Jenny White - The Sultan's seal

Bernie laughs. “That’s what you’d like to believe, my friend. It’s very unlike you to disregard all the evidence.” He flings away the stub of his cigarette, which has burned out between his fingers. “Just listen to yourself. Like a preacher with a rod stuck up his ass.”

Kamil takes a step in his direction. “How dare you!”

“Hey, hey, now. Whoah.” Bernie stands up and backs away, hands held defensively before him. “What the hell is the matter with you today?”

Kamil’s face twists grotesquely with the effort to contain his emotions. He is weeping, he knows-he can feel the wetness on his cheeks-but is powerless to stop.

Bernie seems stunned. “Kamil, old buddy. Calm down now. Obviously I don’t have the whole story. Something’s happened. Now, why don’t you sit down over there?” He points at the sofa. Kamil doesn’t move. “I’ll be right back.” He edges carefully toward the door.

Kamil can hear the creak of a cabinet opening, then the muffled clank and splash of a metal scoop descending into a clay jar of drinking water. Bernie returns a moment later, carrying a glass of water. Kamil is sitting on the edge of the sofa, head in his hands.

Bernie pushes the glass within reach on the side table and pulls a chair over to sit in front of Kamil. He waits quietly until Kamil raises his head, then hands him the water.

“Sybil told me you like a drink of water to calm the jitters,” he admits bashfully.

Kamil takes a sip, then another. He sits back and closes his eyes for a few moments. When his breathing is back to normal, he asks Bernie for a cigarette. They sit for a while in silence, smoking. Bernie sips at his scotch.

Kamil is the first to speak. He wants to tell Bernie about his father, but doesn’t.

“If Hamza didn’t kill those women, who did?” His voice retains a small tremor, but he feels himself gaining strength. He will tell Bernie about his father later, when he has command over himself again.

“Michel is a foot soldier. It could have been him or someone like him. They found out about Hannah, so she was a target. Maybe they thought she could tell them who the traitor in the palace was. That’s what they’re really after. The shark in the sultan’s pool. But she didn’t know, so she had nothing to tell them. None of us knew.” He looks away. “I hope she didn’t suffer too much. She was a nice girl.” A sip of scotch. “They probably would have killed her anyway.”

“The silken cord. It was a warning to the plotters.”

“What’s that?”

“She was strangled with a silken cord, the traditional method of executing members of the royal family.”

“I thought she drowned.”

“She was strangled first.”

Bernie wants to ask more, but decides he would rather live with a question than an answer. They sit together in silence, each weighing the burden of his own thoughts.

“What about Mary Dixon?” Kamil asks finally. “Why would the secret police want to kill her? Was she part of this?”

Bernie stands and walks to the window. His back to Kamil, he says thoughtfully, “That’s the rub. There’s something going on, but as far as I know Mary had nothing to do with any of it. I almost swallowed my tongue when you showed me the necklace she was wearing.”

“What is going on?” Kamil asks carefully, bracing himself for an answer he is sure he doesn’t want to hear.

Bernie turns to face Kamil. His expression is obscured by shadow but his hair, caught by the light, coils like hot wires around his head. He runs his hand through it, then goes to the sideboard, opens a fresh bottle, and pours himself another scotch. He holds the bottle out to Kamil, who shakes his head no.

“You remember that Chiraghan Affair a few years back-another attempt by the Young Ottomans to replace Abdulhamid with his brother Murad. The sultan’s been walling himself up ever since. I understand he might be a bit sore after the Brits occupied Egypt, but that was four years ago, water under the bridge. No reason for him to turn his back on us and start hobnobbing with the Germans. That’s never a good idea. And he’s threatening to head up some kind of international Islamic movement. Those are dangerous games. We’ve got to stick together. What with Russia tearing up the countries around it like a hungry bear, we’re just a little concerned that the Ottomans don’t become their next meal. They’ve already taken a few good bites.”

“I’m aware of the situation,” Kamil says dryly. “What does this have to do with Mary Dixon?”

Bernie waves his scotch at him. “No offense meant. I’m just setting the stage, so to speak.” He takes a long sip. “Well, as I said, we don’t like the direction this sultan is taking. We need your empire stable to keep the Russians in check in Europe. That’s better achieved under British protection, not by getting in bed with the Germans and with radical Islamic movements. The opposition, the Young Ottomans, were pretty well crushed after the Chiraghan Affair. But last year, we had a new communication from someone inside the palace, a letter posted in Paris and addressed to a safe house in London. It contained the same two characters for brush and bowstring. It proposed our assistance in a coup in exchange for British control over Syria. We provide a little money, a little muscle-and in return strengthen our own position in the region-well, that sounds like a mighty good bargain.”

“The lion keeps the bear at bay so it can tear the haunches off its prey without being disturbed,” Kamil comments sourly.

Bernie sips at his scotch and smiles indulgently at Kamil. “Kamil, my friend. This is politics, not philosophy. How do you think your empire got as fat as it is? By stealing food from the tables of other empires.” He shrugs. “Besides, your grip on that province is pretty tenuous these days anyway. It’s only a matter of time. Better to cut your losses now and let the Brits deal with it. They have plenty of experience wrangling territories that are trying to throw their riders.”

Kamil glares at him. “Go on.”

“Anyway, I came here to investigate-to make sure it was serious. This time we decided to cut out any middlemen, like Prince Ziya. Hamza was already back, but since the police knew about him, he kept his role in this quiet.”

“What was his role?”

“To try to make a connection with the person in the palace. I had no idea he was using Mary, or the pendant again. We thought the pendant was lost until you found it on Mary’s body.

Kamil is aghast. “An innocent young woman loses her life in this crazy scheme the last time and so you try it again, with the same degenerate accomplice? Mary had no idea, did she?”

“Probably not, assuming that’s what happened. And I can’t think of any other reason Mary would be wearing that pendant. I agree with you about Hamza. He plays his role too well. Played. The poor bastard.” He looks for a long moment into his glass, then meets Kamil’s eye. “This is not a pretty profession, magistrate bey. And to tell you the truth, I’m sick of it. This is my last assignment. I just want to go back to writing my book.”

“So you really are a scholar.”

Bernie looks offended. “Of course.”

“Who else here knows about this?”

“No one, other than me, Hamza, and the person pulling strings in the palace. We kept the circle small.” He takes a sip of scotch. “And now the secret police, God bless them. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out how they would know about this latest communication. It’s too early in the game. In fact, there is no game. We never received any messages after that first contact.”

“What about Shimshek Devora?”

“Hamza’s driver? I can see Hamza tying up loose ends. He’s meticulous when it comes to self-preservation.” He shakes his head slowly. “Still, he’s known this Shimshek for years. Hard to fathom that he would kill a friend. He was pretty broken up about Hannah. Still, if the executioner’s blade is aiming for your head, you’d probably shift whoever you had to, to get out of the way.”