Jenny White - The Sultan's seal

He remembers Ferhat Bey’s evasiveness that he had interpreted as incompetence. Perhaps the old superintendent had more courage than he, Kamil, the rational bureaucrat who cuts his morality to fit his jurisdiction. He reaches into his pocket for his beads, but they offer no comfort.

“In any case, I might no longer have a post. My superior, Nizam Efendi, will be delighted to hold me responsible for executing Hamza without a trial.”

“Thanks to our friend Michel.” He casts a sidelong glance at Kamil’s grave face. “Anyway, I’d put my money on the secret police being behind all of these killings, not Asma Sultan. They probably wanted to find out from the girls who their contact inside the palace was. Problem is, they didn’t know anything. I wish I knew who ratted on them.”

There is a sound of glass grating under his boots.

“What’s this?” Bernie brings his light closer to a broken object on the floor. “Well, this sure doesn’t belong in here.” He touches it with his toe.

“What is it?”

“Wax flowers under glass-the latest obsession in England. Looks like someone dropped it here. A bit incongruous in a house full of Chinese art, wouldn’t you say?”

They look at each other’s faces, grim in the lamplight.

“Sybil would have brought a gift.”

Bernie calls out, “Sybil!” his voice lost in the cavernous room.

“We’ve checked the whole house. She’s not here.”

“Let’s look outside.” Bernie pulls open the glass doors and unlatches the shutters. They step out onto the patio.

Kamil gestures that they should stop and listen. There is the low boom of water echoing, but no other sound.

“What’s that?” Bernie walks to the edge of the patio and looks over the balustrade. “Look. The water comes right under the house.”

“That’s so the residents can get into their boats directly from the house.” Kamil peers into the darkness below the balustrade. “There might be some kind of boathouse down there.”

Footsteps cause them to whirl around, hands on their weapons.

The embassy driver, Sami, emerges from the house with another lamp.

“Well met, Sami,” Bernie greets him with a nod. “Glad you found us. Are the others coming?”

“Yes, efendi. They’ll be here soon. I rode ahead.”

They walk along the patio, shining their lamps in all directions.

“Over here.” Kamil holds his lamp over a small table still set with food. “It’s fresh.” He reaches into his boot with his other hand and slides out the long, thin blade.

“Damnation. I’ll bet the other guest was Sybil. Where the heck is she?” He calls out, “Sybil!”

“Help! Get me out! Help!” Sybil’s voice is faint and curiously distorted. It is followed by splashing, then silence.

Kamil shouts, “Sybil, keep talking. Where are you?” He looks over at Bernie, whose mouth is set in a thin line. “It came from over there.” He points toward the far end of the patio. “Be careful.”

Bernie calls again, but there is no answer. He pulls out his revolver.

The men fan out and move slowly across the tiles toward the wall at the end of the patio. When they get closer, Kamil whispers, “Look. This isn’t a wall; it’s a carved screen. There must be something behind it.”

He holds up his lamp and peers around the screen.

“Allah protect us. There’s a hole in the floor. It’s a good thing we have lamps.”

“She’s in there,” Bernie says, and throws himself to the ground. “How deep is this? Jesus, if she fell down this…”

Kamil and Sami also lie on their stomachs peering into the dark square below them. Their lamps pick up the glint of water around what appears to be a central island. The island is empty.

“Look.” The others move their lamps in the direction Kamil is pointing. Far below, a figure in a white turban is struggling through waist-deep water toward something lost in shadow. Sami hangs over the lip of the opening and dangles his lamp lower. The shadows flee, revealing Sybil, standing in a small boat bobbing against the wall, an oar in her hand. The figure is moving inexorably toward her, though gingerly, as if afraid of the water.

Sybil screams. They can see her face, the O of her open mouth.

“Put the light out,” she shouts. “He can see me by your light. Get me out of here.”

She had been hiding in the absolute darkness, afraid that any sound would reveal her position to the eunuch.

“Don’t worry. We’ll get you out.” Bernie calls down. “But we need the light.”

Bernie aims his gun at the eunuch, but hesitates. Sybil is too close.

Kamil pulls Bernie back. “The bullet might ricochet.”

Bernie peers appraisingly at the water far below. “We can’t jump in. It’s too shallow.” He turns to Sami. “Do you have a rope?”

“No, efendi. I’ll go look for one.”

“Sybil, how do we get down there?”

“The lever. There’s a lever in the screen.” The figure is close to her now and she stands, back against the wall, oar raised.

“Keep an eye on her,” Bernie tells Sami. He and Kamil begin systematically to check the screen.

“Wait,” they hear Sybil shout. “If you pull the lever the floor will go up and trap me down here. I think he doesn’t understand English, so try this. Tell me when you’ve found the lever, but don’t do anything until I say, ‘Pull.’”

“Yes,” Kamil shouts back. “We’ll do that.”

“I think I found it,” Bernie grips the end of a stone protrusion, disguised as a tree in the stone carving. He pulls it slightly. They hear a grinding sound.

“Not yet,” Sybil screams.

“We found it,” Bernie calls to her. “Tell us when you’re ready.”

“Put your lights away,” she calls.

“Are you sure?” Kamil asks anxiously.

“Do it!” Sybil shouts. Below them, they see her aim the oar at the white turban. Then all is dark. Sami has swung the lamps, still lit, out of range.

They listen intently, but hear only water splashing.

“Now.” The word echoes. Bernie pulls the lever and the grinding noise begins again. They hear scuffling and a splash.

When the island comes into view, Sybil is lying face down on the tiles in wet bloomers and chemise, her hand still grasping the oar. As soon as the floor is flush with the platform, Bernie rushes to her and turns her over. Her eyes are open.

“Well, cousin,” she gasps, smiling. “Wait until Maitlin hears about this.”

Kamil keeps his face turned until Bernie has wrapped a cloak around Sybil, then takes her shoulders in his hands.

“Sybil Hanoum.” It is all he can manage. His eyes linger on her plump neck bisected by two folds like a baby’s wrist. He does not meet her eye. She is still smiling but has begun to shake violently. Under the pretext of adjusting the cloak, he wraps her in his arms for a moment, then hands her to Bernie. The English, he knows, consider their cousins too close for marriage, unlike the Ottomans. Still, he feels bereft when Bernie settles her in the phaeton inside the circumference of his arms.

Kamil climbs up front and takes up the reins. He is jealous, he realizes. He feels momentarily disloyal to his father, that a trivial emotion like jealousy could grow in the field of his grief.

On the road, they encounter the headman, his sons, and a group of armed gendarmes on their way to Asma Sultan’s villa. Kamil stops to give them instructions for finding Sami, left to guard the hidden chamber, then snaps the reins.

“That was Arif Agha, Asma Sultan’s eunuch,” Sybil explains between chattering teeth. “The one who reported Hannah’s trips to the police.”

Kamil and Bernie exchange looks.

“He probably snitched to the secret police back then too.”