The Winter Thief

69

The Minister of Justice, Nizam Pasha, received Kamil in his private suite at the ministry, which resembled a library. On every wall books and manuscripts climbed neatly to the ceiling. Kamil breathed in the familiar smell of leather and parchment that reminded him of his father, who also had surrounded himself with books. As a boy Kamil felt jealous of the books his father read and wished he would pay attention to him instead. But before long, Kamil had discovered an entirely new geography of feeling within those leather-bound volumes and found solace there. He felt little of that peace now, having been summoned by the minister of justice to discuss his upcoming trial for the murder of Sosi. He stood just inside the door, trying to marshal his thoughts.

The minister was dressed in an old-fashioned black wool robe and sat in an armchair beside a low table on which were piled papers and books, all of them clearly in use, the only sign of disorder in the office. He regarded Kamil steadily behind a curl of smoke from the chibouk pipe in his hand, his expression unreadable. Nizam Pasha gestured toward a chair facing him. “Sit, Kamil Pasha.”

“Thank you, Minister.” An invitation to sit in the presence of Nizam Pasha was a good sign, Kamil decided, relaxing slightly and taking a seat. He kept his eyes respectfully lowered.

“So, how was Bekiraga Prison?”

“Not to be recommended, Your Excellency.” A lingering cough still woke Kamil at night.

“You should know that there has been great outrage at your mistreatment. That includes myself. We cannot have men of our class subjected to such abuse. I can’t imagine what possessed Vizier Köraslan to authorize it.” He took a long pull at his pipe. “Yorg Pasha and some other powerful friends of your father, may he rest in peace, have opened a front to clear your name.”

“I’m honored that they think me worthy of their attention,” Kamil said, wondering who his defenders were and feeling an enormous sense of relief and gratitude.

“I’d like to know, between us, did you kill the girl, Sosi?”

“Of course not,” Kamil’s head jerked up in outrage. He saw a faint look of amusement pass over the minister’s face.

“Then how did your watch get in the dead girl’s hand?”

“I noticed my watch missing after I visited the Akrep commander, Vahid, the day before the girl was found dead.”

The minister’s pipe stopped halfway to his mouth. “How is Akrep relevant to this?”

Kamil wondered how much Nizam Pasha knew about what was going on in Akrep’s basement behind the walls of Yildiz Palace. He thought about the room Rejep, the policeman, had described seeing, furnished with restraints, tools of torture, and a viewing gallery.

“I believe Vahid to be responsible for the murder.”

“That’s convenient. Did you give him your watch?”

“He collided with me at the door as I was leaving his office. He could have taken it from my pocket then.”

“You’re saying that the Akrep commander pickpocketed you?” The minister ventured a dry smile.

Kamil shrugged. “It’s the only explanation.”

“You understand that you’re making a serious accusation. Do you have any evidence for it?”

Kamil took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to the minister. “This corner of a document was found in a room in the basement of Akrep headquarters,” Kamil said. “We believe it’s part of the passport of a Russian woman, Vera Arti, who we know was being held there.”

Nizam Pasha approached the window and examined the torn piece of paper in the light. “How did you get this?”

“With the help of the police. We were looking for the woman.” Kamil didn’t explain who Vera Arti was or why they were searching for her. He saw that Nizam Pasha had noticed this omission.

“Did you find her?” Nizam Pasha asked, giving Kamil a long look.

“We believe she escaped before our arrival. However, the police examined the basement. One of the rooms appears to have been used for torture.” Kamil described the viewing gallery. “That’s where the police found this.” He indicated the piece of paper in the minister’s hand.

The minister said nothing, but Kamil saw his face tighten with anger and disgust. He held up the scrap of paper. “And what does this have to do with the girl, Sosi?”

Kamil had no answer. Yet he was certain that Sosi too had been held in Akrep’s basement. He told Nizam Pasha about the cut wounds on the English nanny Bridget’s arm made by a mysterious “policeman,” whose description matched Vahid’s exactly. “The cuts on the nanny’s arm were similar to those found on the dead girl’s body.”

“You’re usually more thorough than this, Magistrate. Your evidence is as insubstantial as moonbeams. None of it implicates Vahid directly or gets you off the hook.”

Justice, Kamil realized with a sense of despair, depended not on big philosophical questions but on trivial details. He remembered Omar’s failed attempt to preserve a footprint in the church garden. “That’s all I have, Your Excellency,” he answered, barely hiding his exasperation. “However, the evidence against me is just as slim. A watch, but no motive or evidence that I ever set eyes on the girl. So let there be a trial,” he added defiantly.

The uneasy silence in the room stretched on. Kamil, seething, kept his eyes lowered. A servant brought a piece of live charcoal in a pair of tongs and placed it in the bowl of the minister’s chibouk. After a few exploratory puffs, Nizam Pasha said, “If there is a trial, it won’t be for a few months yet.”

Kamil looked surprised.

“Sultan Abdulhamid is sending you on an assignment to the east. In addition to investigating this socialist settlement, he wants you to find out what happened to the weapons from the confiscated shipment.”

Kamil was taken aback. “I thought the shipment was being kept under guard.”

“The British wanted their ship back, so the weapons were moved to a warehouse, coincidentally owned by your friend Yorg Pasha, and then they disappeared.”

At first, Kamil feared that Yorg Pasha had spirited them away himself, but as he heard the story of the men disguised as Ottoman soldiers who had brazenly stolen the guns, he chided himself for thinking badly of the man who was organizing his defense.

“I think it can be assumed,” Nizam Pasha concluded, “that the guns are headed east toward this settlement that you and Yorg Pasha seem to believe is so innocuous. If they fall into the hands of the Armenians in that province, Allah only knows what will happen. Sultan Abdulhamid believes they would turn the guns against us and join the Russians.” The minister laid down his pipe and walked over to one of the bookshelves. He drew his hand across the leather-bound spines, then turned back to Kamil. “Whatever the case, the wishes of our padishah, the Shadow of God on Earth, always take precedence. He is sending you east, and you can stand trial when you return. By that time, perhaps you’ll have some evidence, instead of conjectures. And, let us hope, the missing guns and gold.”