A red-checked peshtemal towel hung around Niko’s neck, doing little to hide his barrel chest. Another covered him from waist to knees. Kamil came here every week to bathe and to suffer brilliantly under the blows of Niko’s muscled arms. This week, he was early.
Niko led Kamil into the cooling-off room and indicated a cubicle, a simple wood-paneled room with no ceiling that contained a comfortable padded bench, a wardrobe, towels, high wooden clogs, and a hamam bowl of tinned copper, indented in the center to fit the bather’s middle finger when he poured water from the basin onto his head and shoulders.
Kamil stripped. In the enclosed space, the stench of charred wool was foul. He piled his clothes in a corner and wound a towel around his waist. Then he lay on his back on the bench and looked up gratefully at the calm, blue-tiled dome above him. His head throbbed, but distantly, like a storm at sea. The voices of other men echoed about him, distorted by the marble and tile walls.
Restless, he got up and called Niko. He pointed to the pile of clothes and told him to dispose of them and to send someone to his office for new ones.
The air became increasingly dense as Kamil moved from the cooler rooms to the hot domed hall, where Niko waited with a silk-weave washcloth and a bar of olive-oil soap.
An hour later, Kamil arrived at his office freshly scrubbed and dressed.
A soft knock on the door announced Avi. “This is from Mimoza Teyze.” He held out a packet redolent with the scent of freshly baked börek.
“Thank you.” Kamil unwrapped the börek and offered a piece to Avi. “How do you like living at Chief Omar’s house?”
“Mimoza Teyze lets me help,” Avi responded. “I get to bring the water from the fountain. That’s my job,” he added proudly, taking a bite. “And the garden. I’m helping Omar Amja build winter beds. He showed me how to do it. See?” He held out his hand. The blisters had healed, but Kamil saw a new bruise. “I’m not so good with the hammer yet,” Avi said, chagrined. “But I will be.”
Kamil clapped the boy on the shoulder. “Well, you’ve done a wonderful job for us. Who knows, you might end up a police chief instead of a magistrate.” He pushed the börek in Avi’s direction. “Now eat up. The padishah expects his officials to have meat on their bones.”
After Avi left, Abdullah handed Kamil a letter. It was from Nizam Pasha, reminding him that his seven days were up and ordering him to appear at the Ministry of Justice that afternoon.
Where could Owen live, Kamil wondered, without the local muhtar, who registered everyone in the district, or the police being aware of him? The only answer was in a district of villas, konaks, and mansions like Huseyin’s. The rich kept to themselves. But they had servants, and servants gossiped. There must be a way to find out.
Abdullah announced a visitor. Tailor Pepo’s apprentice came through the door, hands clasped before him, head bowed.
“Pasha, Tailor Pepo sends his greetings. He asked me to tell you that Monsieur Owen has ordered two new shirts. He paid extra to have them made up right away.” He held out a piece of paper. “Here’s the address we delivered them to.”
Perhaps he should believe in miracles after all, Kamil thought.
There were no servants and the house appeared deserted. It was a small villa in Nishantashou, not far from Huseyin’s mansion and an easy ride to the apartment in Tarla Bashou and to the British Embassy. Surrounded by a great iron fence and set within an overgrown garden, the villa was barely visible from the street. Kamil asked a passerby if he knew who lived there, and was told that the place was empty, except for a caretaker. But no one had seen him for several months.
The gendarmes took up positions around the house. Kamil instructed Captain Arif to make sure nothing, not even a hare, got through. “We believe there’s only one man in there, an Englishman. Chief Omar and I will go in first.” He took out his revolver. “I hope he’ll come quietly. But if you hear shots, you know what to do.”
“Yes, pasha.”
Kamil and Omar circled around the back, where a carriage waited in the dusty lane.
“You can get in and out back here without anyone seeing you,” Omar remarked. “But not anymore.” He grinned. Owen wouldn’t escape again.
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.
39
Instead 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.