The Winter Thief

73

FEBRUARY 18

“Wish us good fortune, amja.” Kamil kissed Yorg Pasha on both cheeks.

“Allah protect you, my son, and your companions.”

Feride waited beside them, enveloped in a fashionable silk feradje cloak, a cloud of gauze covering her lower face. “I couldn’t convince Elif to come. I’m sorry.”

“No matter. Give her my love.” Kamil kissed Feride’s forehead. He was not as sanguine as his words. Elif had wanted to accompany him, but he had refused. He would be traveling through difficult territory with a group of soldiers and facing unknown dangers. “I need to go,” she had said. That puzzling sentence had stayed with him. Did she feel such an intense need to be beside him? he wondered. Somehow he knew that wasn’t what she had meant.

Behind them the steamer chuffed amid the voices of the crew and the snorts and whinnies of frightened horses being led belowdeck to be fastened by head-collars to the bulwarks. Kamil heard Omar’s rumbling laugh. He had immediately made friends among the crew. Kamil suspected Omar was really coming along for the adventure and to protect him, as if the thirty Ottoman cavalry soldiers under Kamil’s command were not enough. They had already boarded and were settled in their cramped quarters for the four-day voyage east along the shore of the Black Sea to Trabzon. Yakup was arranging Kamil’s belongings in his private cabin. A cloudless sky promised fair weather. The blood-red Ottoman banner snapped in the breeze.

“May your way be open before you,” Yorg Pasha murmured.

As Kamil turned and strode toward the ship, Feride spilled the traditional cup of water on the path behind the traveler. “As clear as water.”

Later that night a weary Kamil unlatched the door to the commander’s cabin that had been assigned him for the voyage. Omar had bedded down with the soldiers in the hold, and Yakup had been given a small cabin next to Kamil’s. Kamil hung his lamp on a hook dangling from the ceiling and surveyed the room. The cabin was fairly large, decorated with gilded moldings, a Persian carpet on the floor. A broad ledge padded with quilts served as a bed. Yakup had put Kamil’s things away in the cabinets built in beneath the bed and along one wall. There was a leather-covered table and four chairs. The iron cover to the porthole was screwed securely shut.

Suddenly a figure detached itself from the shadows. Kamil started and reached for his knife, then froze with shock. Elif stood before him, dressed in trousers and a man’s jacket and greatcoat, holding a wide-brimmed hat in her hand.

He seized her and pulled her to one of the chairs.

“You’re hurting me,” she complained, rubbing her wrist.

“What the hell are you playing at?” Kamil struggled to keep himself under control. “This isn’t a game. Why are you here?”

“Why not?” she responded coolly, looking directly at Kamil as if she were a man.

Her answer infuriated him. “I can give you a thousand reasons, but you know them all. We already discussed this.” He paced up and down the cabin. “Allah protect us, what am I going to do now?” He stopped in front of her. “We will land at Shile and you will get off there and take a coach back to the city.”

“No.”

“I’m in command of this ship,” he shouted. There was a knock at the door. Kamil stalked over and pulled it open.

Yakup stood in the doorway, a pistol in his hand, his eyes roaming past Kamil. When he saw Elif, his mouth slackened in surprise, but he said nothing. Eyes on Kamil’s jacket, Yakup waited for instructions.

“Come in,” Kamil said, his anger evident in his tone. “You know who this is.” He indicated Elif. “She stowed aboard. I want her sent back to Istanbul.”

“I’m not leaving,” Elif repeated.

Yakup stood by the cabin door, looking uncomfortable.

Kamil nodded at him to go, then locked the cabin door and turned back to Elif. She sat with her chin out, one leg slung over the other like a man. Her small scarred hand on the table was held in a tight fist. She frowned at him and lowered her voice. “No one will know who I am. You can introduce me as your servant, Elias. Only Yakup will know.”

“Omar is aboard too.”

“So Yakup and Omar will know. The trip is four days. I’ll stay in the cabin.”

“And then? We’re traveling into the mountains. Have you ever been in real mountains? Have you slept on the ground in the winter? You have no idea what’s in store. You cannot come along.”

“Why?” Elif rose and faced him, one hand on her hip, the other gesticulating. “Because I’m a woman? You think I have no balls? You think I can’t put up with discomfort? You think I can’t fire a gun or protect myself?” She reached under her greatcoat and pulled out a pistol, which she slammed onto the table. She added a small sword and a knife.

“Allah protect us,” Kamil exclaimed, looking at Elif as if he had never seen her before.

Elif calmly pocketed the weapons and sat down again, crossing her legs. She took her hat from the table, dusted the brim, then returned it.

Kamil was alarmed at the change in the woman he saw before him. At the same time, he felt a stirring in his loins and realized to his consternation that he found this Elif just as attractive as the gentle woman he had sworn to protect. It made him angry.

They remained like this for a good minute, Kamil staring at Elif and Elif gazing nonchalantly into space.

“Fine. But you receive no special privileges. If you want to be a man, then be one.” He turned on his heel and left, the iron cabin door clanging shut behind him.

FEBRUARY 24

Sultan Abdulhamid, dressed in a sable coat with broad lapels, waved at the crowd with both hands and then climbed into his carriage. With a deep bow an aide handed him his sword. Marshals, generals, officers, aides-de-camp, civilian officials, and foreigners, mounted and on foot, jostled and then settled into place at the side of the road.

Others lined up behind the carriage in the elaborate protocol that determined who had the honor of being a horse’s length closer than the others to the Commander of the Faithful on his weekly ride to the mosque. Outside the gates, ordinary citizens of the empire gathered to witness their ruler and gape at the display of wealth and power that accompanied him, from the bejeweled and caparisoned horses to the brocade and gold-stitched robes of the courtiers. Vahid, whose duty it was to protect the sultan, rode just behind his carriage. His men were deployed in the crowd and at the mosque. Nothing could go wrong. Still, he was sweating profusely despite the cold.

When they reached the mosque, the sultan emerged from his carriage and began to climb the steps leading to the great gate. Vahid too dismounted and followed him as closely as decorum would allow. Suddenly a shot rang out. Vahid leaped and flung himself before the sultan, shielding him with his body. He looked anxiously for blood, but, as he expected, there was none. There was pandemonium as members of the court threw themselves down or began to run. Military officers formed a human shield around Vahid and their sultan. Soldiers in the sultan’s entourage drew their weapons and plunged into the crowd, and hundreds more fanned out across Istanbul to hunt for the assailant and anyone who had assisted him.

Later that afternoon, Vizier Köraslan bowed low before Sultan Abdulhamid and expressed his gratitude that Allah had spared the Great Lord’s life. Dozens of officials arrayed by rank throughout the receiving hall in the sultan’s private residence murmured their assent.

“He seems to have been a remarkably bad shot for an assassin, as they’ve found no bullet,” the sultan noted, looking at his vizier with an unreadable expression. “I presume he’s been arrested. Who is he?”

“An Armenian student at the imperial school. He confessed to belonging to the socialist Henchak organization. May I remind Your Highness that these are the same people our spies tell us are setting up a community in the Choruh Valley. We believe that this community is the kernel of an independent Armenian state and is being organized with the help of the Russians just across the border. If this movement isn’t stopped, it will eat away the rest of our eastern provinces.” Even as he recited these suppositions, Vizier Köraslan remembered Kamil’s prediction that Vahid would stage an assassination attempt. He was certain the sultan remembered it as well. If the assassination wasn’t real, the vizier wondered, how much of the rest of Akrep’s information was reliable? He despised Vahid, but the man knew things that could destroy his family. Against his better judgment, he had allowed him command of Akrep. So far he appeared to have been successful, and now it seemed he had saved the sultan’s life. Vizier Köraslan decided to rely on Vahid one more time.

“So the assassin wasn’t working alone?”

“No, Your Highness. Akrep has launched an investigation into his network in the city. They will all be arrested. This organization will be eradicated.”

“I’m unclear about what socialism has to do with this. It seems far-fetched to me that the Russians would support a socialist project when the socialists are trying to undermine the czar. Socialism is an international movement, not a Russian one. Or an Armenian one. I would like to speak with the prisoner myself.”

The vizier faltered a moment before answering, “That won’t be possible, Your Highness. He was killed trying to escape.”

Sultan Abdulhamid was silent. His absolute stillness cast a pall over Vizier Köraslan.

Finally the sultan spoke. “Who arrested the prisoner and interrogated him?”

“Officers from Akrep, Your Highness.”

“Vahid, you mean?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Sultan Abdulhamid’s sharp black eyes rested thoughtfully on Vizier Köraslan, and he was silent for so long that sweat broke out on the vizier’s forehead.

Finally the sultan spoke again. “You assure me that this is all true?”

The vizier’s hesitation was not lost on the sultan. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“In that case, send the soldiers.”