"I will not help you in your political goal, my son. I do not support violence or, may Allah protect him, the overthrow of the sultan."

"It's the only way."

"I don't believe that. I will not support the reintroduction of parliament under such conditions. There are other, more civilized ways."

"You may change your mind," Hamza says viciously.

"If Allah wills it. Let him go, please, Jemal."

Jemal gives Hamza's arms one more twist before he lets them fall.

As Hamza reaches the door, Ismail Hodja calls to him, "Hamza, my son. How is your mother? You had a sister, did you not?"

Hamza pivots and leaps for Ismail Hodja's throat, Jemal right behind him. The two wrestle on the floor, upending the table and scattering sheets of paper. Unperturbed, Ismail Hodja gazes sadly at the blackness pressing in against the window. China cups and other small objects clatter to the floor. The gla.s.s narghile tips over, releasing water into the carpet.

"Don't you dare mention my sister," roars Hamza, struggling against Jemal's grip. "She will be your last victim. I'll make sure of that."

"Allah is merciful, my son. May the poison in your veins be cleansed now. Examine your true motives in this. I know you are a good man." He bows his head. "Selam aleikhum. Peace be upon you."

Jemal wrestles Hamza to his feet and pushes him out the door. As soon as they are out of sight of Ismail Hodja, Jemal kicks Hamza so that he falls to the ground. With one motion, Jemal lifts him and throws him over his shoulder. He carries him to the gate and drops him stomach first onto Hamza's horse tethered there, frees the reins, and slaps the animal's rump. When the horse has disappeared down the dark road, Jemal returns to the house, stopping in the kitchen to fetch a gla.s.s of water for Ismail Hodja before returning to the study. He was the one who had found Hamza's letter on the doorstep. He makes it his business to know about anything that might endanger his master. He does not believe in the peaceful draining of venom.

HAMZA CURSES AS he struggles to right himself in the saddle. The anesthetic of anger is rapidly giving way to pain as memories of his lost family mingle with the realization that Jaanan too is now lost to him. I will find her in Paris, he thinks, and explain everything. But he knows it will be difficult, if not impossible, to regain her trust. He halts and remounts properly. With determination, he spurs his horse onto the moonless road and turns south toward the city. What did she have to do with Mary Dixon? he wonders, glancing anxiously back at the screen of trees behind which Hannah too had abandoned him.

Suddenly the horse stops short. Someone is pulling on the bridle. Hamza hears a lightly accented voice.

"I thought you a better rider than this, Hamza Efendi. You were sitting on the horse backwards. Let me help you. Ah, I see you have righted yourself. No matter."

Strong hands pull Hamza from the saddle. He lands off balance, but with both feet on the ground. The dust he kicks up makes him cough. Hamza can make out only the shape of the man, black against black. He is short and stocky. Hamza twists and attempts to leap away, but the man moves quickly. A blade glints briefly like a firefly. In less than a heartbeat, it is at Hamza's throat.

"You'll come with me," says the figure.

"Who are you?" Hamza's eyes dart toward the forest, but he cannot run. The blade stings his throat and every breath causes it to intrude farther. He tries to calm his breathing. When he dares, he clears his throat.

"You have something to say?" The knife moves away infinitesimally. Hamza can't feel the blade, but knows it is still there.

"Who are you? What do you want with me? I have little money, but you can have it."

The shadow man laughs as if at a very good joke.

"You can take the horse too," adds Hamza nervously. There is something very familiar about the man, but Hamza cannot place it. He jerks away but the blade finds him again.

"What do you want?"

"I want to know why you're back."

The man whistles shrilly and a carriage approaches. The shadows of three men wrestle Hamza inside.

38.

A Shared Pipe Kamil accepts the long chubuk pipe Ismail Hodja's servant has filled with fragrant tobacco, draws up his legs, and leans back against the divan cushions in the hodja's study. The morning ride was brisk and Kamil is glad of the warmth between his lips. The hodja is smoking a narghile, the long cord looped once around his arm, amber mouthpiece in his slender fingers. The servant checks the coal atop the rose-colored gla.s.s flask. As Ismail Hodja draws from the mouthpiece, the coal glows beneath the tobacco, its smoke bubbling down through the cooling liquid and along the tube to the hodja's mouth. His face beneath the turban is calm, but his eyes are troubled and red-rimmed with exhaustion.

"Have you learned anything, Magistrate Kamil?" he asks softly. "The police last night told me only that they arrested Hamza and wished me to make a complaint about his violent behavior." His eyes rest on the hole in the door. "I declined, of course." He adds angrily, "I can't imagine how they could presume to know what goes on in my house."

"I visited Hamza in jail on my way here this morning," Kamil says. "The police are accusing him of murdering the two Englishwomen."

"What? That's preposterous."

"Hamza admits he betrayed your hospitality last night, but denies having anything to do with the murders. I must admit his arrest was a surprise to me. The police say they have evidence that Hamza met Hannah Simmons in your garden pavilion on the night she was killed." He looks at Ismail Hodja curiously from under his eyebrows, respectfully avoiding eye contact.

Ismail Hodja looks surprised. "When my niece was a child, Hamza used to come to Chamyeri to tutor her and then spent the night in the men's quarters. I banned him from my house after my groom Jemal saw him sneak out one night and bring a woman into the pavilion."

"You didn't tell the police this?"

"I never spoke of it to anyone."

"Did your groom identify the woman?"

"No. You may ask him if you like. It was in the months before that poor young woman was found dead. Jemal said he didn't see the woman up close, but thought she might be foreign by her dress. I remember because he was worried it might have been my niece's governess. But we had her room checked, and she was asleep." He puffs on the narghile. "I suppose it could have been Hannah Simmons."

Ismail Hodja's narghile has gone out. He gestures to the servant, who fetches a fresh piece of coal in his tongs and places it on the flask.

When the servant has withdrawn to the far side of the room, Ismail Hodja continues in an urgent voice. "There is no proof that Hamza did this crime. I know Hamza well, and I do not believe him to be capable of it."

"Did Jemal see a carriage?"

"Yes, and the driver. He was parked outside the gate by the road. Jemal went to ask him who he was waiting for and apparently received an insolent answer." He smiles fondly. "Jemal does not suffer insults lightly."

Kamil's pulse races. "What color was his hair?"

"I don't believe Jemal said. We can ask him. A great deal of time has pa.s.sed, but since we were so concerned about the matter at the time, it's possible he might remember."

"You said you had banned Hamza from Chamyeri some time before Hannah's death."

"Yes, but there is something I must tell you. I had a long talk with my niece before she left for Paris. She admitted to me that Hamza flouted my ban and continued to come here to see her. He had a secret call, like a nightingale, to tell her when he was in the pavilion. She was a child at the time and they were very close. She said when he came, they used to sit in the pavilion reading and playing games."

"So it's possible that he continued to use the pavilion at night for his trysts."

"Yes, I suppose so, but indiscretion does not make a young man a murderer. It was a long time ago, when he was a crazy-blooded youth"-he smiles at Kamil-"as I believe we all were at some point. I don't believe he had anything to do with the killing of those unfortunate women."

"Why did he come here last night?"

"He wanted to see my niece. And to ask me for some small service, which, unfortunately, I was unable to grant him."

Kamil waits, but the hodja does not elaborate.

The arrest report stated Hamza had threatened Ismail Hodja. Kamil asks, "Did your refusal make him angry?"

"Hamza's anger is directed at himself and against those who love him. We hate those who have seen us weak, magistrate bey. Our deepest rage is reserved for those who have seen us shamed and vulnerable and who responded with generosity. To be the object of a person's generosity is, in some basic way, to be humiliated. My brother-in-law treated his sister's son like his own, gave him a home, supported his education, helped him find a government position. What you might not know is that, without his uncle's help, Hamza would have had no life at all. His father had squandered his future before Hamza ever had a chance to claim it. Unfortunately, the fruit does not fall far from the tree."

"His father was kadi of Aleppo, I believe."

"Yes, a wealthy and powerful man, but a man with expensive habits and a pragmatic sense of loyalty. Hamza's father acted as liaison between a few of our Arab subjects and the French who hoped to wrest the province of Syria away from the empire. That was in the time of Sultan Abdulaziz, may his memory be blessed. When the plans were discovered, Hamza's father was ruined. He was accused of embezzling money from the treasury to finance a revolt, although it's possible he did it to pay his own debts. He was stripped of his position."

"Was he exiled?"

"In a sense. He was forbidden ever to return to the capital."

"Did Hamza know the reasons for his father's banishment?" Kamil beckons the servant to relight his pipe.

"He was studying in France at the time. When he returned to Aleppo, apparently he found his father sitting on a chair in the middle of an empty apartment. The creditors had taken their konak and even their furniture. His father refused to speak or eat, just sat staring at the wall. Hamza tried to rouse him, told him about Paris, his plans for a career. He promised to take care of the family's expenses, but his father never even looked at him." Ismail Hodja pauses to take another draught from his narghile. He exhales a thin stream of smoke.

"My brother-in-law learned all this in a letter from his sister," he continues. "After seeing the letter, I was inclined to view Hamza's behavior with more compa.s.sion. I am also certain that he meant Jaanan no harm. Quite the contrary." He frowns and shakes his head. "I tried to tell my niece this, but I'm not sure she is convinced. She has had more than her share of disappointments."

"I'm glad no greater harm has come to her."

"I was inclined to think badly of Hamza when I learned it was he who took her to Galata. She never spoke of it until recently. She thought I knew, since Hamza had promised her he would tell me where she was. He never did. Last night, he told me he had been in hiding since then, fearing for his life, and so was unable to keep his promise to tell me. He said his driver had been killed." He looks up at Kamil. "Is it the same man Jemal saw?"

"Yes. It must be. A man called Shimshek Devora. Jaanan Hanoum was held in his mother's house. Shimshek was killed that same week. Supposedly in an accident."

"May he rest in Allah's care."

They are silent for a few moments, their thoughts tangled in skeins of smoke. Birds squabble outside the window.

Finally, Ismail Hodja continues. "I've come to believe since then that Hamza was telling the truth. My brother-in-law-Jaanan's father-thinks it's possible that Amin Efendi was planning to abduct Jaanan from his home, with the connivance of...well, that is a matter for my brother-in-law. It would satisfy Amin Efendi's desire for revenge against the family and, if he could force the marriage, his need for money. So you see, Hamza, in his own misguided way, was trying to protect my niece. As for those unfortunate Englishwomen, my heart refuses to accept that he would harm them. Indeed, given what happened to his sister, I would have expected him to be kind toward women."

"What happened to his sister?"

"Ah, that poor girl. As the penniless daughter of a traitor, she was unable to contract a marriage. Who would bring her into their family and risk official displeasure? She was quite attractive, I understand, and many good families had inquired about a possible match when her father was still kadi. She had her heart set on one particular young man, so she refused the others. Her father doted on her and didn't insist, but he disapproved of the man she preferred because he was merely a merchant, although quite wealthy. After the disaster, even that family withdrew their suit. She threw herself into the moat of Aleppo's citadel when it was swollen with rainwater and drowned."

Ismail Hodja takes another long draw from his mouthpiece and lets the smoke dissipate before continuing. His shoulders slump with exhaustion.

"I can't tell you, my dear magistrate efendi, what any of this has to do with the deaths of these young Englishwomen. It is true that after his sister's pa.s.sing, Hamza became harder. But that is a long way from a man capable of killing. For murder you need powerful meat-hatred, greed, jealousy, or ambition-not the thin gruel of self-hate.

39.

The Gate of the Spoonmakers Kamil waits on a stool under the giant plane tree in Beyazit Square that a poet once called the Tree of Idleness. Behind him stretch the outer wall of the War Ministry and the domes of Beyazit Mosque, its courtyard garden visible through the stone portal. The square hums with traffic, vendors of sherbet and baked simits crying out their wares, porters hissing their way through the crowd, trotting horses, carts, and children dodging one another.

Kamil spies Bernie's red hair approaching amid a sea of turbans and fezzes.

"Howdy. Been waiting long?"

"Not long. It's good to see you. Please sit. Would you like some refreshment?"

"Sorry. Afraid I have to decline. I can't stomach the tea here or the coffee. Both thick as tar. I don't know how you drink so much of it. No offense."

"None taken. They are quite strong."

"Maybe we could just walk around a bit. I don't know this area very well."

"Have you seen the booksellers' market? There's a good place to eat lunch nearby."

Kamil leads the way through the throng to a gate beside the mosque.

"This is the Gate of the Spoonmakers." To Bernie's questioning look, he shrugs. "I have no idea why."

They enter a quiet, sun-dappled courtyard. Each tiny shop around the yard is stacked to the ceiling with books and ma.n.u.scripts. A few apprentices hurry past carrying packages to be delivered to customers at their homes. In the center is another plane tree, under it a bench next to a small fountain. Bernie lowers himself onto the bench and spreads his arms across the back, embracing the old vine-draped buildings. "Keyif," he mutters contentedly.

Kamil holds a tinned cup chained to the fountain under the stream of water and takes a draught.

"You should try this water. It's from a spring."

Bernie points to the ancient stone portal at the far end of the courtyard. "And what's that gate called?"

"What? Oh, the Gate of the Engravers."

"Of course."

Cup still in hand, Kamil frowns in the direction of the gate.

"You look like you've got a swarm of termites under your vest today, Kamil, ol' chum."

Despite himself, Kamil laughs. "That's disgusting."

"Well, it's true. Something isn't sitting well with you. Not well at all. Might help talkin' about it."

"There's too much happening, Bernie, and I'm not sure what to think about it all."

"Like what?" Bernie moves his arm to make room for Kamil on the bench.

"There's been an arrest."

"You mean for Mary's murder? That's great. Who's the scoundrel?"