The Sultan's Seal (25 page)

“I understand your concern, Michel, but I am on the side of impartial justice. No matter what Hamza did, he deserved a hearing. Execution without a trial is unjust, even if he was guilty. That betrays our country and its principles as much as the radicals. You of all people—a surgeon, a scientist—you should know that.”

Michel shrugs. “Fate can be unjust.”

“Fate.” Kamil spits the word out. “Listen to you. You took this man’s fate in your own hands and crushed it. It was your doing, not the hand of Allah. In any case, Nizam Pasha will not agree,” he adds angrily. “He insists on the mechanism of the law, not telling a suspect’s fortune.”

“You’d be surprised at how open-minded Nizam Pasha can be,” Michel responds.

Kamil looks up at him, startled. How far does this conspiracy of injustice extend? he wonders.

“I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that corruption is so resistant to change. I thought by taking part in this new judicial system, we could bring fresh straw into this stable of a city, but the same things go on, the same people”—he looks directly at Michel—“fouling the ground we walk on.”

Kamil sees a flash of anger on Michel’s face as he turns on his heel, cloak sweeping at the end of his arm. Then he is gone. A loud crash brings Kamil to his feet. The orchid box lies tipped on its side, spilling pebbles over the tiles. Atop the pebbles and shredded bark and soil, a rubble of color. Kamil falls to his knees and searches frantically, finds the black orchid, and lifts it tenderly. Its bloom is unblemished, but its neck is broken.

A harsh sob emerges from his throat as he grabs his revolver and slams through the door, brushing aside Yakup, who has come running at the noise.

“Did you see where he went?” he asks Yakup.

“No, bey. I saw no one. But this message just came from Feride Hanoum.” Yakup takes a letter from his sash and hands it to him. “The messenger said to tell you she would like you to come right away.”

Kamil breaks the seal and unfolds the letter.

Dear Brother,

Baba has fallen from the balcony. He is not aware of anything, but still lives. The surgeon says he cannot feel pain. That is a blessing, but he may not be with us long. Please come right away.

A
closed carriage pulls up at the embassy gate. The gatekeeper hurries up the path, followed by a black figure in a bright white robe and large turban.

“A royal coach has come for m’lady,” the gatekeeper announces breathlessly.

The Residence guard asks Sybil whether she would like an escort.

“I think not. Thank you. I’m sure the palace has taken care of that.” She relishes visiting Stamboul homes without fanfare and a trail of armed embassy guards—a precious relic of normalcy, simply a lady invited to tea.

The eunuch bows very low, touching his palm to his forehead and chest, then waits impassively to escort Sybil to the carriage. She has not veiled, but the eunuch seems not to notice. It is not the same self-confident, broad-shouldered eunuch that had accompanied Asma Sultan before. This man is tall and wiry, with a lined face the color of smoke and long, powerful hands. He does not speak or look at her, although Sybil has the feeling it is not out of respect, but aversion.

Servants and guards cluster at the doors and windows, whispering. Most have never seen a black eunuch except at a distance, when on horseback, escorting the carriages of royal ladies.

Sybil follows the eunuch to a carriage elaborately decorated with painted flowers. It is not the usual bulky conveyance that seats four or five harem ladies at once, but a sleek, smaller model designed for speed. The eunuch helps her up the steps, his hand black against her sleeve. When she has settled among the velvet cushions, he pulls a sheer curtain across the windows so she can look out without anyone seeing in and barks a command at the driver. He mounts a white stallion, its saddle embroidered with thread of gold and studded with rubies and emeralds. A long curved sword is cradled in his arm. She notes with surprise that there is no retinue, but supposes the armed eunuch is sufficient for an informal outing.

The carriage winds down the hill, then turns north on the shore road, picking up speed. Before long, they pass the entrance to Dolmabahche Palace. After that, the road winds inland through forested areas and then skirts villages built around inlets and coves. The closed carriage is hot and increasingly uncomfortable as the sun rises in the sky. The road has become a track and Sybil is jarred back and forth. She has forgotten the tedium of the trip to the summer villas. It has been many years since she last accompanied her mother to the British residence at Tarabya, although they had gone more comfortably by boat. She wishes she could fling back the curtain. The sheer cloth provides a narrow, blurred vantage on the landscape racing by and blocks the air. The velvet cushions stick to her sweat-drenched back.

She begins to worry that it was a mistake to accept this invitation. She will be able to stay only a short while in order to be back in time for tonight’s dinner. Even if Kamil were not coming, she would still have to return in time to eat with her father. It has become their ritual to eat together. He becomes agitated when rituals are not carried out. Perhaps Kamil is right that I am too precipitous, she thinks, then chides herself for her lack of spirit. Maitlin, she concludes, would have done this without cudgeling herself with self-doubt.

Three long hours later, the carriage turns off the road. Sybil peeks out between the curtains and sees a white villa, a fairy-tale house of pitched roofs, lacelike trim, ornate turrets, balconies, and patios. The eunuch draws back the curtains and unlatches the door. She ignores his hand and climbs out of the carriage clumsily, her legs stiff from immobility. The eunuch moves to the end of the drive and waits. Sybil doesn’t follow right away, but instead stands with eyes closed, breathing the scent of pine and sea and sun-warmed wood. She realizes that she feels happy and optimistic about life when she leaves the Residence grounds. She thinks how lovely it would be to live in such a house, a smaller one, of course, but overlooking the water, with Kamil. He had said his house was set in a garden by the Bosphorus, had he not?

Cheered by this thought, she looks around for a servant. She has brought a gift of realistic-looking wax flowers under glass, the latest fashion in England. The grounds appear deserted. Sybil points to the large box in the carriage. The eunuch picks it up and she follows him into the house. Behind her, the traces jangle as the driver turns the carriage.

K
amil strokes his father’s motionless hand. He seems unhurt, the wound on his head hidden by the pillow, his broken limbs under the comforter. The comforter moves up and down slowly, irregularly, with the old man’s breath. His face is puffy, eyes closed.

“He looks like he’s sleeping,” Feride says in a voice hoarse from weeping. “As if he’ll wake up at any moment.”

“You said the maid saw him climb over the railing?” Kamil is empty of all emotion, but he is aware that this is a temporary state, a putting off of the final reckoning.

“She said he was smiling and reaching out to someone. Maybe he thought he was going to Mama?”

“Yes, perhaps that’s where he went.”

“They’ll be together soon. That’s what he wanted more than anything else.” Feride bows her head over her father’s chest. “Baba.” She stiffens. “Baba?”

The comforter is unnaturally still. The pasha’s features have been sharpened by death, but the faint imprint of a smile remains, a footprint on the farthest shore of a man’s life.

Feride begins to wail.

Kamil is silent, the storm still building in his chest. He puts his arm around Feride and holds her.

“Oh, what have we done?” she cries out. The question pierces Kamil and he begins to shake.

“Don’t, my dear sister. There is no blame. We only wanted to help him live again.”

“We’ve killed him,” she wails. “We wanted him to be there for us, to be a normal family again. It was selfish of us. We should have allowed him his dreams.”

“Yes,” Kamil concedes sadly. “People should be allowed their dreams.”

A
N HOUR LATER
, Kamil is galloping around the steep curves winding up the wooded hill to Robert College. Great oaks and sycamores obscure the sky and cast a green pall over the road as if it were underwater.

At the parade ground at the top of the hill, he flags down a young man and asks where the teachers live. He spurs his horse and, before long, is pounding on the door of a Victorian clapboard house set at the edge of the forest.

When Bernie answers the door, it takes Kamil a moment to recognize him. He is wearing glasses.

“Why, hello, there,” he says, taking off his glasses. His hair is uncombed and he is wearing an old shirt and trousers with sagging knees. “You’re not seeing me at my best, but do come in.”

Kamil pushes past him. In the sparsely furnished living room, he turns and says, “What do you know about Michel Sevy? You know him, don’t you? You recognized his name this afternoon.”

“What’s gotten into you?” Then, looking more closely at Kamil in the lamplight, Bernie sits on the sofa arm and asks, “What’s happened?”

“They’ve executed Hamza.” He doesn’t mention his father. The memory is too raw to touch.

“What? But you haven’t even held a trial yet.”

“I know. It was done without my knowledge. By Michel Sevy.”

“Damnation.” Bernie looks up at Kamil, who is still standing in the middle of the room, hands on his waist. He takes a deep breath. “Kamil, my friend, sit down and let me get you something to drink.”

“I don’t want…” Kamil is still shaking with rage and with regret.

Bernie gets up and waves his hand. “Just sit. I’ll tell you everything you need to know. But first you have to calm down.”

When Bernie returns with two tumblers of scotch, Kamil seems calmer, but his nerves have simply welded into an iron resolve. He takes the glass from Bernie, but doesn’t drink. He puts it on the table too hard, liquid spilling onto some papers lying there. Bernie rushes over and dabs at the papers with a handkerchief.

“My new book.” He smiles sheepishly. Then, catching Kamil’s intensely focused gaze, he turns a chair around and sits.

“Michel is a police surgeon?”

“Yes, you know that,” Kamil snaps. He stands and moves toward Bernie. “Either you tell me who he is or I’ll shake it out of you.”

“Hey, hey, my friend. No need for violence. It’s too late now, anyway, for poor Hamza.”

“You knew
him
too?”

“Yes. Look, can I trust you not to pass this on to your superiors?”

“No.” Kamil is still standing, one hand flipping his chain of beads back and forth in a steady rhythm. He is breathing heavily.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. What on earth has happened to get you all in a lather like this?” He holds out a cigarette.

Kamil shakes his head impatiently.

Bernie sighs. “You’ll need more than a cigarette to digest this news. Why don’t you take a swig of your scotch?”

“Just talk.”

“All right, then. But in the name of friendship—we
are
still friends, right?—I beg you to keep this just between us.”

“I’d like to hear it first.” He doesn’t deny, nor does he acknowledge, the friendship. At this moment, it is irrelevant.

Bernie crosses his legs, then uncrosses them and leans forward, the scotch glass forgotten in his hand.

“All right. I do hope you have enough sense, after hearing this, to keep it to yourself. Eight years ago, Hamza was part of a group trying to engineer a coup against the sultan with British help. The sultan had just disbanded the parliament, so there were a lot of angry reformists, even in his own nest. Prince Ziya was one of them. He put the Brits in touch with someone in the palace. Hannah was the go-between, with Hamza receiving the information outside the palace and passing it on.”

“How do you know all this?”

Bernie does not answer right away. He gets up and paces the room as if looking for a way out, drawing deeply on his cigarette. His other hand still holds the glass of scotch. Finally, he stops before Kamil and gives him a long look.

“You’re my friend, Kamil. I don’t want you any deeper in this shit. You’re already up to your shirt collar in it.”

“Are you involved in this?” Kamil asks sadly.

“Well, not precisely.”

Bernie and Kamil stand tensely facing one another. Kamil’s beads flip back and forth in a staccato.

“I need your assurance that this stays between us.”

Kamil meets his eye. “I cannot give you such assurance.”

Bernie sits suddenly on the chair. “Oh, what the hell,” he mutters angrily. “I’m sick and tired of this skulking around. For what? So more people can get killed? I was shanghaied into this and I’m damned ready to get out.”

“Into what?”

Bernie squints up at Kamil and says, “British Foreign Service.”

“What? You? You’re American.”

“Good disguise, eh? Well, yes, I am American, but one of my relatives in England is in the Foreign Ministry—Sybil’s brother-in-law, actually. They thought I would be less obvious. Who’d suspect an American of anything more than rudeness and bad taste?”

Kamil doesn’t smile, but pulls over a chair and sits. “Go on.” The puzzle of the case is calming him, as if each piece he puts together redeems a piece of his shattered life.

“Hamza was having an affair with Hannah. Our correspondent in the palace had the pendant made and Hamza gave it to Hannah as a gift. If someone inside wanted to communicate with him, they’d wait until she took it off, put a note in it, and she’d carry it out when she met Hamza. It was cleverly designed. You needed a key, but the lock was invisible unless you knew it was there. She probably didn’t even know it could be opened. We used it to schedule our operation.”

“And the Chinese—that was your contribution?”

“No. Our contact inside the palace came up with it. He has some kind of interest in China and copied out the characters, although not perfectly. It’s why they called me in on this. I can read the characters. I puzzled over why that particular poem, but I can’t figure it out, other than the possible connection to the revolutionary, Kung. It probably has a personal meaning to whoever sent it from the palace.”

“Who is it?”

“We never found out. Even Hamza didn’t know. The messages went in through the harem, but we don’t know who sent them out. We’ve always assumed it was Ali Arslan Pasha, the current grand vizier. The top women in that part of the harem where Hannah worked were related to him.

“So you used Hannah.”

“Yes, although we never thought any harm would come to her.”

“What Hamza did was harmful.”

“You mean, sleep with her or whatever they did in that pavilion? That was his business. Anyway, he was a free man. We had no say about what he did or didn’t do.”

“Did he kill her?”

“I don’t see it,” Bernie says thoughtfully. “There was no reason to. He seemed like a pretty good guy. I think he genuinely cared for Hannah. I’m not sure what motivated him, whether it was patriotism or something else. He did seem to honestly believe in modernizing the empire, but there was a real bitterness about it, like there was something personal in it for him, so I just don’t know.” Bernie throws up his hands. “Anyway, around that time everything went to the dogs.”

“What do you mean?”

“Someone was on to us and spilled the beans. The secret police moved in. They got Prince Ziya. Killed him in Paris. I guess to warn off anyone else thinking of bucking the sultan. Then Hannah turned up dead. We never figured out how they found out about Hannah—who ratted. Anyway, I got out fast, so did Hamza. He had a driver, that Shimshek Devora, who must have known about all this too, but someone finally found him and shut him up for good. We always assumed the secret police were responsible for Hannah’s death. I guess probably Mary’s too—then framed Hamza for it. That would be typical. Two birds with one stone. Hamza comes back from exile years later and—boom—they use Mary to bait their trap. The secret police have long memories. They keep files on everything. Your government must have warehouses full of secret reports. Maybe that’s why they have to keep building new palaces. They get pushed out by all that accumulated paper.”

“What does any of this have to do with Michel?”

“Remember that night we went out on the town and that dog almost had me for dinner? That animal belonged to your associate Michel Sevy.”

“How do you know that?”

“I saw him duck down an alley after I shot the dog. I recognized him. I have to admit, I was pretty surprised when you told me the name of your associate. I paid his office a little visit and, sure enough, it was the same guy on our tail eight years ago. Michel Sevy. The Chameleon, we called him. He didn’t even bother to change his name.

He doesn’t work for you or for the police. He’s one of the sultan’s own. I reckon he didn’t like me snooping around.”

“That’s outlandish. Michel in the secret police?”

“Why not? Did you have anything to lead you to Hamza until Michel laid it all in your lap?”

“No. Most of the clues led in other directions.”

“I remember you had a gut feeling that something wasn’t right. Ask him yourself how he knew about Hamza.”

“I did. He said he was having Hamza watched. He withheld evidence from me. But he didn’t explain why.”

“So now you know. Whether or not Hamza killed those women, he was going to hang for it because it let the secret police nail him as a traitor. I don’t know why they didn’t just shoot him on a dark night and get it over with the minute he stepped back in the country. Although that would have killed any chance they had of finding out who his contact in the palace was.”

Kamil jumps up from his chair, fists clenched, knocking his glass to the floor. “We’re a civilized country, Bernie,” he shouts. “We have a judicial system. We don’t just gun down people in the street like in America.”

Bernie laughs. “That’s what you’d like to believe, my friend. It’s very unlike you to disregard all the evidence.” He flings away the stub of his cigarette, which has burned out between his fingers. “Just listen to yourself. Like a preacher with a rod stuck up his ass.”

Kamil takes a step in his direction. “How dare you!”

“Hey, hey, now. Whoah.” Bernie stands up and backs away, hands held defensively before him. “What the hell is the matter with you today?”

Kamil’s face twists grotesquely with the effort to contain his emotions. He is weeping, he knows—he can feel the wetness on his cheeks—but is powerless to stop.

Bernie seems stunned. “Kamil, old buddy. Calm down now. Obviously I don’t have the whole story. Something’s happened. Now, why don’t you sit down over there?” He points at the sofa. Kamil doesn’t move. “I’ll be right back.” He edges carefully toward the door.

Kamil can hear the creak of a cabinet opening, then the muffled clank and splash of a metal scoop descending into a clay jar of drinking water. Bernie returns a moment later, carrying a glass of water. Kamil is sitting on the edge of the sofa, head in his hands.

Bernie pushes the glass within reach on the side table and pulls a chair over to sit in front of Kamil. He waits quietly until Kamil raises his head, then hands him the water.

“Sybil told me you like a drink of water to calm the jitters,” he admits bashfully.

Kamil takes a sip, then another. He sits back and closes his eyes for a few moments. When his breathing is back to normal, he asks Bernie for a cigarette. They sit for a while in silence, smoking. Bernie sips at his scotch.

Kamil is the first to speak. He wants to tell Bernie about his father, but doesn’t.

“If Hamza didn’t kill those women, who did?” His voice retains a small tremor, but he feels himself gaining strength. He will tell Bernie about his father later, when he has command over himself again.

“Michel is a foot soldier. It could have been him or someone like him. They found out about Hannah, so she was a target. Maybe they thought she could tell them who the traitor in the palace was. That’s what they’re really after. The shark in the sultan’s pool. But she didn’t know, so she had nothing to tell them. None of us knew.” He looks away. “I hope she didn’t suffer too much. She was a nice girl.” A sip of scotch. “They probably would have killed her anyway.”

“The silken cord. It was a warning to the plotters.”

“What’s that?”

“She was strangled with a silken cord, the traditional method of executing members of the royal family.”

“I thought she drowned.”

“She was strangled first.”

Bernie wants to ask more, but decides he would rather live with a question than an answer. They sit together in silence, each weighing the burden of his own thoughts.