The Winter Thief

41

Vahid thrust the window open to let out the smoke that hovered like a noxious cloud in the room. Then he opened the stove door, blew on the embers, and added a ragged chunk of coal. He emerged coughing and wiped his fingers on a rag.

Socialists. Vizier Köraslan had summoned him to ask about socialists, implying that he was wrong about an Armenian revolt brewing in the Choruh Valley. Despite the cold, Vahid was sweating beneath the collar of his wool jacket. He didn’t think Vizier Köraslan would dare demote him, but he needed the vizier’s goodwill and trust if he wanted to become head of the secret service. Sultan Abdulhamid was sending Kamil Pasha to the valley. Vahid would have to make sure that what the pasha discovered when he arrived were armed Armenian revolutionaries. That meant Vahid would have to go east himself to make sure that no one remained alive who could contradict the vision of the valley he had spun for the vizier and, through him, the sultan.

He took off his jacket, folded it neatly, and laid it over the back of a chair. A lace doily, yellow and stiff with age, fluttered to the floor. He picked it up and threw it into the stove.

His mother was asleep in her chair, gnarled fingers tangled in her tatting, snoring softly through lips that hung slightly open. His mother’s lips reminded Vahid of worms after a rainstorm, and he turned away. No wonder his father had preferred the Greek woman. He chided himself for the thought.

Rhea’s lips came to his mind, plump cushions that she had a habit of pursing as if she were sucking on hard candy. He wondered what Lena Balian’s lips tasted like. When his men picked her up again, he would find out. There was no place in Istanbul where she could hide. She had the same pink translucent fingernails as Rhea, and her hair curled around his finger like a baby’s fist. He had smelled her fear and it aroused him. The smoke from the stove brought to his mind the smell of charred flesh. He strode into the kitchen, picked up a knife, and pressed the point against the palm of his hand just hard enough to hurt without breaking the skin.

That bitch Sosi had waited until his men were on a tea break and had let Lena Balian out. Where had Sosi gotten the keys? It had been a mistake to keep her alive. She was too clever. He didn’t like clever girls. He should never have sent her into Lena’s room with food. Women couldn’t be trusted.

“Are you back?” he heard his mother call.

“Yes, Mama, I’m back,” he answered, trying to keep his voice even. He poured water from a clay jar into the belly of the samovar and lit the flame beneath it. “Would you like some tea?”