Jenny White - The Winter Thief

“Well, we had better find out.” Kamil surveyed the pile of rubble that had been the bank entrance, then bent over and heaved a length of marble facing to the side. The physical effort helped him regain some semblance of control over his emotions. He and Omar’s men worked by the light of torches in a pall of acrid smoke. The clap of bricks landing and the coughs and curses of the policemen mingled with the shouts of the fire brigade next door and the sound of wood settling. Half an hour later, a contingent of heavily armed gendarmes arrived from the direction of Karaköy Square. Kamil had called in the military police to guard the bank, just as they were guarding the ship carrying the guns.

Kamil paused to give instructions to the gendarme captain, who then ordered the soldiers to surround the building and to help clear the rubble. They wouldn’t be able to go inside until the debris was cleared and the building stabilized.

“This will take all night,” Omar said, disgusted. “We might as well go home. What’s that up there?” he asked, pointing to the raised carving on the wall.

“This used to be the residence of the French ambassador a hundred or so years ago. I think it’s his coat of arms.”

“They told me the building belongs to Saint Peter’s Church. Isn’t that Italian?”

Kamil raised his hands in helpless surrender, unable to decode the twisted strands of property relations in this, one of the city’s oldest districts.

Kamil asked the gendarme captain to send for them when the bank was considered safe to enter. As he and Omar walked to the stable where their horses were kept, they passed the imam from a nearby mosque and a Greek Orthodox priest huddled deep in conversation, presumably deciding where to take the bodies that couldn’t be identified. The taverna was owned by Christians.

“Did you find out anything from the ship’s crew?” Kamil asked Omar.

“The barrels were loaded in New York, but I think the crew didn’t know there were guns in them. There were a lot of barrels on board, most of them full of salted fish just like the manifest says. The recipient in Istanbul gave a fictitious name, so we couldn’t trace him.” He coughed and spit out black phlegm, then gestured over his shoulder at the demolished bank. “Do you think the same people did this?”

Kamil stopped and stared at the crowd in the square, livid that they were carrying on as if Armageddon hadn’t just happened a block away. He could feel Omar watching him and knew the gruff ex-soldier understood. “A shipful of illegal weapons and an attack on the Imperial Bank in the same week? I doubt it’s a coincidence,” Kamil said in a quiet voice.

Vera was expecting someplace cold and dark, not this comfortable armchair in a warm room hung with kilims. After Gabriel left, two men had burst into the room and, after a brief struggle, thrown a greasy blanket over her head, carried her out, and pushed her into a carriage, where the blanket was replaced by a blindfold. It had taken no more than a moment; she couldn’t even remember their faces. After a long ride, they emerged and walked along a gravel path-the snow had been cleared, and she could hear the delicate crunch of stones beneath her feet-and down a flight of steps into this room. The men politely asked her to remove her boots. They had taken them away and in their stead given her slippers that were too small.

As soon as they left, Vera pulled the blindfold off and tried the door, but it was locked. On a small table beside the glowing stove was a glass of hot tea. She settled herself in the armchair and, warming her hands with the tea glass, tried to figure out who these men might be.

Had Gabriel been detained and sent his allies to snatch her to safety moments before the police arrived to arrest her? She knew Gabriel had been right to worry about her carelessness and regretted acting like a child when what her husband had needed was a smart comrade-in-arms. She had struggled against the men, out of surprise and alarm, and dropped the pomegranate from her pocket onto the floor, although what message Gabriel could take from that she didn’t know. She checked her coat pocket for the tenth time. Except for a torn fragment, her passport was gone. It must have fallen out of her pocket with the pomegranate.

The key turned in the lock. In spite of her coat and the proximity of the stove, she was shivering. The man who entered was tall, with an imposing head and a jutting nose. His cheeks were pitted with acne scars, partially hidden beneath a black, pointed beard and a precisely trimmed mustache. His hair was thick as an animal’s pelt, sleek and shiny. There was something military in his bearing, although his clothing was that of an ordinary civil servant. His movements were careful, tidy, as if minutely thought out. He stood just inside the door, staring at her with a slight tilt of the head as if he had recognized her and were trying to place her. He was not attractive, she thought, but there was a gross sensuality in his reddish lips, the too-luxuriant hair. She looked away, uncomfortable, and put the tea glass on the table, slowly and deliberately, as if not to disturb him.

The man sat down in the chair facing hers and said something in Turkish. When she didn’t understand, he said, “Welcome, Lena,” in poorly pronounced Armenian. “My name is Vahid.” Behind a curtain of thick lashes, his eyes were dark amber. She could read neither concern nor threat in them, only a barely suppressed interest.

It took her a moment to realize he thought her name was Lena Balian, the false name she had given the publisher. The kind old man would never have reported her name to the police, she thought. He must have noticed that she was being followed and asked his acquaintances to snatch her away to a safe place. Did these men work with Gabriel too? She didn’t think they were Armenian, despite Vahid’s few words of the language, so they must be socialists. Gabriel sometimes talked about the men supporting his mission in Istanbul. He had described one of the men as having a big face like a horse. Was this that man?

She gave him a wavering smile. “Thank you.” She wasn’t sure for what.

“You don’t like the tea?” He indicated her full glass.

She shook her head yes. She liked the tea. She didn’t want to seem ungrateful. The intensity of his gaze made her anxious. Should she tell him her real name? She realized she had been playacting at politics. This now was real. She must make the right decision and not disappoint Gabriel again.

“You were in danger, Lena. But you are safe here. And your friend, where is he?” the man asked, head cocked to the side, his eyes never leaving her face.

What was she supposed to answer? She looked down at her hands.

“We had hoped to bring him here as well. He’s also in danger.”

Vera said nothing, thinking furiously. It nagged at her that he hadn’t said Gabriel’s name. Surely he knew him, one of the most famous socialist leaders in Europe. Vera began to shiver.

“You are young, Lena,” Vahid said with a tight smile that was not reflected in his eyes. “Your friend appreciates you?” It didn’t surprise her that he didn’t know she and Gabriel were married. They had told only their close friends. She made a decision.

“Which friend?” she asked. She saw the flash of anger but wasn’t prepared for the blow that knocked her from the chair. For a moment her vision went black. She crawled along the floor until her back was against the wall. Her mouth was filling up with blood.

“You’re an intelligent girl, Lena. I know we’ll get along. You’ll see.”

At five o’clock in the morning, Yakup roused Kamil from his bed with a glass of strong tea. A gendarme waited in the entry hall to tell him that the rubble had been cleared from the front of the bank. It had stopped snowing. A thick fog wrapped the city in muslin and deadened all sound, so that the tick of their horses’ hooves on cobble was very loud.