Jason Goodwin - The snake stone

The fingers turning the coin fell still. “I wonder what you’re going to tell me, Yashim efendi. I’m very interested to know.”

“I don’t think Amelie ever really believed in the relics herself. And I don’t think you did, either. But you wanted to be sure, Dr. Millingen, didn’t you? So you devised a trade, risking one life for another. That’s your business, isn’t it? Life.”

Millingen didn’t move. Yashim cocked his head and said: “You promised her Maximilien Lefevre.”

Millingen placed the coin on the desk with a loud click.

Their eyes met.

“Lefevre is dead,” Millingen said. He was watching Yashim now, trying to gauge the effect of his words.

Yashim nodded slowly. “It wouldn’t be the first time, would it? Lefevre, dead.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Come on, Dr. Millingen.” Yashim frowned impatiently. “It’s a question of identity, that’s all. He told me that himself.”

“He told you-what?” Millingen’s tone was scornful.

“Byzantium. Constantinople. Istanbul. They’re all real names. All real places. Lefevre was fascinated by them, too: three identities, woven into one-just like the snakes in the column, on the Hippodrome. They are all the same place, of course. Just as Meyer and Lefevre are the same man.”

Millingen made a gesture of impatience. “I don’t go in for metaphysics, efendi. I’m a doctor-and I know a dead man when I see one, too.”

“That body, in the embassy,” Yashim said mildly, “was certainly dead. It just wasn’t who we thought. It wasn’t Lefevre at all.” He cocked his head. “Who was it, Dr. Millingen? I’m very curious. Was it a corpse you procured for the occasion? Or just a hapless bag-carrier, in the wrong place, at the wrong time?”

Millingen began to tap his finger on the coin.

“Well, it’s not the most important thing now,” Yashim said peaceably. “You were happy to let the world believe that Lefevre was dead.” He looked up and smiled. “You thought the Mavrogordatos would be satisfied, I suppose. Is that what he hoped, too?”

Millingen bent his head and frowned at a corner of his desk, but he did not open his mouth.

“But he couldn’t count on your help, could he? Not after Missilonghi. So he did the trade: his life for the relics. The last, lost treasure of Byzantium, spirited away by a priest at the altar as the Ottomans invaded the Great Church. A chalice and plate-if they still existed. And the collector in you couldn’t turn him down.”

Dr. Millingen leaned his elbow on the desk and shaded his eyes.

“Some people think,” he said slowly, and there was a tremble in his voice, “that it was the Holy Grail.”

Yashim looked at him in silence. “You’ve kept him hidden,” he said at last. “In the port, perhaps.”

Millingen heaved his shoulders, shrugging.

Yashim frowned. “He hid the book at my apartment. There’s not much trust between you, is there?”

Millingen gave a scornful bark. “Only a fool would trust a man like Meyer,” he said.

“Amelie did.” Even as he spoke, Yashim remembered the three snakes. The three cities. Meyer. Lefevre. And a dead man.

But Lefevre was not dead. He was still alive. He had one identity that was not fulfilled. One skin he hadn’t cast.

“You both needed someone to carry out the plan.”

“That was his idea,” Millingen said, dragging his palms down the side of his face. “He wouldn’t trust me. And I couldn’t let him go. He left the book with you, and sent for his wife.”

Yashim bent forward and leaned his palms on the edge of Millingen’s desk.

“What was your deal, Dr. Millingen? Why is Amelie going home alone?” His legs felt weak. “Because she failed?”

Millingen nodded gently. “I’m afraid, Yashim efendi, that Dr. Lefevre has died, after all.” His voice sounded ragged and old.

Yashim flushed with sudden anger. “I don’t think so, Dr. Millingen. This time he can’t run away from who he is. Madame Lefevre has something else to sell.”

He knelt on the ground and unlaced the bag.

Millingen leaned forward. Yashim brought up something wrapped in a cloth and laid it on the far side of the desk. It was about two feet long, and it sounded heavy.

Yashim put a hand on top of the object. “I hope you understand me, Dr. Millingen. Madame Lefevre risked her life. I don’t think she should have to go away alone.”

Millingen’s eyes were like gimlets.

Yashim flicked the cloth open.

Millingen started back, as if he’d been stung. He glanced up into Yashim’s face, then back into the deep-set eyes and the cold frown.

“The Serpent of Delphi,” he said. “I don’t-where did you get this?”

“I can’t say where,” Yashim said. “But I’ll tell you why. Madame Mavrogordato never tried to kill Lefevre.”

“But that’s not true! Her people simply got the wrong man, as you say, and-”

“No, Dr. Millingen,” Yashim said softly. “That’s your mistake. Madame Mavrogordato never quite found out who, exactly, Lefevre was. She suspected, but she wasn’t sure.”

Millingen frowned. “Then who was trying to kill him?”

“Let’s just say he trod on a serpent’s tail,” Yashim said, “and it bit back.”

Millingen threw up his hands.

Yashim looked at the snake’s head.

“I am giving you this for two passages on the Ulysse, to France.” He blinked. “Dr. Lefevre goes home, with his wife.”

It took Yashim less than ten minutes to reach the theater, but he was aware as he arrived that he had traveled farther than he knew. A crowd had gathered on the street outside-the same crowd, he noticed with amusement, that turned out for street brawls, house fires, or public executions: the usual Greeks craning their necks for a better view, and the customary Turks in fezzes standing gravely with their hands by their sides; foreign loafers in tall black hats, who ran their fingers hopefully through their pockets, exchanged glances with busy-looking madrassa students in turbans, who had come to protest and had been intimidated by the nature and variety of the crowd. Much of the movement in the crowd was supplied by foreign ships’ crews, who seemed to haul themselves in toward the main gate by invisible warps. One knot of sailors Yashim recognized by their curious brimless caps, embroidered in gold with the word Ulysse.

Yashim worked his way slowly and unobtrusively forward in their wake until he reached the gate itself, where tickets were being sold in an atmosphere of ribald misunderstanding. A small, preternaturally wizened old man in a small turban was carefully examining the money people thrust toward him, with the help of Mina, whom Yashim recognized, leaning over the old man, volubly judging the quality of the coin by her interest in the faces of the men who tendered it. It looked like a full house.

Yashim found Preen backstage with beads of sweat on her forehead, pounding the air and talking very fast to a small, fat man wearing the biggest turban Yashim had ever seen. She caught sight of Yashim and stayed him with a gesture, still talking anxiously to the fat man, whose eyes appeared to be closed.

At last the fat man nodded solemnly, his whole turban tilting to and fro like a shipwreck, and withdrew.

“Chaos!” Preen muttered. “Pandemonium!” She smiled suddenly. “Always a good sign, Yashim. Where have you been?”

Yashim murmured a reply, then stepped back to allow a woman in European dress with a monkey on her shoulder to address Preen in a low, urgent voice. Preen gave her some brisk assurance, then wheeled to face a deputation of musicians, who were complaining that they didn’t have space to perform. Mina came in, looking flushed and triumphant, and whispered something in Preen’s ear. Preen nodded absently. Mina waved at Yashim.