The Abyssinian Proof: A Kamil Pasha Novel (Kamil Pasha Novels) Read online

  He fell into his chair in exasperation and noticed Avi standing inside the door.

  “Ah, you’re well again. I see my sister has released you back to me.” He flung out his hands. “But you find me pursuing the same case. What is it they say? ‘The church is dark, the letters in the holy book are small, the priest is blind, the congregation is deaf, so what good is shouting?’”

  Avi approached Kamil’s desk. “There’s another saying, bey. ‘However high the mountain, a road goes over it.’”

  “Well said. So let’s find that road, shall we? I’ll lay out the landscape like the blind priest and you can tell me what you see.” He took out a piece of paper and began to write down what he knew, separating the wheat from the chaff, as he put it to Avi, the true from the derivative. There were only two important questions: Why kill and who controls the flow of antiquities into Europe?

  Underneath the first question, “Why kill?,” Kamil placed Malik’s name and, beside it, “Proof of God.” Next he wrote the names of the three policemen, including Ali, and beside them “criminal arrogance” and Remzi’s name.

  Under “antiquities,” he wrote Kubalou and Amida. It was hard to imagine Balkis running a smuggling ring, but both Omar’s and Malik’s words pointed in that direction, so he finally added her name. Then he drew an arrow between Amida and Remzi—Remzi was involved in both the murder of the policemen and the antiquities gang. He underlined Kubalou.

  Next to Malik’s name he wrote “wings.” Suddenly he remembered the feather on the woman’s back in his dream the night before, and the feeling of unease intensified. It had seemed so real. He wrote “Habesh, Wings, Proof of God.” He thought for a moment, then added “drugs” and the name Courtidis.

  Avi watched, fascinated, as the chart took form. “What is the Proof of God?”

  Kamil hesitated. “A box of very special papers. Someone trying to find it probably killed Malik. You are not to speak of it to anyone.”

  “Yes, bey. They couldn’t open my mouth even with a hammer.”

  Kamil winced at the metaphor and turned back to his chart.

  “Who else wants it that badly, bey?”

  “It seems the whole world wants it.” He sat up suddenly. “It would be worth a fortune in Europe, not just to antiquities dealers, but to people who believe it’s a sacred object.” He drew a circle around “Proof of God.”

  “Are those people here?”

  “That’s an excellent question, Avi.”

  What did a member of a secret religious society look like? He imagined them to be rough, gullible, and ignorant, but then remembered that the Crusader orders had been made up of knights and educated men.

  “If Kubalou is after the Proof of God, I bet he has a foreign buyer.” Kamil doubted someone like Kubalou had many scruples, much less a religious bent. “The buyer could live anywhere.”

  Kamil wrote down the only European names connected to the case so far: Magnus Owen, cultural attaché, and Joseph Ormond, Metropolitan Police. He added Rettingate and Sons, the dealers in London.

  “I wonder how central the Habesh and the Charshamba men are,” he mused out loud. “Who actually runs the gangs and who’s just a hired hand? Remzi said Amida had hired him.”

  Avi’s eyes moved between Kamil’s face and the chart. “Maybe they both work for Kubalou.”

  “Hmm. You might be right. If they’re rivals, they’ll try to undercut each other. Remzi would try to pin all the blame for the Tobacco Works fiasco on Amida. Although, I think Amida would sell the Proof of God without blinking an eye. He probably stole it on order for Kubalou. Why else would he take an old box and not the valuable pieces next to it?” He drew an arrow between “Proof of God” and “Kubalou.” “But who killed Malik? Did Kubalou come back and tell Amida the reliquary was empty and to get the real Proof of God? Then Amida asked Malik for it and when he wouldn’t give it to him, killed him?” He shook his head and clicked his tongue. “I can’t see Amida killing his uncle.” He looked down the list. “And I doubt Kubalou ever gets his hands dirty. That leaves Remzi.” Remzi who had escaped from jail the same night Malik was killed. He drew an arrow between the names Remzi and Malik. The murders were linked to the antiquities smuggling, of that he was sure. There was also the mysterious symbol that had been carved on the bodies and on the wooden chest they had briefly captured behind the Tobacco Works. He drew that on his chart beside Kubalou.

  Saba wanted the Proof too, but why? Malik had trusted her enough to teach her to read it. Saba would be the next priestess. Malik must have believed she’d use the Proof to strengthen the sect. If it was as important as Ismail Hodja said, it would indeed elevate the Melisites. He could imagine people making pilgrimages from all over the world to Sunken Village.

  Kamil shook his head. Once people knew it had been found, it would never rest peaceably anywhere on this earth without people trying to steal it. He had to find it before Malik’s killer did. Malik’s letter to Saba rested in his jacket pocket. He took it out and turned it over in his hands. He wondered if Saba would allow him to read it. He returned the letter to his pocket and stood back from the chart to reflect on the thick inked lines linking Malik’s death, Remzi’s brutality, Kubalou’s network, and the priceless Proof of God. He was convinced that all the others—the Charshamba gangs, Balkis, and Amida—were bit players. He leaned forward and wrote at the very top, above Kubalou, the word “buyer.”

  Avi stretched out his hand, palm up, and commented shyly, “It’s a problem that doesn’t fit easily in the palm, bey.”

  Kamil stroked the boy’s soft hair. “What was it you said? ‘However high the mountain, a road goes over it.’ If we use our heads, we’ll get there.”

  “And our feet.”

  Kamil laughed and felt the tension fall from his shoulders.

  19

  SABA LAY NAKED and sweating on the hot bellystone, arms by her side, legs pressed tightly together. Steam enveloped the small chamber and weak columns of light fell toward her from the round windows in the dome. She stretched luxuriantly, arching her back, letting the steam and the heat caress her. It was early and only the servants were awake. She was alone in the hamam at the back of the house.

  She felt languorous. Slippery with soap, she began to explore. Her hand trailed slowly across her collarbone, then her breast and her belly. She reached between her thighs and let her fingers slide across the damp swollen flesh, the delicate mounds and mysterious valleys. Her body charged up to meet her touch. Her fingers fell into the ready space, the opening that flared with exquisite pain, obliterating all else. She cried out. The pain was irresistible.

  Once, while Malik was out, she had discovered hidden in his library a folder of graphic miniatures. She had frozen with shame, but only for an instant. Then she had become intrigued, stealing back several times to memorize every detail. The images colonized her dreams and made of them lush gardens in which she lingered willfully long after the dawn call to prayer. Although Malik’s death darkened her mood, it had also heightened her senses.

  Suddenly, a short, heavy figure emerged from the mist and pressed a bath mitt against her face. Saba struggled but couldn’t get away. She felt a rough hand push her legs apart. When the finger impaled her, her back arched in pain and terror.

  “Slut, slut, slut.”

  Saba recognized Gudit’s voice. The mitt covered her mouth so she couldn’t scream.

  “I saw you try to seduce the pasha with your honey cakes,” Gudit said in a harsh tone. “I know everything and you, you little slut, know nothing. Someday you’ll be grateful that I stopped you.”

  She took the flesh between Saba’s legs between her fingers and pinched and pulled at it as if she were trying to tear it off. The pain was intolerable. Saba fought and this time managed to pull the mitt off her face and wriggle out of Gudit’s grasp.

  Gudit slapped her. “You belong to us.”

  The two women struggled on the bellystone. Saba was amazed at the old woman’s strength,
but pushed her off again. A knife clattered to the floor. Slipping across the wet marble, Saba ran through the door to the cooling-off room. She turned, slammed it in Gudit’s face, and bolted it. Heaving with terror, Saba fell to her knees, the marble beneath her blooming pink with blood.

  SABA DIDN’T TELL her mother about the attack. She was ashamed and, she acknowledged to herself, nervous about what other subjects such a conversation might open up. She said nothing because she knew her mother relied on Gudit, her lifelong friend who had helped her carry the burden of leading the Melisite community. Instead, Saba avoided the midwife, who had been released from the hamam by a puzzled kitchen maid. Saba concealed her bruises with fine clay under her veil. Although the physical pain began to subside, her fury multiplied. When she became priestess, she vowed, she would see to it that Gudit regretted her cruelty.

  20

  KAMIL TOOK AVI to the Brasserie Europe for lunch. Avi was fascinated by the mirrors, and his eyes were continuously drawn from the complicated choreography of knives and forks on the table before him to the reflections of other diners. He ordered the same as Kamil and copied his table manners exactly.

  Afterward, they took the phaeton to the Fatih police station. Omar wasn’t there—he had gone home for lunch—but Kamil was restless and decided to look for him instead of waiting. They left the phaeton at the station and followed the directions they had been given. They walked down a dirt lane between dilapidated two-story houses, passing under colorful washing strung across the street. They arrived at a small square in the middle of which stood a fountain. A woman in wide flowered pants and a hand-knit vest leaned toward it, filling a large copper jug. With a nonchalant gesture, she adjusted her cotton headscarf, which had come loose at one side, and deftly hefted the jug onto her head.

  When she saw Avi, she smiled, showing a gap between her two front teeth. “Good day, my son,” she said warmly.

  Avi ran over to her. “Teyze, does Police Chief Omar live here?” he asked, politely addressing her as aunt.

  She paused, her eyes flicking to Kamil, who waited a short distance away. “What do you want with him?”

  “Kamil Pasha is a friend of his,” Avi explained.

  “Ah, so you’re Kamil Pasha,” the woman turned to him, the smile again lighting up her face. Toil had aged her prematurely, but she was still a handsome woman. “I’m his wife, Mimoza. I’m sure he’s complained about me.” She laughed. “Come. I hope you’re hungry.”

  “May I take the jug, teyze?” Avi asked.

  Mimoza looked him over, then gave it to him to carry. It was clearly heavier than he had expected, but he didn’t complain.

  They came to a wooden gate and passed through a garden deep in late-season blooms to a small cottage.

  “Is that you, wife?” they heard Omar boom good-naturedly from the window. “I’m dying of hunger.”

  “I’ve brought company,” she warned him. “You’d better put on your honey face.”

  Omar appeared at the door in a loose robe that was open at the neck. The thin skin over his collarbone betrayed his age. “Pasha,” he cried out. “Well, this is my honey face. Wouldn’t you rather the old one?” He laughed. “Come in. You are welcome in my home. And who is this young lord?” He bent down toward Avi.

  “Avi, Chief.” The boy saluted.

  Omar laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “If I had gotten that kind of respect in the army, we would have won all those bloody wars.”

  The house was painted a cheerful blue inside and out. Kamil slipped off his boots at the door, and his stockinged feet sank deep into brightly patterned wool rugs. They were tribal rugs, traditional wedding gifts from the bride’s family. The central room was lined around three sides with cushioned divan benches beneath large windows that looked out into the garden. White crochet work curtains hung along the bottom of the windows for privacy. Each cushion was draped with a white cotton cloth embroidered with carnations. High above the entry door hung a tablet on which Mashallah, by the will of Allah, was written in fine calligraphy. Next to it hung a large blue glass bead, with contrasting circles of dark blue, turquoise, and white glass, to ward off the evil eye. They were taking no chances. Kamil wondered which had been placed there by Omar and which by his wife. Two closed doors led off the middle room, as did a long hallway down which Mimoza disappeared.

  They took their places on cushions on the floor around a low table. Mimoza brought bowls, spoons, and a single glass, which she filled with spring water from the jug. They tucked the crumb cloth across their laps and waited while she brought out a pot of yoghurt soup. This was followed by peppers stuffed with rice, dill, and currants in a warm yoghurt sauce.

  Neither Kamil nor Avi mentioned that they had just eaten, but spooned yoghurt onto the peppers and ate them with pleasure, if not an appetite. The next course, a plate of rice, gave Kamil more difficulty, although he saw Avi and Omar wolf down theirs.

  “Health to your hands,” Kamil complimented Mimoza.

  She watched Avi eat and looked pleased. “I was in Sunken Village last summer. I was buying vegetables at Charshamba market and happened to look down into the cistern, where I saw these amazing birds strutting about in someone’s yard. Their tails were like enormous shimmering fans. I’d never seen anything like it, so I went down the stairs into the village and asked the woman who lived there if I could see them close up. She let me into the yard. They’re called peacocks. They’re vain birds.” She laughed. “Just like people. The more beautiful a woman is, the more likely she is to peck out your eye. She let me have one of their feathers.” Mimoza got up and disappeared again. After a moment, she returned holding a gleaming green and blue feather. She gave it to Avi, who turned it back and forth, catching the light. “She said they raise them for a local festival.”

  Avi laid the feather carefully aside, then jumped up to help Mimoza carry the dishes to the kitchen. Kamil had a glimpse of Mimoza patting Avi’s hair and cupping his cheeks in her hands. Omar had seen it too, and Kamil caught a worried frown passing over his face.

  As Avi came back into the room eagerly balancing a tray of glasses, Kamil felt an unworthy tick of jealousy. Avi seemed so comfortable here. He marveled at the resilience of children.

  Finally, they sat in the garden drinking their tea and Kamil laid out his plan. If he wanted Omar’s help in catching Malik’s killer, he would have to tell him something about the Proof of God. He had considered carefully what could and could not be revealed. It would be a tricky conversation.

  “We’ve been doing this haphazardly,” he began, “following tips like the tobacco raid, or individual people, like Remzi and Amida. But as soon as we have a lead, it leaps sideways and we don’t know where it’s headed. It’s like herding rabbits. Too many murders with too many motives, too many people, too many stolen objects. We need to focus on the European connection. We need to act, not just react. One antiquity that the thieves are after and that we have a decent lead on is the Proof of God.”

  “The Proof of What?”

  “The reliquary that Malik reported stolen. It contained papers that some people believe are sacred. Malik took them out to study them, so when Amida stole the reliquary, he didn’t know it was empty. Whoever hired him to steal it, presumably this Kubalou, went back for the contents.”

  “Are you telling me he was killed for some papers?”

  “That’s what it looks like.”

  “Well, what else? What’s in these papers? Aren’t you going to tell me any more?”

  Kamil hesitated. “I can’t.”

  “You can’t?” Omar’s voice was incredulous.

  “Malik made me promise not to tell anyone. He thought it would put his community in danger.”

  “I should bloody well think he trusted me too,” Omar bellowed, getting to his feet and overturning his tea glass. “Now what the hell is all of this about?”

  Mimoza, with a concerned look on her face, leaned forward and righted the glass.

  �
�Sit down, Omar. I’m not going to tell you anything while you’re stamping about like a wild boar.”

  Omar crossed his arms and remained standing. “Well?”

  Kamil calmly sipped his tea. Finally, Omar sat back down, still frowning.

  “Ismail Hodja said these papers are important enough that some secret societies have been following the reliquary for centuries and that some of them would even kill to get it.”

  Omar threw out his arms. “You told Ismail Hodja, but not me?”

  “He already knew about it. All but the connection to the Habesh. I’m sorry, Omar. Malik was adamant that no one should know.”

  “Fine. I can respect a man for keeping his word.” Omar sounded disgruntled, but resigned. “What do you propose to do?”

  “I think the only way to control this is to find the document ourselves. Then we can decide what to do with it. Malik asked me to give it to his niece, but now I’m not sure that would be wise. She’d be in danger, and if she puts it in the prayer house, it would be stolen again. Ismail Hodja thinks it would be safer in the Imperial Museum.”

  “Where is it now, do you think?”

  “Either in Malik’s house or in the Kariye Mosque.”

  “We should take another look at his house. We didn’t really know what we were looking for the last time,” Omar pointed out. “At least I didn’t. And if we don’t find it?”

  “We pretend we have it and dangle it in front of Amida’s nose, then follow him when he tries to sell it.” Kamil looked at Avi, who was stroking the peacock feather. “I thought the boy could help tail him. He’d be less visible.”

  “He’s just a child,” Mimoza protested. “Let a man do the dangerous job.”

  “It’s not dangerous, teyze, really,” Avi spoke up eagerly. “And I’m good at this. No one will see me.”

  Kamil saw Omar meet his wife’s eyes. Being married, Kamil thought, must mean learning an entire new vocabulary of words, looks and gestures known only to husband and wife, each couple a nation with its own language, government, and history. He wondered whether modern life would bring families out of their self-imposed exile and whether that would be a good thing. If the language of family faltered, he couldn’t imagine what would take its place.