The Winter Thief

84

“The attack is already under way?” Huseyin wheezed. “Why didn’t you keep me up-to-date?”

His secretary stood before Huseyin’s mahogany desk, head bowed and hands clasped before him. “We couldn’t discover where you were, Your Excellency.”

“All right. But now I’m here, so I expect to be kept fully informed.”

“Naturally, Your Excellency.”

“Arrange for us to see Sultan Abdulhamid.” He included Yorg Pasha with a wave of his hand.

“When?”

“Now.” Huseyin tried to shout and instead began to cough. He cringed until the pain subsided.

Yorg Pasha sat silently in an armchair at the side of the room while Huseyin was briefed by his staff. Gilded high-backed chairs with gold brocade cushions rested near several tables and crowded desks, presumably for Huseyin’s secretaries. It was a well-appointed office, occupied by a man who kept on top of things. It was not what Yorg Pasha had expected of Huseyin, whom he had always considered a sharp-tongued bon vivant. He had heard good reports of him from the palace from time to time, but had never given much thought to Huseyin as a minister. It had always seemed so unlikely from the boy and then the man he thought he had known. He was pleased to have been proved wrong. He needed his competence now.

When the secretary had gone, Yorg Pasha said, “Allah protect him. Kamil is in the middle of it.”

“The rumors of massacres. Do you think they’re true?”

Yorg Pasha didn’t respond. They both knew what the Kurdish irregulars were capable of.

Sultan Abdulhamid was holding court in the Great Mabeyn. He was seated on a throne between gilded pillars at one end of the high-ceilinged hall. Stained glass windows with flower-shaped panes threw bouquets of light against the walls. An enormous silk carpet covered the entire floor. A crowd of officials and petitioners waited at the far end of the hall, precisely positioned by protocol according to rank. The sultan’s first secretary led Yorg Pasha and Huseyin Pasha slowly to the front of the hall, two scribes hovering at their elbows.

When the sultan saw them approach, he motioned to his vizier and stood. Those waiting fell to their knees and pressed their foreheads to the carpet. Huseyin remained standing, leaning forward as far as his scars would allow. Yorg Pasha simply bowed his head respectfully before the young man standing before the throne, whom he had known since he was a boy. If he knelt, Yorg Pasha thought, even two able scribes wouldn’t be able to get him to his feet again.

Accompanied by a phalanx of officials, Sultan Abdulhamid proceeded into a side room. It was equally opulent but had the advantage of privacy, if one overlooked two dozen officials and the servants whose duty it was to serve him. Vizier Köraslan waited nearby.

Sultan Abdulhamid sat in a simple high-backed chair, one Yorg Pasha knew the sultan had made himself. He had shown it to the pasha with pride on a previous visit.

“Welcome, Yorg Pasha,” the sultan said. “Please be comfortable. We are old friends.” He indicated two armchairs.

“Thank you for your kindness, Glorious Majesty.” With the assistance of the scribe, he settled himself gratefully into the chair. Huseyin sat down beside him. Yorg Pasha could hear his raspy breathing and began to worry that this outing would rekindle his illness. The poor child Feride might well lose her brother. He didn’t want her to be a widow as well.

“Huseyin Pasha, you have been missed,” the sultan said. “I’ve heard you’ve been ill. I hope your health has improved.” The sultan showed no reaction to Huseyin’s scarred face.

“I’m honored to have had some small space in your thoughts, Your Highness.”

A servant handed each man a tiny porcelain cup set in a gold slip encrusted with diamonds. As they sipped their coffee, they made obligatory small talk. Finally, when the cups were taken away, there was a brief silence as the sultan waited for them to state the reason for their visit.

“Huseyin Pasha’s illness makes it painful for him to speak,” Yorg Pasha began. “With your permission, I would like to present his request for him. It is also my request.”

The sultan nodded assent.

“We understand that Your Highness has ordered an attack on the Choruh Valley.” The sultan didn’t respond, so Yorg Pasha continued. “Your Highness also sent a special investigator to the valley, Kamil Pasha. He’s there now. He was under the impression that no attack would take place until the end of March. We are concerned about his safety.”

The sultan turned to Huseyin. “I don’t need to justify my decisions to you, but I understand your concern about your brother-in-law. It was unavoidable, and I extend my sincerest wishes for his continued good health. What is your request?” he asked Yorg Pasha.

“We respectfully petition Your Highness to call off the attack until Kamil Pasha returns with his report.”

“You told me you had warned Kamil Pasha about the early decision,” the sultan said to Vizier Köraslan.

The vizier narrowed his eyes. “I sent a message, Your Highness. Perhaps it never reached him.”

Yorg Pasha knew he was lying. Simon’s sources would have remarked on such a telegram.

The sultan looked at his vizier’s face a moment longer than necessary. Had Sultan Abdulhamid understood that his vizier was playing a double game? Yorg Pasha wondered. To know about this distrust between the sultan and his vizier was an advantage that he might be able to use.

The sultan turned back to his guests. “You are aware that members of this Armenian Henchak group tried to kill me? Is this not the same group that set up an infidel settlement in the valley?”

“We don’t believe they’re revolutionaries, Your Highness. They’re a naïve group of socialists trying to set up a utopian community.”

The sultan interrupted him. “Even if this group had nothing to do with the attempt on my life-of which you have yet to convince me-what is to stop them from trying to annex the valley to their cause? Artvin was Ottoman territory until ten years ago, when we were forced to cede it to the Russians after my predecessor’s disastrous war. I will not let the Russians take one more blade of grass or a single stone. And I certainly won’t let the Armenians get it in their heads that they can form their own state there.” His voice rose by a notch. “It is Ottoman land, and it will remain that way. Tell me, if these so-called socialists wanted a utopia, why did they go all the way out there to the mountains on the Russian border to start their settlement? Why not set up near Smyrna or Bursa? The weather is much more suitable.”

“I understand that the Choruh Valley has certain advantages. It’s fertile and relatively unsettled, unlike the areas you mention. The settlers hoped to be welcomed there, as it is heavily Armenian and some of the settlers are of Armenian heritage. But they’re first and foremost internationalists, not nationalists. This socialism is a crackpot idea of youth, Your Highness. A candle burns only as long as its fuel, and their only sustenance is ideas. How long can that last?”

Yorg Pasha wondered suddenly if they all were dead-Kamil, Gabriel, Vera, who Simon had learned had made her way to the commune, and the headstrong Elif, who had left Feride a note saying she was stowing aboard Kamil’s ship-and whether he was to blame for encouraging them. Would it have been better to crush their dream in the palm of his hand, as he had had the power to do since Gabriel’s ship of armaments had first docked in Istanbul?

Huseyin opened his mouth to speak but managed only a painful cough.

The sultan looked at him with concern and held a handkerchief up to his mouth. “Are you well, Huseyin Pasha? Nothing contagious, I hope.”

“The pasha was injured in a fire,” Yorg Pasha explained. “His lungs.”

“I understand. May you be well.” The sultan nodded politely at Huseyin.

Huseyin tried again. “There have been reports of massacres in the east.”

There was a moment’s tense pause while Huseyin put down his cane and pulled a newspaper from his jacket. He held it out to the sultan.

Vizier Köraslan took it from Huseyin and presented it to Sultan Abdulhamid. “What is this?” the sultan asked without looking at it.

“The Times of London,” Huseyin said. “The headline is OTTOMANS SLAUGHTER ARMENIANS IN EAST.

The sultan lifted the paper and looked at the front page. They watched his face move from curiosity to rage as he read. Finally the sultan laid the newspaper in his lap and turned to his vizier. “You knew about this.” His voice was low and deadly as a blade.

Vizier Köraslan blanched. “These are lies, Your Highness, fabricated by foreigners. I didn’t want to distress you needlessly.”

Yorg Pasha knew that the sultan was extremely sensitive to any foreign criticism.

“Who fed them these lies?” The sultan’s voice rose. “How can they know about this so soon?”

“The Armenians in Istanbul are well connected abroad,” the vizier said in a tone full of innuendo, seizing the opportunity to deflect blame. “All it takes is one telegram and a photographer, and the Europeans are on our backs.”

“This attack on Christians, whether true or not, will give the British and Russians the opening they’re waiting for. They’ll send troops into the heart of the empire on the pretext of protecting the minorities,” Huseyin told the sultan. “There’s still time to stop this before it spirals out of control.” Huseyin’s voice was so weakened from exertion that the sultan had to lean forward to hear him.

“Where was your advice earlier, Huseyin Pasha?” Sultan Abdulhamid replied scornfully, although there was a tinge of compassion in his voice for his unfortunate adviser. “It’s too late now. The cow is out of the shed.”

“We can still save the shed, Your Highness,” Yorg Pasha broke in, bringing a humorless smile to the sultan’s lips.

Sultan Abdulhamid rose from his seat and went over to the window, where he stared out at the bright day, the newspaper dangling from his hand behind his back. No one in the room moved or spoke.

When Sultan Abdulhamid turned around, his face was in shadow. “Call it off,” he told his vizier. He threw the newspaper at him. It fluttered to the floor between them, and Vizier Köraslan crouched to retrieve it.

Feride received the news that Huseyin had gone to the palace with trepidation about his health but also relief. It signaled the return of his self-confidence and an end to her pity. She could think about what she meant to do next in this marriage. She went to her dressing room and found the ruby and silver hairpin Huseyin had given her. She put on the red velvet gown she knew Huseyin liked, then had her maid arrange her hair and draped a light silk veil across it, held coquettishly in place by the ruby pin. She called for a glass of wine, then took a book Doctor Moreno had given her about hospital administration to her private chamber to wait for Huseyin’s return.