The Winter Thief

58

Vahid strode into the Fatih police station, followed by three of his men, escorting a nun. They were not visibly armed, but their black uniforms caused a stir as the policemen whispered to one another, trying to guess which organization the visitors represented. Vahid wore a tightly tailored stambouline frock coat. With his high black boots and air of command, he needed no insignia.

Omar was sitting on his usual stool in a corner of the station. He recognized Sister Balbina from the Italian church, the one who had found Sosi’s body. He watched as Vahid and his contingent moved toward the large oak desk that, although Omar never used it, boasted a plaque with his name. Someone brought a stool for the nun. Omar lit another cigarette and watched the group for a while. He wondered what Vahid wanted.

The policemen in the station, aware that their chief was not at his desk but observing his visitors at his leisure, couldn’t resist an occasional snicker, and there rose a distinct murmur in the room. When Omar saw Vahid’s face flare red, he got up and wandered over.

“What can I do for you?” he asked politely.

To his surprise, Vahid laughed out loud. “Public shaming, meant to break down your enemy. Not bad for a small-time policeman, but rather trivial and, dare I say so, childish.”

“What do you want?” Omar asked, already sick of the man.

“The watch. Is this the man, Sister?”

Sister Balbina nodded. “Yes, I gave the watch to him.”

“Let’s have it,” Vahid snapped at Omar.

“What watch?” Omar asked. He had sent a messenger to Kamil telling him about the watch, but hadn’t had the opportunity to return it.

“The watch the dead girl had in her hand. The sister here said she gave it to you. And don’t claim you never saw it. I’ve got ten nuns willing to testify. And you know nuns never lie.”

His smile reminded Omar of a viper he had once seen in the desert that had swallowed a rat. Omar had killed it. “What’s your interest in this case?” he asked Vahid. “Is it worth your while to be chasing around town after a watch?”

“What was the name on it?” Vahid asked the nun.

“Kamil. A gift from his mother. It was in French.” She nodded officiously, her wimple moving up and down.

The station had fallen silent.

The reason for my interest is clear, Vahid’s smug smile seemed to say. Omar wanted to punch his fist right through it. He realized that it was useless to deny that he had the watch. His word against ten nuns. If he were Christian, he would cross himself against the devil. If he didn’t give them the watch, they would still implicate Kamil, and then he would be accused of destroying evidence-or of corruption and who knew what else. Omar didn’t mind an accusation of corruption, especially if it was deserved, but he needed to be free to help Kamil. His eyes fell to Vahid’s boots. They were the right size, new and of good quality, with a nick at the edge of the sole that matched the footprint in the churchyard.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out Kamil’s pocket watch, and handed it to Sister Balbina. He wouldn’t give Vahid the pleasure of taking it from his hand. “It means nothing,” Omar told him, “unless we know how it got there.” He gave Vahid a meaningful look. “And I know who put it there.”

“You know nothing, and you can prove nothing.” Vahid took the watch from the nun’s hand and bounced it on his palm. “But this does.”

The moment they were gone, Omar rode hard to Kamil’s office. To his surprise, a line of gendarmes was guarding the front of the courthouse. They hadn’t even waited to see whether he would give them the watch, Omar thought angrily. It was outrageous for someone of Kamil’s stature to be arrested in public. Surely they wouldn’t imprison him. Pashas don’t appear in court and they don’t go to jail. It would be as unthinkable as arresting the sultan.

Omar ran up the stairs into a scene of chaos. Kamil stood in the middle of a knot of people, looking calm but puzzled. The captain of gendarmes was explaining to Kamil in an apologetic voice that he had instructions to arrest him but that he hadn’t been instructed as to the reason. A repeating rifle was slung across the captain’s shoulder and a revolver stuck in the crimson sash around his waist. A scimitar hung from his sword belt. Kamil’s assistant Abdullah was shouting at the captain to get out if he didn’t have cause to arrest the pasha. The burly doorkeeper, Ibrahim, stood beside Kamil, scowling and ready for a fight.

When Kamil saw Omar, he raised his hands to calm the crowd and walked over to him. “Do you know anything about this?”

Omar leaned forward and whispered in his ear.

“I see,” Kamil said, his expression unchanging. His eyes met Omar’s. “Tell Yorg Pasha and Nizam Pasha. Do what you can. The only way to prove that I didn’t kill the girl is to find out who did.”

“We know who did it,” Omar growled. “Leave it to me.”

Kamil turned to the gendarme captain. “Let’s go.” He gave instructions to his astonished staff and then walked out of the office, surrounded by armed soldiers.