The Abyssinian Proof (38 page)

Suitcases and bundles were stacked inside the carriage, and the back gate was ajar. They ran to the house, keeping out of sight behind the bushes, and slipped in the back door. The notes of a piano sonata drifted through the hallway. They followed the sound to a large central room lit by French windows. Although the house was shabby on the outside, inside it rivaled a small palace in the opulence of its furnishings and the quality of the art that covered every surface.

Owen sat at a grand piano with his back to them, engrossed in his playing. A large suitcase lay open on the floor.

Omar circled the room to sneak behind him.

“Going somewhere?” Kamil asked, pointing his gun at Owen’s back.

The notes ceased. Owen froze, then turned around. “My dear friend. I really am impressed.”

Before Omar could reach him, Owen suddenly pulled out a gun and shot at Kamil.

Omar leapt onto Owen’s back and pulled him to the ground. He stamped on his wrist until the gun fell from his hand, then hit him on the head with his pistol.

Kamil lay on the floor. Captain Arif and ten of his men fanned into the room, guns out, unsure where to aim.

“Get the medical officer,” Omar bellowed. He turned to Kamil and tried to staunch the wound. “Still alive, I see. The high and mighty must be bulletproof.”

“Did you get him?” Kamil groaned.

Omar nodded toward the figure slumped beside the piano.

“Good.” Kamil struggled to rise. His jacket was soaked with blood. “Did you kill him?”

“Maybe.” Omar looked unrepentant.

As two soldiers, led by a worried-looking Captain Arif, hurried Kamil’s stretcher out of the room, he saw Omar standing over Owen’s body. The last thing he remembered was hearing Omar’s voice ordering the remaining soldiers to get out.

I
NSTEAD OF THE
reception hall, the clerk at the Ministry of Justice brought Kamil into Nizam Pasha’s private chambers. Kamil had never been there before and wasn’t sure if this change in routine was good news or bad. It might simply be that it was late in the day, and Nizam Pasha no longer had any reason to be sitting in the drafty hall.

Exhausted by pain, Kamil wore a cloak instead of his stambouline jacket, to accommodate his bandaged shoulder. The military surgeon had assured him that the bullet had gone right through the muscle and that the wound would heal cleanly, but Kamil had refused to take anything for the pain. He wanted a clear head for this interview. In life, he mused, philosophers say that the straight path is best, but they didn’t know Nizam Pasha.

The clerk ushered him into a room lined with books that had several comfortable-looking chairs and a modern desk piled with books and papers. The books were bound in soft leather and embossed in gold. A ladder used to climb to the higher reaches was propped against the shelves. Kamil stopped, assuming this was where he would be received, but the clerk urged him on through another door at the back.

They walked along a corridor, then emerged into a room in the old Ottoman style, with little ornamentation but an abundance of space and light. In the center a fountain burbled inside a small marble pool. To one side, the floor was raised to make a room within a room. The higher room was furnished with only a simple divan that stretched on three sides around a large blue and yellow silk rug. Dressed in a subdued gray robe and turban, Nizam Pasha was propped comfortably against cushions, his legs tucked under him. He was puffing on a narghile and a tiny china cup of coffee rested within arm’s reach.

Kamil struggled with one hand to take off his boots, then took the pair of finely tooled leather slippers the clerk held out. He stepped up to the room where Nizam Pasha waited, bowed deeply, and uttered the usual polite phrases.

“Sit, Magistrate, and give me your report.” Nizam Pasha snapped his fingers and told the clerk to bring Kamil coffee. He glanced at the bandage visible under Kamil’s cloak, but said nothing.

Kamil sat down on the divan opposite Nizam Pasha, grateful to be off his feet. It would have been impolite to look at his superior directly, so he directed his gaze toward Nizam Pasha’s right shoulder.

“We apprehended the thieves, Minister, and I’ve broken the connection to Europe.” He told him about Magnus Owen and his embassy export business. He detailed the many antiquities that had been recovered on the ship and in Owen’s apartment and villa, including the icon, the Ahrida Torah, the chalice, and other Byzantine valuables from the Fatih Mosque. He told him about the Rettingate shop. “The London police are raiding it as we speak. I expect we’ll get information leading to more arrests once they’ve had a look at their books. Much of the illegal trade from the empire went through this dealer’s hands.”

Kamil didn’t mention Malik’s murder. Although he was a civil servant himself, he had an instinctive distrust of bureaucrats and what they might do with information about something as potentially inflammatory as the Melisites or the Proof of God. Be loyal to the state, he thought, but trust whom you know. The Proof of God was better off in the hands of Hamdi Bey, who at least appreciated it as a rare antiquity that needed to be preserved, if not as a theological triumph or the heart of a religious sect.

Nizam Pasha listened with lowered lids, then looked directly at Kamil. “The bodies of the two Englishmen will have to be handed over to the embassy.”

Startled, Kamil said nothing, still digesting the news that Owen and Ben were dead.

Nizam Pasha appraised him. “You surprise me, Kamil.” There was a note of respect in his voice. “It’ll be a delicate matter.”

“Delicate, Minister?”

“You’ll have to explain the ears.” Nizam Pasha pulled on his narghile, his eyes intent. “Was that a joke? Why did you cut off their ears?”

At first, Kamil didn’t understand. Then, in a rush of horror, it became clear to him—Omar must have taken his revenge for Ali’s mutilation in the Tobacco Works tunnel. Omar had once mentioned, with a kind of admiration, warriors who strung up their enemies’ ears and wore them as necklaces. Kamil struggled to hide his shock from Nizam Pasha, who was watching him intently. What possible explanation could he come up with to account for such brutality that didn’t implicate Omar?

Kamil settled on a lie so close to the truth it was almost indistinguishable. “An unfortunate incident. Before we could lock them up, they were killed by a rival gang. That was the gang’s signature.”

“Good enough. The embassy will believe it.” He fixed Kamil with his gaze. It was clear that Nizam Pasha did not believe this lie.

“Yes, Minister.”

“I had mentioned that there might be an opening in the Appellate Court. I regret that this opening did not become available after all.” Nizam Pasha examined Kamil’s face for his reaction.

Kamil kept his relief to himself. “I serve the empire in whatever capacity I can,” he responded, then added quickly, “and the sultan, may Allah give him health.”

Nizam Pasha looked amused. “I think you serve him best where you are at present, perhaps better than I had expected. But the padishah’s benevolent eye is upon you. In his name, we thank you for your service.”

As Kamil stepped, pale and shaken, into the street, he had a disturbing thought. Had Omar cut off the men’s ears before or after they were dead? What was the difference between atrocity and vengeance?

K
AMIL WAS FEELING
lighthearted. The air was brisk and redolent of autumn. The chestnut trees lining the approach to Huseyin’s mansion hung limpid and golden, drawing in the light. His wound was healing, and he had in his pocket a letter from Detective Inspector Joseph Ormond.

Honored Magistrate,

Acting on the information you provided to us, CID raided Lionel Rettingate’s shop in South Kensington and went through its books, the official as well as the real ones. We were surprised at the extent of what appears to be a well-financed, sophisticated operation with global reach. We believe Magnus Owen and his associates were midlevel participants, Rettingate higher up. From your description, we believe the man Ben to have been a former East End pugilist by the name of Sam “Big Ben” Hardacre. The Rettingate shop was a central distributor for stolen antiquities. We are following a number of leads that we hope will identify the ringleaders.

Given the extensive nature of the problem, CID has created a Special Antiquities Unit which I have the honor to lead. As such, I would like to express to you our gratitude here at Scotland Yard for apprehending Owen and his associates. I understand that you were educated at Cambridge and are familiar with our small island. If you would find it useful to follow up in London yourself, CID would be pleased to welcome you and your associates. (On a personal note, I have learned you share an interest of mine in Orchidaceae.)

Your devoted servant,

Detective Inspector Joseph Ormond

Leader, Special Antiquities Unit

Criminal Investigations Division

Metropolitan Police Force

Great Scotland Yard

Hamdi Bey and Ismail Hodja were expected to lunch as well, but Kamil was early. Feride met him in the entry hall. As he kissed her cheeks, he found himself looking over her shoulder for Elif. He had seen a length of cobalt brocade in a tailor’s shop and had wondered whether she would like a vest made from it.

“Where are the girls?” he asked.

“They’re taking a nap. Now that Elif is gone, it’s so quiet here. You should bring Avi with you sometime.”

“Elif is gone?” Kamil asked, startled. “Where?”

Feride tapped his face gently with her fingertips. “Not far, brother dear. Don’t worry. She has her own apartment now in Pera. Isn’t that wonderful? I’ve just been to visit.”

“She never said anything to me,” Kamil protested, then realized how ridiculous that sounded. Why would Elif have told to him?

“It’s really lovely,” Feride prattled on. “It’s in the new Camondo family building, the one on the hill. You should see it. Her windows open right onto the sea. You could throw yourself into the blue. Oh, I’m so happy for her. Huseyin offered to pay rent, but the Camondos wouldn’t take it. They said they were proud to have such a famous artist as their guest.”

They arrived at the sitting room and Feride settled herself comfortably on the sofa. Kamil remained standing.

“How does she know the Camondos?” They were a wealthy and very distinguished Ottoman Jewish family.

“Hamdi Bey arranged it. She’s going to start teaching at the academy, and well, we are a bit far away out here in the suburbs. She needed a respectable place to live. The Camondos have taken her under their wing. She’s painting again too.” Feride’s excitement had taken on an element of wistfulness.

Kamil was speechless. Elif had leapt suddenly from Feride’s dining table into a full-blown life of her own.

Feride said, “She left something for you. I’ll go and get it.”

When she was gone, Kamil pulled out his amber beads and walked aimlessly about the room, calming himself with the rhythm of the beads as they slipped one by one through his fingers. It wasn’t like him to be set adrift by a passing swell.

Feride came back with a thin parcel and handed it to him.

“Thank you, Ferosh.” He sat and rested the parcel against the chair, intending to open it later, in private. He wished he could leave now.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Feride demanded.

It seemed somehow indecent to open it in front of Feride, yet he acknowledged that he could not focus on lunch until he did. Setting the parcel on his lap, he untied the string and removed the paper wrapping.

It was a watercolor. He recognized the image right away. “
Orchis pinetorum
,” he exclaimed. The pure white blooms flashed across the page like an arc of tiny startled birds. He felt her exhilaration there, her vulnerability. There was also a tensile strength in the arc that surprised him.

H
ALF AN HOUR
later, Ismail Hodja and Hamdi Bey arrived in the same carriage. They greeted Kamil and their hosts effusively. They seemed in excellent spirits and the conversation at lunch was lively.

“It’s too bad Elif Hanoum isn’t here,” Hamdi Bey said as the servants took away the soup bowls. “But I take full blame. She’s needed at the academy.”

Kamil listened, but ate little. His headaches had returned. He planned to ask Courtidis for more Balat Balm. He hadn’t liked the hallucinations and emotional untethering—he assumed they were side effects—but it had cured his headache, at least until Remzi hit him on the head and Owen put a bullet through his shoulder.

“The Proof of God should remain in the museum,” Hamdi Bey was saying, “where it can be copied and studied. Above all, where it can be guarded. I’ve taken a look at that flimsy prayer hall in Sunken Village. An artifact of this historical value needs to be preserved and protected. Saba Hanoum is welcome to come to the museum to look at it whenever she likes.”

Feride nodded and looked interested. Kamil had told her and Huseyin only that the Proof of God was an important sacred object and that people had tried to steal it. He wondered what they made of the conversation.

Ismail Hodja told Huseyin that Saba was keeping up the tradition of Malik’s ecumenical dawah.

“Ecumenical dawah?” Huseyin asked.

“Theological calls to discussion across religious lines,” Ismail Hodja explained, setting aside his fork. A servant whisked his plate away and replaced it with a clean one for the next course.

“I’ve taken the liberty of convening a discussion group made up of my Jewish, Muslim, and Christian colleagues, all scholars of the highest caliber. I reached out to as many denominations and sects as I could. We had our first meeting last night,” he added. Kamil could hear the excitement in the sheikh’s voice.

Huseyin was uncharacteristically silent and Kamil found himself feeling sorry for his brother-in-law, who, on this subject, was clearly out of his depth. Kamil wondered what Feride thought about her half sister being the leader of a religious sect. She had wanted to meet Saba, but Kamil wasn’t ready to let her into their lives just yet. His feelings about Saba were too confused, wrapped up in some way with that profoundly disturbing dream and his father’s betrayal.

Huseyin set to cutting up his meat with great concentration.

Hamdi Bey asked, “Will Saba Hanoum attend these meetings?”

Ismail Hodja nodded. “I asked her to come to the meeting last night. There was some resistance to having a woman in the group. But after I explained that Saba had authored some of the calls and was leader of her own sect, the others agreed that she should join us. They call her Sheikha Saba. Do you know what she told them? She said all the Prophets point in the same direction, and if we look to where they point and go there, we all end up at the same spot. Remarkable insight for someone so young.”

“What is a sheikha?” Feride asked.

“A Muslim woman who is a spiritual leader,” Ismail Hodja explained.

“I didn’t know there was such a thing,” she exclaimed.

“One of the most famous is Rabi’a al-‘Adawiyya, who lived about two hundred years after the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon his name, in the city of Basra. She was a servant of poor origin, but one night her master woke to see the light of saintliness shining about her head and illuminating the entire house. He released her and she went to live in the desert. She debated highly esteemed Sufi leaders, but outshone them all with her intellectual forthrightness and spiritual powers. It is said that one such leader, Hasan al-Basri, became envious and approached her as she was sitting on the bank of a stream with some of her followers. He threw his carpet on the water, sat on it, and called to Rabi’a to come and converse with him. Do you know what she did?”

Feride was rapt with attention. “No, what?”

“She stuck a knife in the inflated sheepskins he was using to hold the carpet up,” Huseyin suggested, eliciting a scowl from Feride.

Ismail Hodja laughed. “Excellent guess, but no. She threw her carpet up in the air, sat on it, and said, ‘Well, Hasan, come up here where people will see us better.’”

Feride laughed in delight.

“Hasan couldn’t do it, of course. And Rabi’a told him, ‘What you did, a fish can do, and what I did, a bird can do. The real work to be done lies beyond both of these.’”

“A very wise woman,” Hamdi Bey applauded.

Huseyin tore off a hunk of bread. “Thanks be to Allah, women can’t be politicians.”

They laughed.

“The Quran doesn’t forbid it, you know,” Ismail Hodja commented, his fork pausing in midair. “In verse twenty-three of the Sura of the Ants, the Queen of Sheba is described as a mighty ruler who, although she consulted with men, made all the final decisions. It is her ignorance of the true faith that is faulted, not her inability to govern.”

Feride said tentatively, “I remember something about the Prophet’s wife Aysha riding into battle on a camel.”

“And his first wife was a rich merchant, wasn’t she?” Huseyin asked. “Smart man.” He nodded approval.

Kamil leaned over to Ismail Hodja and asked softly, “Have you told this ecumenical group about the Melisites or the Proof of God?”

“Unfortunately, the world isn’t ready to become one nation,” Ismail Hodja responded. “We need to plow the ground first before we plant the seed. The Proof is safe in the museum. I go there every day to copy and study it. It’ll be my life’s work. I can’t think of anything more important. Hamdi Bey has kindly put a private room at my disposal where I can work on it undisturbed. It has to be handled with the utmost care, as you can imagine. At the moment, I’m preparing a report for the Azhar Archive. A most auspicious day, Kamil. I praise Allah that I should live to see it.”