The Abyssinian Proof (31 page)

“I don’t think the hellfires are meant for men engaged in honest inquiry,” Ismail Hodja assured him with a smile.

“By the way,” Kamil asked Ismail Hodja, “does Matthew 2:16 mean anything to you?”

“I believe it’s from the Bible.” Ismail Hodja walked to a shelf, took down a thick book, and leafed through the pages. “Here it is. ‘Then Herod, when he saw that he was mocked by the wise men, was exceedingly angry, and sent forth, and slew all the male children that were in Bethlehem and in the border thereof from two years old and under.’”

“‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,’” Elif’s voice cracked. “What’s the point of proving he exists,” she asked bitterly, “when he’s that kind of God?”

A
T THE
G
ALATA END
of the Grande Rue de Pera, Kamil and Omar made a sharp left down a steep canyon of five-story buildings, stone and plaster interpretations of the traditional wooden houses. Candlelight shimmered in the windows. It was almost eight o’clock. They passed a rococo fountain in front of a small mosque. The buildings might be taller, but this place is still a thieves’ den, Kamil thought, looking around at the men sitting in the dark. The men’s eyes followed them suspiciously.

A street of steps spilled into the square before the Galata Tower. Built in 1348 by a Genoese colony of traders, the round stone colossus dwarfed even the tallest buildings in its vicinity. Enormous arches circled the top. Above them, a terrace wound beneath two small chambers stacked there like warming pots. The ground was littered with stones from the collapsed Genoese walls that had once connected to the tower.

“Gustave Flaubert wrote about the view from up there,” Kamil whispered when they reached the square.

“Well, that’s not very original,” Omar replied. “You can see up a swallow’s ass from there.” He looked meaningfully at Kamil. “Now that’s original.”

Kamil laughed quietly. “Where did Avi say they were going to meet?”

Omar pointed to a short stretch of wall, about ten feet high. At one end was a vaulted arch, a deep scallop scooped from the wall. “I came earlier to have a look. No back exit.”

He nudged Kamil. A figure was hurrying along the street toward the arch. There were few lights in the square and the night sky was obscured by clouds, so the man appeared and disappeared, stepping between shadows. He was tall and wore a coat, and his hat was pulled low around his face, which was obscured by a scarf. Another man appeared inside the arch and motioned to him.

“Amida,” Omar mouthed.

The sight of Amida made Kamil’s hand twitch in anticipation of landing a blow. Amida must believe that he and Elif were still locked behind that iron gate, where they would eventually die. Kamil had told Omar what had happened, although not about the translation of the Proof of God.

They crept closer. Kamil pointed to a low wall by a tree, where they would be close enough to hear without being seen.

Already there was a quarrel in progress.

“You said you had the Proof of God last time, but it was just a piece of junk. You’ll have to do better this time.”

The voice spoke Turkish, the language of the street, with a foreign accent. English, Kamil thought.

They couldn’t hear Amida’s reply.

“If you can’t deliver it, I’ll take my money back and we won’t be doing any more business. I don’t deal with amateurs.”

“I have it. I’ve got the Proof.” Amida’s voice rose with excitement.

“That’s what you say. Let’s see it.”

“No. I mean I know where it is.”

“You told me you’d have it tonight. I agreed to meet with you for that reason alone. Otherwise you deal with Ben and Remzi.”

“I can get it.”

“You insufferable idiot!” the man said in English. Then, in Turkish, “Why should I believe you?”

“Because you need me,” Amida sounded defiant. “I’m the only one who knows where it is.”

There was a lull. Kamil imagined them sizing each other up.

Finally, Amida said harshly, “I want more money up front.”

The man huffed into his scarf. Kamil realized he was laughing.

“You have your money.”

They couldn’t hear Amida’s reply.

“How much?” the man asked.

“Ten thousand gold liras.”

Kamil and Omar looked at each other in surprise. Omar pointed to his testicles and raised his eyebrows.

“Don’t fuck with me,” the man snarled in English.

“Other people want it,” Amida responded. “I could take it to them.”

“You have no idea what you’re getting into, do you? I’m the only one who can get it out, you fool.”

“Suit yourself,” Amida said and walked out of the alcove.

“Two thousand.”

Amida turned. “Five.”

“Four. I’ve already paid you a thousand for that worthless reliquary.”

“Where do you want me to bring it?”

“I’ll pick it up at your house.”

A note of wariness entered Amida’s voice. “I’ll bring it to you. It’s not a problem.”

“I know where you live. I’ll be there tomorrow after five. And if you don’t have it, my associate Ben will talk to your sister.” The man’s voice remained ominously pleasant, as if he were discussing the weather. “He’s taken a liking to her. Or maybe Remzi. He dislikes you for snitching on him.”

“My sister doesn’t know anything.” Amida sounded nervous.

“Of course not. Now get out of here.”

As Amida stepped into the street, Omar ran from the shadows to intercept him, but tripped over a stone in the dark and faltered, giving Amida enough time to turn down an alley and merge into the backstreets.

Omar cursed. “Son of a donkey, I know where you live,” he muttered as he ran back to the square.

Kamil approached the arch carefully. He wondered why the man hadn’t come out. He must have heard Omar. Maybe he was armed and lying in wait.

Kamil took out his knife and nodded to Omar, who moved quietly to the other side of the alcove, holding his revolver. When Kamil stepped into the opening, Omar moved in quickly behind him, pointing the gun straight at the man who should have been there. But the arch was empty.

“Well, go fuck a donkey,” Omar exclaimed, turning about in the enclosed space. “Where did he go?”

They lit a lamp and looked around. In the corner of the arch was a low opening in the wall just big enough for a man to squeeze through.

“How did I miss this?” Omar picked up a stone and looked at it in the light, then felt around among the other stones on the floor. “The son of a bitch. He stacked them so they looked like part of the wall. All he had to do was push them aside.” He threw the rock down in disgust. “This damned city is full of holes.”

Kamil closed his eyes and threw his head back. “I can’t believe they both got away.”

“My fault, pasha.”

Kamil shook his head. “There was something familiar about him.”

“English, right?”

“Sounded like it.”

“All English sound alike.”

“Bey, Chief.”

They whirled around at the voice. Avi stood outside the entrance.

“What are you doing here, you rascal?” Omar asked sternly. “Trying to be a hero twice in one day?”

Avi didn’t respond and Kamil saw that he was embarrassed. His pockets were bulging.

Kamil went over and laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “We didn’t have much luck, Avi. Let’s take you home. It’s been a long day for all of us.” He sounded dispirited.

Avi pulled an engraved silver money clip from his pocket that was bulging with British banknotes, and handed it to Kamil.

“What…?”

Omar said nothing, but looked at Avi with a mixture of admiration and wonder.

Avi reached into his other pocket and fished out a key and a cigar.

Kamil turned the cigar over in his hand. It had a yellow and red label with a picture of a red rose and the word Cuba on the band.

“Where did you get these?” But Kamil already knew the answer. Cuban cigars, as Magnus Owen had pointed out to him, were rare. He found himself profoundly saddened by the realization.

“I took them from the man’s pocket when he got stuck in the wall.” Avi stood with his head bowed.

Omar burst out laughing. “You pickpocketed him while he was stuck in the wall? Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.” He stopped laughing when he noticed Avi was crying. “No, no, my son,” he said gently, putting his arm around Avi. “I meant that in a good way. I blundered and you saved the day. Again.” He punched him lightly on the arm. “So, how many times are you going to be a hero today? Are you trying to show us up?”

“Avi,” Kamil chimed in. “This is very helpful. I think I know who the man is, thanks to you.”

“Who?” Omar asked curiously.

“First I want to be sure. I need to check on something, but I’ll let you know. Why don’t the two of you go home and I’ll see you tomorrow. You can take the day off, Avi.” He smiled at the boy, then frowned when he noticed his scraped hands. Some of the scabs had begun to bleed. “Where are your bandages?”

“I took them off so I could work better.”

Kamil remembered the desperate, skinny boy who had accosted him on the street. He had wondered how Avi had survived. Now he knew or at least could guess. He would never truly be able to grasp that kind of life. He thought about the young refugee woman on the street with her baby.

Kamil watched Omar and Avi turn the corner, the police chief’s big hand resting on the boy’s shoulder, then set off in search of a carriage.

A
MIDA SQUATTED OVER
the cloaked figure sprawled facedown amid the weeds and listing grave markers in the old cemetery behind the Fatih Mosque. He lifted the cloak. Beneath it was a dark-skinned boy with a thick mat of tightly curled black hair, a dark fuzz of down outlining his upper lip. His neck was arched back coquettishly, one cheek pressed against the earth, lips parted in a grimace of what could either be pain or ecstasy. His eyes were closed, but his face held nothing of repose, only hard absence. With trembling hands, Amida pulled the cloak back farther and saw that the boy was naked. Lines in the shape of two peaks had been carved into the boy’s back. Amida crouched over the body, rocking back and forth on his heels, making a thin keening sound.

A breeze suddenly sprang up. The cypresses creaked and sighed. Amida sat up and looked around nervously. Seeing no one, he tucked the cloak around the body as if putting a child to bed, then stood and ran out of the cemetery, through the courtyard of the mosque, past the tomb of Sultan Mehmet II, and down the Street of the Lion-House.

T
AILOR
P
EPO’S ESTABLISHMENT
was down a covered passage off the Rue de Pera that was crammed with shops selling bolts of cloth, ribbons, thread, buttons, and other items needed in the trade. It was only eight in the morning, but Tailor Pepo already stood at a long table, measuring lengths from a bolt of fine white linen. Three apprentices took up the rest of the small room, each hunched over a shirt, needle in hand. They looked up surreptitiously when Kamil entered, but immediately returned their attention to their work.

“Welcome, Kamil Pasha,” the old man said in a voice so low Kamil could barely hear him. “Sorry.” He pointed to his throat. “Doctor says I have a growth. Doesn’t bother me, but can’t speak.”

Kamil thought the tailor had aged since he had last come in six months earlier to be measured for a shirt. The man’s face was gray and his white hair had begun to yellow as if stained with nicotine. He began to cough and one of the apprentices brought him a glass of water.

“Sit. Sit.” Tailor Pepo pointed to a stool.

Kamil explained that he was looking for someone he thought might be a customer of the shop. He took the silver money clip out of his pocket and laid it on the cutting table. The eyes of the apprentices flashed curiously in their direction.

Tailor Pepo picked up the clip and ran his hands over the incised hunting scene, a leaping stag being dragged down by hounds. He turned it over. On the back was engraved the initial M.

“Monsieur Owen,” he said.

Kamil leaned in to hear him better.

“A cruel scene, n’est-ce pas?” He leaned close to Kamil’s ear. “I didn’t like this Monsieur Owen. I can tell a lot about a man by his shirts.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“He first came here about two years ago. One of my regular clients recommended him, said he was the British ambassador’s secretary.” He leaned forward. “I think he wanted to butter Monsieur Owen up for a deal.” He shook his head knowingly, then started coughing again. “I made Monsieur Owen a shirt to help my regular client, and we delivered it to my client’s address. Then six months ago, Monsieur Owen came and ordered another shirt.”

The apprentice hurried over with more water. While Tailor Pepo was drinking, the young man glanced at the money clip.

“Do you remember this?” Kamil asked him.

The apprentice looked inquiringly at the tailor, who nodded his approval.

“He gave an address in Tarla Bashou. Not that it’s a bad area, not like Galata. It’s just families in Tarla Bashou. There aren’t many Franks living there. And since Monsieur Owen said he was employed at the embassy, I found it odd.”

Tailor Pepo stood suddenly and cried out in his diminished voice, “We haven’t offered the pasha any tea.”

The apprentice leapt to the door and called down the passage, then sat down and picked up his shirt.

“With your permission,” Kamil said politely, “I’d like to ask the young man some more questions.”

“Of course. Take your time. We’re all at your service.” Tailor Pepo went back to his measuring, his scissors biting into the material with a sound like tearing silk.

A boy appeared at the door, a tray of glasses swinging from his hand on a thin metal tripod. He plucked one off and handed it to the apprentice, who placed it before Kamil.

“What else can you tell me about Monsieur Owen?”

The apprentice’s hands continued their deft needlework as he answered Kamil’s questions. “I went to Tarla Bashou to deliver the shirt. The apartment was on the second floor. I knocked but there was no answer, so I went to leave the shirt with the doorkeeper. He told me the man who rented the apartment was an agent of trade by the name of Megalos. I wanted to make sure I was delivering to the right address, so I asked him to describe the tenant. The doorkeeper said he rarely saw him, but from his description it sounded exactly like Monsieur Owen. The doorkeeper didn’t think he actually lived there but used the apartment for business. He said the neighbors were always complaining to him about bulky trunks coming in and out and blocking the stairwell. It is odd. I mean, a proper business would have a depot.”

“What do you know about business?” Tailor Pepo rasped from his cutting table.

Agents of trade were go-betweens in business deals, paper shufflers and deal makers, not shopkeepers, Kamil thought. Owen was involved in something quite different.

“There’s one more thing.” The apprentice looked uncomfortable. “It’s just gossip.” He glanced at Tailor Pepo.

“Go ahead,” the old man said. “Leaves don’t flutter unless there’s wind.”

“I heard that Monsieur Owen lost his position at the embassy last year. He was accused of taking bribes.”

Kamil remembered the previous ambassador’s daughter, Sybil, mentioning that her father had fired his secretary. Instead of returning to England, this man stayed in Istanbul and set himself up as an agent of trade.

Tailor Pepo put his hands over his ears and shook his head. “I knew it right away.”

“But he was rehired when the new ambassador arrived.”

“How do you know this?” Kamil asked.

“My brother delivers produce to the embassy kitchen, pasha.”

Kamil finished his tea, thanked Tailor Pepo, and left. In the passage, he stopped, took the money clip from his pocket and regarded the engraving, then flipped it over and looked at the initial. M for Magnus, he thought, but something else danced just offstage in his mind. Suddenly he saw it. Four lines in the shape of two mountain peaks: M.

Was this Kubalou’s brand?

Hurrying out of the passage, he took a shortcut to the British Embassy.

H
E WAITED FOR
the ambassador’s secretary on an uncomfortable chair in the ornate receiving hall. The clerk behind the desk studiously ignored him. A clock ticked ostentatiously on the mantel. The previous ambassador had done most of his business from his rooms in the private residence at the back of the British Embassy compound, so Kamil had spent little time in the public rooms.

It gave him time to think. He was jumping to conclusions. Just because a man smoked Cuban cigars and his name had an initial that looked vaguely like a symbol cut into the bodies of dead men didn’t necessarily mean he was guilty of killing them. Malik’s name also began with an M. And perhaps all the trunks the tailor’s apprentice had talked about really were just connected to Owen’s business as an agent of trade. Why was he so ready to believe, Kamil asked himself, that Magnus Owen was Kubalou? Was it that Owen had lied about how long he had been in Istanbul? A useless lie. Kamil wouldn’t have cared one way or the other. But the lie might have stopped Kamil from discovering that Owen had been fired for taking bribes under the previous ambassador.

After half an hour, a short, harried-looking man in a well-tailored suit rushed in. He had great brown whiskers on his cheeks and a bald head, across which lay two streaks of hair that looked as if they had been painted on.

“So sorry, Mister Pasha. Or should I call you Magistrate? Never know what form of address to use here, dash it. I’m Battles, the ambassador’s secretary.”

Kamil had no idea if this was his last name, his first name, or a job description.

“Kamil,” he clarified, reaching out his hand to Battles. “I’m here in my capacity as magistrate for the Beyoglu Court.”

“Well, do come in, man,” Battles interrupted him, leading the way toward a door at the back of the hall. “I know I’ve kept you waiting, Magistrate. I do apologize.”

He swept Kamil into his office and offered him a chair. A very large desk shined to a high polish dominated the room. Three upholstered chairs were arrayed around a smaller inlaid table.

Battles sat down opposite Kamil and crossed his legs. He propped his chin on one fist in a caricature of total attention. “Now,” he said, “what can I do for you?”

“I’m here to inquire about one of your employees, a Mister Magnus Owen.”

Battles suddenly sat upright. “Why is the Ottoman court interested in Magnus Owen? Look here, what’s this all about?”

“I can’t tell you anything at the moment,” Kamil explained. “We’re in the middle of an investigation. Right now I need some information.”

“But we have a right to know,” Battles spluttered.

“You’ll be the first to be informed. I’m sure you can understand,” he said conspiratorially, “that our actions must be circumspect. I’m working together with Scotland Yard on this matter.”

“Of course. Of course.” Battles laid his finger along his nose. “No need to bother the ambassador with this yet. Scotland Yard, eh?” He looked impressed.

“Is Mister Owen here?”

Battles shot up and stuck his head out the door. “Harbinger, is Owen here?”

A moment later, he came back shaking his head. “No one’s seen him all day. Never here when you want him.” He tilted his head and looked at Kamil. “Is Owen involved in something? Drugs, eh? I won’t tell a soul.” He leaned forward intently. “I knew it. I could smell it on that man. I told the ambassador not to hire him.”

“Why did you do that?”

“He was secretary to the former ambassador, but said he had resigned. He was living locally, acting as an agent of trade. Apparently very respectable. As soon as the new ambassador arrived, Owen showed up and asked for his old job back. ‘Well, we have a secretary,’ I said. ‘Me. We don’t need a second one.’” Battles shook his head. “No, I didn’t like the man one bit. Shifty eyes. He went behind my back, convinced the ambassador he had more experience dealing with the natives. Not a lot of staff stayed over from the previous ambassador, you see, so it’s true our sea legs were a bit wobbly, but we were getting the hang of it. The ambassador hired him as cultural attaché. I couldn’t fathom it. He’s about as useful as a two-legged stool.” He leaned forward again. “And then one day I was talking to one of the men from the old days and guess what he told me? Owen hadn’t quit. He was asked to resign, for taking a bribe. Well, when I heard that, I went straight to the ambassador, but he thought it was just gossip. Seems Owen made himself useful. Speaks the local lingo, you know.” Battles shrugged. “I made the best of it. Kept him away from anything important. People like that. They think they’re one of us, but you can smell the street on them. Gives himself airs, he does, plays the gentleman, but I did some checking around.” Battles lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Born on the wrong side of the blanket. Father’s a duke. Did the right thing by him, sent him to the best schools and all that, but beyond his public school manner, Owen’s a fraud. He’s no more a gentleman than old Harbinger out there,” Battles concluded, indicating the clerk in the hall.

Kamil wondered at the depth of his venom. Why would Battles hate the man so much? There was nothing in Owen’s manner that had given Kamil cause to think ill of him. Perhaps, Kamil thought, he wasn’t as finely attuned to the narcissism of minor class differences as the British were. They seemed to have the olfactory sophistication of hunting dogs when it came to sniffing out a man’s standing. Kamil wondered whether a lifetime of harassment by his peers could drive a man to seek out associates like Remzi.

“Interesting information. Thank you,” Kamil said in a neutral voice. “Could you tell me what his duties are here at the embassy?”

“Oh, translating, reaching out to the natives, cultural understanding—misunderstanding more likely.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we don’t know what’s really said, do we? He could tell the ambassador four is five and we’d have to accept it.”

“Is he the only Turkish speaker at the embassy?” Kamil asked, shocked.

“The others all left. The old ambassador worked them to the bone, canceled their home leaves. Some of the poor buggers hadn’t seen England in three years. The new translator shipped out from London last week. Oxford trained. When he arrives, we won’t have to rely on Owen anymore. He’ll be restricted to his other duties where he can do no harm.”

“What other duties?”

“Diplomatic pouch, post, shipping. He said he had done it before, and truth be told, it’s the one thing he does well. We can always count on our post being on time.”

Kamil tried to keep the excitement from his voice. “Would you be able to obtain a list of everything he’s shipped for the embassy over the past month—what, where, when—without him knowing?”

“Certainly,” Battles said. “It might take me a week, maybe two.”

“I need it this afternoon.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

On his way out, Kamil turned back and asked, “Is Owen married?”

“I doubt it,” Battles replied. “He’s always chatting up the ladies at embassy functions. He’s a dark horse, that one. Has an apartment somewhere in the city. Never invites anyone over.” He thought a moment. “I suppose he could have a native wife. I hear they don’t mind that sort of thing.”

Kamil nodded curtly and stepped out the door before a suitable rejoinder could form on his lips.

K
AMIL LEFT A
police guard outside the building in Tarla Bashou, then he, the local police captain, and a fresh-faced policeman climbed the stairs to Owen’s apartment. The hall was narrow and dark, but the steps were scrubbed clean. The stairwell was fragrant with the scent of freshly baked pastry and the noon meal. Every door was slightly ajar and women peered out, their children pressing their faces through the opening.

Kamil knocked on Owen’s door.

A woman spoke from the apartment across the landing. She had a scarf draped around her face and her body was hidden behind the half-closed door. “He’s not home.”

Kamil turned toward her. “Do you know where he is? When he’ll be back?”

“He’s rarely here, but he came in late last night. He’d lost his key so the doorkeeper had to let him in. He made a lot of noise in his apartment and right before the first ezan, a carriage came and they took down some big chests. It woke me and the children up.” As if on cue, a baby began to bawl behind her. The door closed for a moment, then opened again, a bit wider. Kamil could see she had a baby in her arms. A little girl clung shyly to her mother’s shalwar.