Except where the streets narrowed, they walked their horses side by side. Pedestrians, peddlers and their carts, and the ubiquitous cats scattered before them. As they rode, Kamil filled Omar in on the rash of thefts and the way antiquities were appearing in Europe within weeks of being stolen. “This has to be an organized ring. For such a fast delivery system, they must have very good connections.”
Omar nodded thoughtfully. “Not the usual family business then, although you’d be surprised how clever and connected some of these people are. I’ve heard rumors, though, about a new dealer who pays so much that he’s driving the old-timers out of business. Unless they sell to him, of course. They call him Kubalou. That’s all I know.”
Kamil’s mind began to sort new possibilities. “He’s Cuban?”
“That’s what they say. I’ve never seen him. For that matter, I couldn’t tell a Cuban from a cantaloupe. He speaks English, does everything through middlemen so nothing leads back to him. Maybe that’s what the killings are about. As you said, a turf war, but between the dealers, not the thieves. Kubalou’s gang against the old families.”
“It’s the extent of the operation that puzzles me. It’s on an entirely different scale from anything we’ve seen before, things disappearing all over the empire and ending up in London. We tracked some items stolen in Bursa and Edirne to Istanbul, so it looks like the smuggling routes converge here. If we could find the Kariye thief, he might lead us to the next level up in the hierarchy. It seems unlikely that one man could be behind something as elaborate as this.” He guided his horse around a cart piled with apples that was blocking the lane. “All of these antiquities should be put in the Imperial Museum for safekeeping,” he grumbled.
“I agree. But that would have been like throwing chickens to the foxes when all the museum directors were European.”
“Well, Hamdi Bey is head of the museum now,” Kamil responded. “And we have an antiquities law.”
“So we have teeth but nothing to bite.”
The road climbed upward. After a while, they passed a shade-dappled fountain and emerged into a small square that was dominated by a perfectly proportioned Byzantine church, its domes rising softly above the portico. It was now a mosque, of course, but after seeing the decay of the streets leading up to it, Kamil was touched by its survival. A teardrop-shaped ornament capped its minaret and a patchwork of tile-roofed houses unfurled behind it like a cloak.
The classic imperial mosques built by master Ottoman architects like Sinan were more majestic by far, but to Kamil’s eye, the former churches had a sturdy charm. Some people might find his admiration for Christian architecture suspect, but he didn’t care. He had tried to believe in something beyond this world, especially after his father committed suicide the previous year. Blaming himself, Kamil had been plagued by nightmares and headaches. Ismail Hodja had encouraged him to meditate on Allah’s presence in the world and he had done so, sitting in the Nakshibendi order’s lodge high on a hill in Beshiktash, allowing the soothing poetry and prayer to penetrate him. At least the nightmares had faded. But the pretense of faith was too hard to keep up and he had sought his natural direction, as always, in science and rational thought, in the straight line of understanding rather than the straight path of Allah. Reason and routine didn’t bring solace, but they brought some measure of peace, the kind of peace that came when one ceased to struggle. That was almost the solace of faith, he thought, though it did nothing to ease his headaches.
“That’s Kariye Mosque,” Omar explained. “The imam lives over there. We’d better let him know we’re here.”
They dismounted before a small, whitewashed cottage. Omar raised the knocker and let it fall. After a few moments, the imam, a skinny man with a stained yellow beard and hastily wound turban, opened the door, squinting against the light.
“This is the magistrate,” Omar announced without preamble. “He’s here about the theft.”
The imam blinked nervously at Kamil. “It wasn’t my fault,” he stammered. “That’s the caretaker’s responsibility. Ask Malik.” He started to close the door, but Omar leaned his shoulder against it.
Kamil noted that the imam’s teeth had rotted to brown stubs and wondered whether the old man was in pain. That would explain the medicine bottle found in the storeroom. “Hodjam,” he said, addressing him as teacher, “I’d like to take a look at the room where the theft occurred.”
“Oh, of course.” The imam appeared relieved and smiled ingratiatingly. “Omar, you know where Malik is. Get him to unlock the door for you. I haven’t finished my prayers.”
Nothing sweetened a man like respect, Kamil thought.
As Kamil and Omar approached the mosque, a tall, dark-complexioned man with a white beard rounded the corner. He was wearing a white turban and a brown wool robe fastened by a silver pin of intricate design. As he approached, his broad shoulders dipped with each step and his right foot dragged slightly. Beside him walked a slight figure in an apple-green charshaf.
Malik smiled broadly. “Kamil, my friend, it’s good to see you again. How are you?” He took hold of Kamil’s shoulders.
“I’m well, Malik. I’m well.” Kamil was enormously pleased to see his friend.
The woman beside Malik held her veil pinched shut beneath her nose so that it framed her eyes, which were green and held the light like liquid. They were trained curiously on Kamil.
“This is my niece, Saba,” Malik explained. “She’s one of my best pupils. Saba, this is Kamil Pasha, magistrate of Lower Beyoglu,” Malik told her in a meaningful tone, then leaned over and said something to her that Kamil didn’t catch. There were undertones in their exchange that he found vaguely disquieting, and he had the feeling that this meeting had been prearranged.
Saba looked up at him and stepped closer. “My uncle has told me about you, Kamil Pasha.” Her voice had the melodious resonance of a clarinet, sweet and tenacious.
Kamil placed his hand over his heart and bowed his head in greeting. “Selam aleikum, peace be upon you.”
“Aleikum selam, upon you be peace, pasha. I’m glad to finally have the honor of meeting you.” Her eyes tilted slightly upward. Kamil fancied that they flashed with interest before she lowered them modestly.
“We’d be honored if you would visit our humble home, Kamil Pasha,” she told him, then took her leave.
They watched the tiny green figure move off down the street and disappear around the fountain.
“A remarkable young woman,” Malik said to no one in particular.
Kamil was tempted to take this as an invitation to ask about her, but decided it would be indiscreet.
“My family lives over in Sunken Village,” Malik said.
“Omar was telling me the village is mostly Habesh.”
“There are about forty families. We make a living selling produce from our gardens.”
“And smuggling,” Omar interjected.
Malik looked at him reprovingly. “That’s just gossip.”
“Come on, Malik. Everyone knows that. I hear your sister, Balkis, is quite well-off. There’s no way she got rich selling vegetables.”
Malik frowned. “Her husband passed away and left her well cared for. Why do you always kick over rocks looking for scorpions? Sometimes a rock is just a rock and covers nothing but plain soil.”
“The soil in this part of town is rich with manure,” Omar retorted.
Kamil wondered at the relationship between the mild old man and the gruff police chief. They quarreled like an old married couple.