“How did you know the note was from him?”
“I recognized his hand. Or…I thought I did.”
“So someone happened to find him alone in the graveyard, waiting for you, and decided to rob him?”
“No,” Amida groaned. “No, I don’t think that’s what it was. I saw his back.” He held out his wounded arm. “It was the same.”
Kamil could see him struggling for control and, despite his outrage at Amida’s despicable behavior, he felt sorry for the young man. Omar hadn’t seen the joyous smile on Bilal’s face before he noticed Kamil coming through Amida’s door. Bilal and Amida had been close, and Amida was grieving. Just as others might be grieving now over Elif, Kamil reminded himself, if they hadn’t managed to escape from the tunnel.
“You think this is Kubalou sending you his calling card?”
“That bastard Remzi killed him.”
“That must upset you.”
Amida shrugged, but the skin around his mouth twitched. “He helped me at the monastery.” He turned to Balkis. “You have no idea what goes on there. The monks…Bilal took my place so I wouldn’t have to.” He couldn’t continue. “I owed him better than this. I promised I’d take him to Paris,” he sobbed.
The room was silent as they absorbed what Amida had revealed. Kamil couldn’t imagine the dapper Owen killing and maiming anyone, and wondered whether he was aware of the brutality engaged in by his hirelings. Still, Owen must have had a sense of what Remzi was capable of, and Kamil had witnessed the veiled threats Owen had made to Amida beneath the Galata Tower.
Kamil gave Amida’s reserve a last push. “Tell us what happened the night of Malik’s murder,” he prompted.
Amida stood with his back to the wall, away from the window. His eyes flitted about the room as if his tormentor might appear at any moment.
“Remzi told me Kubalou wanted him to search Malik’s house for the Proof of God, so I thought of a ruse to get Malik out that night. I unlocked the mosque door and then went to Malik and told him there was a thief in the building. I left the scepter there to make the story believable and to keep him occupied working out how it had gotton there. I thought he’d take it back to the village and that would give us at least an hour to search his house. I waited for Remzi, but no one showed up, so I left.”
“You didn’t think to go and look for Uncle Malik?” Saba demanded.
“I didn’t know anything would happen,” Amida answered in a subdued voice.
Saba sat on the divan beside her mother, her expression hard. Balkis was hunched over. Kamil thought she looked broken. What must it feel like for a mother to discover her son was involved in murdering her own brother?
“Why did you take Malik’s pin, then?” Kamil asked.
Amida didn’t answer.
“Did you go back to the mosque?”
“Yes,” Amida whispered.
“You didn’t look inside?”
“It was dark. I thought Malik had gone to return the scepter.”
“And forgotten to lock the door? Was your uncle usually that forgetful?”
“No.” He looked at Kamil with a strangled expression.
“The pin?” Kamil asked again. “Did you go into Malik’s house again?”
“I was worried about him.”
They waited. No one looked at Amida.
“You knew, didn’t you?” Kamil asked softly. The stupid boy, unable to face what he had done. Whatever compassion Kamil had had for Amida was gone.
“Malik wasn’t there, so I took some things to make it look like it was a robbery.”
Saba walked up to her brother and slapped him on the face. “You didn’t even check to see if he was still alive, you bastard.”
Amida dropped to his knees before Balkis. “Mother, you believe me, don’t you? I swear to you, I didn’t kill him. Why would I do that?” He began to cry in small, sharp gasps. “I didn’t do anything.”
Balkis nodded and let her hand rest in his hair, too exhausted to respond.
Kamil turned in disgust and left. Omar hesitated, then followed.
When they were outside, Omar asked, “Aren’t we going to arrest him?”
“He’s more use to us as a decoy right now.” Kamil responded. “We need a hare to attract the hound.”
Without another word, they hurried toward Amida’s cottage. Omar led him into the bedroom and flung his arms out. “Want to guess?”
“No.”
Omar walked over to the wall beside the bed and gave it a push. A panel swung aside revealing crumbling stone stairs leading down into darkness. Kamil grabbed a lamp and stepped inside.
Their feet crunched on debris. Unlike the others, this tunnel was dry. Instead of damp and mold, dust and the fetid smell of rat droppings clogged their noses and mouths. It felt airless and very hot. Kamil began to sweat. Omar tramped ahead, just inside the circle of light, treading on his own shadow. After about thirty minutes, they came to a wall of rubble that blocked the tunnel, the wall in which Ali had been entombed on the other side.
Kamil stopped, but Omar kept walking, right up to the wall, and began to haul the stones down, one after another. After a moment, Kamil joined him. They worked until they had excavated a hole big enough to crawl through. On the other side was utter darkness.
32
The messenger was waiting for them at Fatih station. The note was from Battles, asking Kamil to come immediately to the Customs House at Karaköy. Abdullah had taken the initiative to send a messenger to look for him. Perhaps he had underestimated Abdullah, Kamil thought, as he washed the grime from his face and hands.
A visibly distraught Battles met Kamil and Omar at the door to the customs building. He led them around a crowd of disembarking passengers, past scarlet-coated British guards, to a dock where a large black and red steamer was being loaded. A line of smoke trickled upward from its fat chimney.
Battles took them down into the hold, which was piled high with sacks and bundles. These were bound with thick twine, the ends of which were encased in fragments of lead into which had been impressed the official seal. Several large trunks stood open, their seals broken. The air was dank and musty. Oil lamps hung from the low ceiling, their flames burning fitfully, as if gasping for air.
“He’s been using the diplomatic pouch to send whole trunkloads back to England,” Battles exclaimed, drawing his hand across his streaks of hair and setting them adrift. “He’s been doing it for months. Delivered them right to the docks and told the staff it was official embassy post. He had the seals, so no one questioned him. Take a look at this.” He led them to one of the open trunks. It was crammed with objects hastily flung together, a tangle of religious objects, jewelry, and coins.
“Where the devil did he get all this stuff?” Battles huffed. “If you hadn’t asked me to look into Owen’s shipments, we’d never have caught on.” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his sweating forehead. “How did you know?”
Kamil was busy examining the contents of the hold and didn’t answer.
On two of the chests, Kamil found tags with the address: Mr. Lionel Rettingate, 58 Smythe Street, Kensington. He called Omar over to show him. “Scotland Yard will love this. Here’s the proof they need to shut down the other end of this business.” The seal was impressed with the initials VR. Did Lionel Rettingate have a brother? Kamil checked the other trunks, then the sacks. All the seals had the initials VR on them, regardless of address.
“Whose initials are these?” he asked Battles.
Battles looked shocked. “Victoria Regina, of course,” he spluttered. “Queen Victoria.”
“Naturally.” Feeling slightly foolish, Kamil leaned into the first trunk addressed to Rettingate and went through the contents more carefully, then did the same with the second. Omar busied himself with slicing open the sacks, ignoring Battles’s distress. Kamil thought Omar was enjoying himself.
After a few minutes, Kamil plucked out a diamond-studded chalice and held it up for Omar to see. “Fatih Mosque,” he announced with enormous satisfaction.