our selfless spider, the scorpion paralyzes its prey with venom.” He drank some of the boza and wiped his mouth on an embroidered cloth. “Perhaps it toys with its prey for a time before eating it,” he speculated. “The prey is only immobilized after all.” His eyes sought Kamil’s. “Imagine the terror of seeing those small claws attached to the scorpion’s jaw come closer, take small, delicate bites. Watching yourself being slowly dismembered.”

Kamil listened carefully. He had a feeling that the pasha, who never wasted words, was telling him something important.

“Yet surprisingly,” Yorg Pasha went on, “for such cruel beings, scorpions are actually quite timid. They’ll run from danger or they remain very still. It’s when they’re still that you must be particularly careful. And you must never, never,” he repeated, “allow a scorpion to mistake you for prey.”

“What does he want?”

“He wants people to be in his power. His is the voice whispering in the sultan’s ear.”

“Where’s this Gabriel Arti now? And the gold?”

“On their way to Trabzon.”

Was it a slip of the pasha’s tongue, or had he meant to reveal to Kamil that he knew where the gold was? The realization disturbed Kamil, but he found he wasn’t surprised. He tried to remember that he needed to be wary of the pasha. “How?” he asked.

“Steamer. You won’t catch up with him now.” Yorg Pasha waved his hand dismissively. “Forget these socialists. They aren’t a problem, except to themselves. Vahid is where you should focus your attention.”

“I can’t leave the city right now anyway.” Kamil told him about the fire and Huseyin’s disappearance. “Feride and Doctor Moreno are looking for him in the hospitals.”

“Ah, vay, ah, the poor man. And my dear girl, Feride, what a tragedy. I hope it will not come to that and you will find him well. Perhaps a different accident has befallen him, a broken leg in the snow?”

“We would have heard. Huseyin isn’t the quiet type.”

Yorg Pasha chuckled, breaking the tension that had been growing between the two men. “Yes, that’s so.”

Kamil passed his hand across his face. “Sometimes I feel the task is beyond me.”

Yorg Pasha came to sit beside Kamil and laid his hand on his shoulder. They sat in silence for some moments before Yorg Pasha said softly, “Your father loved you as he loved life itself. I know this.”

Kamil nodded his head in acknowledgment. He smiled to cover his confusion and, after a few moments, got to his feet, swaying with tiredness.

“Stay here tonight,” Yorg Pasha suggested. “It’s a cold night.” He stood up with difficulty. Kamil offered his hand, but Yorg Pasha waved him away, muttering, “Even in winter, the lion can roar.”

“Thank you. That’s most generous, but I have work to do tonight.” He stepped down from the divan platform into the marbled hall. “You mentioned a woman,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

Yorg Pasha shook his head in bewilderment. “The fool Gabriel brought his wife along. I’ve looked into this Gabriel Arti. He has a reputation as an experienced activist, but he was groveling on his knees because he’s allowed his woman to fall into the grasp of Akrep.” The pasha leaned on Simon’s arm to step down from the platform. The secretary then retreated, following the pasha like a shadow.

Yorg Pasha and Kamil walked side by side through the glittering lamplit rooms. Beyond the window sashes, the black mass of the strait heaved in the night.

“There was something about a sister,” Yorg Pasha continued. “She lived with Gabriel in Sevastopol. One night while he was out, she was murdered, and I gather that he went on a rampage. Some men were killed, but it was never established that it was Gabriel who killed them, or that these were truly the men who had murdered his sister. But none of those distinctions mattered to the Russian police, who needed to arrest someone for the crime. Gabriel fled to Geneva to avoid arrest and joined the socialists.”

“A man with nothing left to lose is dangerous.”

“And a man with a wife is vulnerable.”

“What’s her name?”

“Vera Arti, but Vahid thinks the name of the woman he holds is Lena Balian. I hope I convinced him that Lena Balian is the wrong person and useless to him as a lure for Gabriel. But I dread to think of what she’s already endured. If there’s any way to bring her out…”

Kamil felt tired and overwhelmed. He wanted to focus on finding Huseyin. Now Feride and Elif were missing, and here was another person lost, pieces of a puzzle that seemed to shift in three dimensions. But he could say he had found the bank robber and the gold, he thought with a glint of hangman’s humor. He could put a pin on the map and say they were on a ship between Istanbul and Trabzon. And Vera Arti was probably being held in the Akrep headquarters. That would be easy enough to locate. Another pin. Yet the entire roster of lost persons was insignificant compared to the match he now saw being held up to a corner of the map, the conflagration that would devour an innocent population.

“I’ll do my best, amja.”

“Yes,” the pasha said with a worried look. “You always have.” He gripped Kamil’s arm with surprising strength.