“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?
40
A Month Later
Kamil 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.