Yorg Pasha picked up the rifle and examined it carefully, then took a magnifying glass from a drawer and peered at the serial numbers. “Standard forty-five-caliber Peabody-Martini rifle from the Providence Tool Company in the United States.” He sniffed the barrel. “This has been fired, but not recently.”
“All the guns appear to be used. It’s a British-owned ship, but the captain is Alexandrian and claims he had no idea he was carrying guns. They were in barrels, supposedly salted fish.” The captain and crew were now guests of Police Chief Omar Loutfi in the Fatih district jail. If they knew anything, Kamil was sure Omar would find it out.
Yorg Pasha placed the rifle gently on the table. “Where was the ship coming from?”
“Malta via Cyprus. Before that, the manifest says New York.”
“These probably were loaded at New York. They don’t salt fish on Malta, not in these quantities.” Yorg Pasha rumbled a laugh.
Kamil thought back to the British ambassador’s denial that morning. He had seemed sincere enough, even shocked when Kamil told him how many guns were involved, more than a thousand. But it was typical of the British to vow support for the Ottoman Empire while undermining it. British ships had delivered Martini rifles to the Iraqi Bedouin by way of Kuwait, ostensibly to protect them against tribal disputes. They had given gifts of guns to tribal sheikhs and the heads of dervish convents around the Arabian Gulf. Now those rifles were trained against the Ottoman Sixth Army. No, Kamil didn’t rule out British meddling, even if the guns had originated in the United States. But who were the British supporting and why Istanbul? Perhaps the guns were meant to be moved elsewhere.
“I suppose the British could have bought them in New York. Who in the United States would have a reason to ship illegal weapons to Istanbul?”
Yorg Pasha didn’t answer. Kamil thought he looked worried. Despite his affection for the aging pasha, Kamil didn’t trust him. He was the unseen middleman in procuring many of the Ottoman Army’s weapons, but Kamil had heard of problems, jammed mechanisms, rotted stocks. Nothing was ever traceable back to the pasha himself.
After a few moments, Yorg Pasha said, “You have a difficult job ahead of you, my son. I wish I could help you, but I can’t. The empire’s enemies are countless. You know that. Armenians, Greeks, Russians, the British, the French, Young Turks sitting in the Porte, plotting to reinstate the parliament. They all have support abroad, and all could use a shipment of guns.” He regarded Kamil for a moment with an affectionate smile, then reached across the table and rested his hand on his arm. “Come and visit me again soon and tell me how your investigation is going.” He pushed himself to his feet. Simon hovered nearby, not quite touching the pasha’s elbow as he followed him from the room.
Yorg Pasha’s labored breathing reminded Kamil of his father, and he felt his heart contract. His parents were dead, and soon all the people who had known them best would be gone, erasing their presence in the world even further. He sat for a few moments, pulling his mind back to his work, and tried to parse what the pasha had said. He knew from experience that Yorg Pasha never spoke idly. A group with foreign support needed a shipment of guns to plot against the empire. That much was obvious. But which group? The pasha had said he wanted to help Kamil but couldn’t. Did that mean Yorg Pasha was involved in the shipment? The thought saddened Kamil. The guns could have cost many lives. But Yorg Pasha had invited Kamil to return, and that Kamil resolved to do.
After a servant brought his horse, Kamil rode uphill toward the suburb of Nishantashou, where his brother-in-law lived. Huseyin worked at Yildiz Palace and had the ear of Sultan Abdulhamid. He would have heard if there was a revolution afoot in Istanbul. Kamil didn’t know Huseyin’s exact function at the palace, but his brother-in-law always seemed to have his finger on the pulse of information.
3
“Can’t you paint us one at a time?” Huseyin asked irritably, catching his eight-year-old daughter Alev’s arm as she tried to rise from the sofa. “Stay here, my girl.”
“I’m bored,” Alev sighed, pulling at her lace collar.
“Me too,” her twin sister, Yasemin, chimed in, squirming against her mother, Feride. The girls wore matching dresses, their red hair gathered in satin bows. Feride was elegant in a white gown, a square of silk draped across her hair and pinned in place by a jeweled comb. Her face was long and pale with the cool repose of marble, her features finely chiseled, and her eyes the color of dark jade. When she looked at her husband and daughters, her eyes betrayed a fragility, as if she didn’t quite believe they were real. She embraced Yasemin and leaned across to lay a steadying hand on Alev’s knee, causing her to sigh crossly. Feride gave the artist a pleading look. “Can’t we take a break, Elif?”
“One more moment.” Elif bent closer to the easel, her blond hair falling forward and brushing her cheek. Her features were suspended in concentration, like a sculpture in bronze, revealing an unexpected immobility, possibly a hardness beneath her delicate beauty. Elif had sought refuge with her cousin Huseyin the previous year. An artist whose career had been cut short by marriage and the war in Macedonia, she had begun to paint again, but only landscapes, evocations of light and color, sea and sky. This was the first time she was attempting to capture people since her flight, since she had sketched her five-year-old son’s death mask by the side of the road with charcoal and the boy’s blood.
She stepped back from her easel and her expression eased. “There. You can all go now. I’ve done a sketch, so I won’t need you together as a group anymore. From now on, I’ll do individual portraits.”
“Better paint the girls while they’re sleeping,” Huseyin suggested, drawing both of his daughters onto his lap, where they leaned contentedly against his chest. Yasemin idly fingered the gold and diamond medallion that hung from a ribbon around his neck.
Alev broke free of her father’s embrace and sped across the room. “Uncle Kamil.”
“Wouldn’t it be simpler to have a photograph taken, brother-in-law?” Kamil asked with a laugh, bending down to embrace his niece.
“That advice would put all of us artists out of work,” Elif retorted. She didn’t look at him, but Kamil could have sworn the color rose in her face. She wore a cherry-colored tunic over wide pants, the eclectic, half masculine-half feminine style she had developed since arriving in Istanbul dressed as a man to aid her flight. Her golden hair was cut short as a boy’s and unadorned.
“A photographer would give me a portrait of the family I actually have instead of the glorious creation Elif is painting. Every one of us will be gorgeous. Especially my wife.” Huseyin reached over and tried to draw Feride onto his now-empty lap. Embarrassed, she struggled to get away. Huseyin planted a kiss on her cheek and let her go with a pat on her behind.
“Huseyin,” she scolded, her face red. Kamil thought she looked secretly pleased and wondered at the unfathomable mysteries of married lives.
Feride took a closer look at her brother and frowned. “You look as though you were in a brawl at the opera.”
He laughed. “Close enough. I was called from a formal reception last night to look into a case.”
“And I’ll bet you haven’t slept or eaten, my dear. Dinner will be ready in just a few moments.” Feride signaled the girls’ governess to take them to change their clothes.
Elif smiled at Kamil, then busied herself with her paintbrushes and easel.
“Can I help you carry these things?” Kamil and Elif had become close after her arrival. She had trusted him enough to confide the story of the deaths of her husband and son. He had tried to let her know how much he cared for her, but she had disappeared from his life into one of her own. This was the first time he had seen her in months.
“It’s good to see you,” Elif said, her voice low in her throat.