The Winter Thief

56

The cane seat in Kamil’s winter garden was low, and Yorg Pasha needed Simon’s help to lower himself into it. Yakup brought in a tray of savories and a samovar of tea.

“This was the oasis of my youth,” the pasha said, slightly out of breath and waving his hand at the leaves of the potted palm that arched above him. “In your mother’s day, this was a terrace. We used to drink tea in these very chairs. But I like your glass house.” He looked appreciatively at the ranks of colorful orchids on gravel-filled trays. “It looks like a kaleidoscope in here. A Swiss clockmaker sent me one of those last year. Have you seen them?”

Kamil, seated opposite him, said he hadn’t. “What is it?”

Yorg Pasha explained. “Lovely, like watching women in colorful gowns dancing about a room.” His voice betrayed his enthusiasm. Kamil knew the pasha loved calibrated mechanisms of every kind. “I’ll show you the next time you come to Bebek.” Yorg Pasha folded his hands in his capacious lap. “Now, my son, let’s talk.”

Kamil told him about his meeting with Vahid and what Omar’s men had seen in the basement of Akrep. He handed him the torn paper with Russian writing. Yorg Pasha glanced at it, then handed it over his shoulder to Simon. The secretary took a magnifying glass from a small bag and began to examine it.

Kamil then told Yorg Pasha what he had learned from his meeting with Sultan Abdulhamid. “Through Vizier Köraslan, Vahid has convinced the sultan that the commune is a threat to the empire and that the Armenians are scheming with the Russians to take the Choruh Valley.”

“It’s plausible,” Yorg Pasha commented.

“But not true in this case,” Kamil asserted somewhat uncertainly.

“As far as we know.”

“The sultan wants me to go find out the true nature of the settlement. If I fail, he’ll wipe out the commune and, if Vahid has his way, the entire population of the valley.”

At that, Yorg Pasha raised his eyebrows. “He’s sending you, so that means he doesn’t entirely trust Vahid.”

“The vizier suggested it.”

Yorg Pasha looked concerned. “It might be some kind of trap.”

“I’ll be all right. The sultan is sending troops along.”

“When are you going?”

“He wants a report by the end of March.”

“It’ll be heavy going even then. Spring doesn’t arrive in the Kachkar Mountains until at least May.”

Kamil shrugged. The sultan’s deadline was not negotiable.

“That fool Gabriel should be holed up in Trabzon by now,” Yorg Pasha commented. “I hope he’s not trying to get supplies through to his commune. I told him to wait, but he’s a Russian. They’re like large stones Allah has thrown down in the road. You can’t go over them. All you can do is go around them.”

Simon handed Yorg Pasha a glass of tea.

“Have you deciphered that scrap of paper yet?” the pasha asked him.

“It’s part of a Russian travel document. There are letters, possibly of a name-e, r, a.”

“Vera. What else could it be?”

Kamil thought about the room in which the paper had been found, the room with restraints and peepholes, but said only, “If it was Vera Arti who escaped, where would she go?”

“To other Armenians, no doubt. Simon, spread the word.”

“I’ve taken the liberty of doing that, my pasha.”

“Well, let’s talk about your trip, Kamil. Who will take care of your orchids?”

Kamil assured him that his servants were well trained in the needs of his eccentric garden. “But to tell you the truth, I haven’t fully decided if I will go.” He told Yorg Pasha about Huseyin’s disappearance and the attack on Feride. “I can’t leave if she’s in danger.”

Yorg Pasha frowned. “That is very serious indeed. But you won’t be going for another month yet. Surely your brother-in-law will turn up by then. The attack on Feride is another matter. I imagine we know who’s behind that.”

“I know you think it’s Vahid.” Kamil propped his head in his hands. “But what I don’t understand is why.”