Jenny White - The Sultan's seal

Kamil throws the bridle to a groom and runs into his office, startling the clerks who are cleaning their pens at the end of the workday.

“Who ordered this execution?” he bellows.

The head clerk comes forward, head bowed, and makes the sign of obeisance. “Magistrate Efendi, you did. The directive has your signature and seal.”

“I never authorized such a thing.”

“But it said you were carrying out the wishes of the court, that the decision had been ratified, and that the execution was to be carried out immediately.”

“I did not write it. Who gave it to you?”

“Michel Efendi brought it himself, so we could register it. Then he took it to the warden.”

“Michel? Where is he?”

“I don’t know, bey.”

The clerks make no pretense of returning to the files and papers on the desks before them, but whisper nervously to each other.

Kamil slams his door shut and falls heavily into the chair behind his desk. His chain of beads whips around his hand.

Michel has no authority to order an execution. And he, the magistrate, will be held liable for executing a man without a trial or the grand vizier’s approval. What possible motivation could Michel have for doing such a thing, for killing Hamza and putting Kamil’s career at risk? Did Hamza know something that threatened Michel?

What does he, Kamil, really know about the surgeon? It’s true that they went to school together, but they only came to know one another much later. How did they meet? That’s right. He ran into Michel on the street in Galata. That would make sense. Michel lived there with his mother. Didn’t he? Kamil’s beads fall silent.

Michel’s mother, who had led them directly to Jaanan-and Hamza-at Madame Devora’s house. Kamil had never met Michel’s mother. It is improper to bring an unrelated man into one’s home, so he had only Michel’s account of where he lived.

Kamil thinks about this for a while. How could Michel have known Hamza would be at Ismail Hodja’s house last night? He must have been lying in wait for him.

Kamil hates coincidences. But he can see no link between Michel and Hamza. Why was Michel interested in Hamza? How did he know to associate him with Chamyeri at all? How would Michel even know what Hamza looked like?

He opens the door and calls the head clerk.

Keeping his voice even, he tells him, “If Michel Efendi returns, please tell him that I have gone home, and that I would like to see him here as soon as possible, at the latest tomorrow morning before the second call to prayer.”

“As you wish, bey.” The clerk bows.

Kamil strides through the door and around the building into the stables. He chooses a fresh horse, waiting impatiently while the groom saddles it. He suddenly remembers the missing kitten. Had Michel lied about the tea they found at the sea hamam? If he knew the kettle had contained datura and that Mary had been killed there, Michel would have had a head start in finding the killer. And perhaps Michel had evidence that Hamza had killed Hannah as well. Why keep the information from him? Weren’t they both after the same thing? Weren’t they both working for the same people?

When the horse is ready, Kamil mounts and forces himself to ride away at an even pace. As soon as he is out of sight of the gate, he heads his horse north and spurs it to a gallop.

A surprised Yakup runs onto the front drive and takes the reins of the lathered horse as Kamil jumps down. Kamil wipes the sweat from his face with a dusty hand. Without a word, he charges into the villa and climbs the stairway to the study he made out of his mother’s bedroom.

Going to his desk, he unlatches a side drawer and pulls out his father’s revolver. He holds the weapon in his hand for a few moments, stroking the polished wood and tracing the grooves on the engraved barrel. The beautiful machinery of conquest and death. He lights a lamp so he can see better, loads the revolver, and fills a leather pouch with extra ammunition. He wraps a holster around his waist, then drops the gun into its sheath and the pouch into his pocket. He takes a deep breath, unsure of what to do next.

Lamp in hand, he walks into his bedroom and dips a cup into the clay jar on his dressing table. He takes a long draught of the cool water, then turns and descends the stairway at a more measured pace. His feet take him through the corridor leading to the back of the house, past the sitting room, to the stained-glass door, dark with moisture, leading to his most prized possessions. As he slips inside, the heavy, fragrant air thrills him, as it always does. A soft green light quickens the glassed-in room. He makes his way along a path between large-leafed palms and bromeliads. He has neglected to change to house slippers, so his boots click on the tiles. He places the lamp carefully atop a small table.

In the middle of the winter garden, shaded by the larger plants, stands a square bench filled with damp pebbles that hold thirty small earthenware pots, filled with slender green arches bursting along their stems or at their tips into a phantasm of colorful shapes. It reminds him of the fireworks celebrating the end of Ramadan. He stops at a large shadowy bloom and lowers his face to the velvety petals, inhaling its perfume, a mixture, he thinks, of vanilla and jasmine. It reminds him of a favorite milk pudding Fatma made for him as a child, and of the place between the Circassian girl’s white thighs. The bright blue speculum seems to regard him warily. He resists the urge to draw the tip of his fingers over the black fur of the petals.

Loud voices recall him from his reverie. He turns to find a flustered Fatma at the door.

“Bey, there is a man at the door who insists you want to speak with him. He won’t give his name. Yakup is still in the stable, so I answered the door.”

“What does he look like?”

“Dressed like a tradesman, but very neat. He doesn’t strike me as a tradesman at all. He acts as though he knows you, though. I’m sorry. Shall I ask him his name again?” She looks terrified that he might ask her to. “I told him to wait in the hall.”

“Thank you, Fatma. Just leave him there. I’ll come right away. Go back to the kitchen and send word to Yakup that he should return to the house.”

He can still hear the slapslap of her slippers receding when the door opens and Michel steps through.

“Close the door,” Kamil says quickly. “There’s a draft.”

Michel is the color of sand, from his mustache to his light brown shalwar. His hair is slick with sweat and a cloak is thrown over one arm. He is breathing heavily.

Michel stares directly at Kamil. “I understand you want to see me.”

Kamil automatically slides into a new level of alertness.

“I wanted to ask you about Hamza Efendi’s execution. Who signed the order?”

Truth and decorum.

“But you did, bey.”

“I did no such thing. There was no trial.”

“I wondered about that myself. But I was given the order and asked to bring it to the warden so that the sentence could be carried out immediately. It had all the correct seals, even the grand vizier’s.”

“Who gave it to you?”

Kamil notices the infinitesimal pause before Michel’s answer. “It was brought to the police station, I presume by a messenger. My clerk gave it to me. I wasn’t sure why you sent it to me first and not directly to the warden, but I thought you must have had your reasons.” Michel’s eyes have not wavered from Kamil’s face.

Can a lying man keep such an expressionless face? Kamil wonders. Michel had brought the document himself to the Beyoglu Court, then to the police station. Perhaps immobility is a sign of the effort required to keep the muscles of his face under control, the ones that would otherwise betray him. Kamil would like to feel outraged by Michel’s blatant lies, but against his better judgment wonders whether there is some truth in them. Perhaps someone else composed the execution order and forged the signatures. The grand vizier himself could have ordered it, bypassing lower administrators like himself. There is one way to find out.