Jenny White - The Abyssinian Proof

Kamil took one step and staggered as a jagged edge of pain ripped through him. The next step was passable and the third bearable. He could see more of the body behind the sofa now. It was still hidden from the waist up, but from the slender calves Kamil could tell it wasn’t Omar. He was relieved.

He took the glass of whisky from Owen and drank it down.

“Your gun? I presume you have one.” Owen put out his hand. “Please.”

Reluctantly, Kamil drew the Colt from the holster under his jacket and handed it to him. Owen placed it on the table next to the bottle. Kamil reached out his glass and Owen refilled it, a parody of the gracious host at a dinner party.

“Why are you here, Kamil?” Owen asked. “I really wish you hadn’t come,” he added sadly. “I was rather fond of you.”

Kamil noted the past tense. “Where’s Amida?”

Owen nodded toward the sofa. “There he is, poor chap. Had a bit of a whack.”

Taking his glass, Kamil approached and bent over the body. Amida lay on his stomach between the sofa and a low table, illuminated by the two Venetian lamps. He was naked from the waist up. His back was tattooed with wings, one of them complete, the other an outline waiting to be filled in.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Owen commented. “Wouldn’t mind having a set of those myself. Bet it’d be a big hit with the ladies.”

“Is he…?” Kamil turned Amida’s face to the side and examined it.

“Dead? No, I don’t think so. There appears to be life in the fellow yet. ‘And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago, blushed at the praise of their own loveliness,’” he recited.

Kamil set his glass of whisky within reach on the table. He sat on the arm of the sofa, facing Owen on the piano bench across the room, and fished in his pocket for his cigarette case. Ben tensed and took a step closer. Kamil held up the cigarette with a thin smile, then leaned over and picked up Amida’s ormolu device to light it. “What do you want with Amida?” he asked Owen.

“We had some business to discuss.” Owen flapped his hand in the air. “I know, I know. It seems a devil of a way to discuss anything, but believe me, it was necessary. That fellow was playing me for a fool.”

On the floor, Amida groaned. Kamil knew how he felt.

“He’ll have a bump in the morning,” Owen explained apologetically, “nothing more.”

“What business does a cultural attaché have in Charshamba in the middle of the night?” Kamil asked.

“I could ask the same of the good magistrate.”

Tired of the standoff, Kamil decided to place his cards on the table, “You’re here for the Proof of God.”

Owen looked impressed. “Bravo, Kamil. Bravo.”

“Why do you want it?”

“Why does one want anything, Kamil? What do you want? Wealth? Fame? Glory?” He let his fingers trickle along the piano keys as he sipped his whisky and regarded Kamil’s impassive face. “No, I think not. You’re not ambitious, my friend. And neither am I. We’re nourished by the goodwill and respect of our fellow men. We’re very much alike in that regard. This is nothing more than a simple business transaction.”

“Well, fill me in, then,” Kamil suggested calmly. “Have you found what you were looking for?”

“Can’t tell you that. It’s a matter of some discretion. You understand.” Owen turned around, crossed his legs, and leaned toward Kamil. “What have you got your heart set on, my friend?” he asked earnestly. “I’m very well connected. Maybe I can help.”

“You haven’t got anything I want. Your associate Remzi already found that out.”

Owen looked offended. “I thought you and I were on the way to becoming friends. But clearly I haven’t yet earned your trust.”

Kamil held out his empty glass and gestured toward the bottle. “That’s good whisky.”

Owen chuckled and handed him the bottle. “Leave a finger for me.”

In filling his glass, Kamil managed to drop his cigarette and spill whisky on the sofa. Suddenly, his eyes froze on Ben across the room. He had taken out his gun and was training it on Kamil.

“What are you doing?” Owen demanded.

“He’s up to something,” Ben grumbled, shoving the gun back in his waistband.

Owen craned his neck at Kamil. “Surely not.”

Kamil took out his handkerchief and blotted the sofa. “We were discussing the Proof of God,” he prompted, leaving the damp handkerchief draped over the back.

“I’m intrigued. How do you know about it?”

Kamil didn’t answer, but took another cigarette from his case and lit it with a match, keeping the matchbox in his hand.

“I didn’t think anyone besides these Melisite types knew about it.” Owen gestured toward Amida. “Although this young man has exhibited more bravado than good sense. He told us he knew where it was, but I believe he knows nothing.” He looked at Kamil quizzically. “In fact, he thinks you have it. He said he followed you, hoping to wrest it from you.” When Kamil didn’t answer, he asked, “Unlikely, I know, but what do you make of his assertion? Do you have it?”

“You’re right,” Kamil answered. “He doesn’t know where it is.”

“And you do?”

“I do.”

“Ah. Will you tell me?”

“Maybe. First tell me what happened to Malik.”

“Who’s Malik?”

The fact that Owen didn’t even know the name of the man whose death he had occasioned infuriated Kamil. “The caretaker of the Kariye Mosque.”

Owen took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Believe me, Kamil, that wasn’t my idea. I simply asked one of my local associates to find a way to get the man to talk. He was uncommonly stubborn. Why should he care? It’s only a packet of old papers. It’s beyond me, really, why anyone should care. The buyer in London belongs to some kind of group that reveres-I’m not exaggerating, reveres -this thing. It’s utterly ridiculous. I sense that you’d agree with me on that, at least.”

“Were you there?”

“Where? In the mosque?” Owen paused. “I owe you the truth. I was there, with my two associates. And, believe me, I was disgusted. These Orientals have their own ways of getting things done, but one mustn’t interfere. Only in this case, it did no good. A waste, an utter waste. But that will all be redeemed now when you tell me where it is.”

“I don’t think so.”

Owen began to pick out a tune on the piano with one hand. “That’s a shame. I have a lot of money riding on this, my friend, enough to finance a small kingdom.” He shook his head in amused disbelief. “For a pile of paper in a crushed silver box. It’s inconceivable to me why my buyer is willing to bankrupt himself to get it, but,” he gave Kamil a charming, lopsided smile, “his loss is my gain. I’d be happy to share the profit with you.”

Kamil was becoming impatient. Where was Omar? He couldn’t tackle all three of these men by himself. Yakup was outside waiting for his signal, but he wouldn’t be fast enough to cross the room before Ben could fire off a shot.

He had no choice but to stall for more time. “What will you do with all that money?” he asked Owen.

“Retire to an estate and finally claim the position in English society that I should have inherited from my father. You know what I mean, Kamil. You’re the son of a lord, just as I am. We’re naturally drawn to one another. Birds of a feather.” He leaned forward. “You should trust me.”

“You can let Amida go. He’s of no use to you. I’m the only one who knows where it is.”

“He’ll be fine here. How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

Kamil looked offended. “You know better than that.”

“Yes, I believe I do,” Owen said thoughtfully, regarding Kamil with a sad smile. “I believe I do.” He turned back to the piano and played a few bars of what Kamil thought might be Mozart.