150.

PALEWSKI stood in front of the fire, rubbing his hands together.

"The trouble with the pasha, Yashim, is that he has no manners. I rather noticed it the first time he visited us."

"Manners?"

"A word of thanks, I'd have thought. Well, well." He put two gla.s.ses on the mantelpiece and poured the brandy. "The little girl goes back to her father, in Egypt. Tulin gets her just deserts, thanks to the valide. The English have begun negotiations to return the fleet to Istanbul, too. It's only a beginning, but I rather think the Ottoman Empire has found the outside help it needed."

Yashim nodded.

"And Mickiewicz wrote from Paris, to approve the first few pages of my translation."

"I'm very pleased," Yashim said.

"You don't seem awfully pleased." Palewski set the brandy on the sideboard. "Go on, what is it?"

Yashim sighed. "The only people who could have known about Fevzi Ahmet's daughter were Hyacinth, who took her into the harem, and Tulin, who recognized her there. Galytsin had set up an elaborate method for receiving Tulin's reports-but apparently she never filed one. She broke off communications with him at the very moment she discovered that Roxelana was still alive. So how did the Russians know?" Yashim glanced up at his friend. "Or more precisely, who told Galytsin's agent about Roxelana?"

Palewski frowned. "Don't tell me you think it was Hyacinth?"

"A quiet old man who scarcely left the harem in his life? Hyacinth was loyal."

"Impa.s.se, Yashim." Palewski sighed.

But Yashim shook his head. "Unless Tulin did file her report. Not to Galytsin, but to someone else."

"Who?"

Yashim patted his fingertips together, concentrating. He remembered Tulin playing her flute as he descended the stairs, and how the music had nagged at him. Not only because it seemed so dismissive-there had been something else, some idea at the back of his mind that had failed to emerge.

"When I asked Galytsin why Pervyal had been so cheap, he said that was a question Fevzi Ahmet should have asked."

"What does that mean?"

"At the time, he meant to say that Pervyal was a witch. The dealers couldn't wait to get rid of her. But there's another explanation. We know that the Russians fixed it up so that Tulin could enter the sultan's harem. What if it wasn't the first time? What if her entry into Fevzi Ahmet's household was a setup, too?"

"Arranged by the Russians?"

"Not necessarily. After the fire, Galytsin couldn't believe his luck when Pervyal-Tulin-turned up on his doorstep. He should have realized that it was too good to be true. The whole event was cleverly fixed so that even if someone suspected her-and why should they?-the trail would lead to the Russians."

Palewski looked interested. "I can take a lot of this," he said. "Misleading the Russians."

Yashim went on: "Inside, by a stroke of fate, Tulin became the valide's handmaiden."

"Which allowed her to steer clear of Roxelana."

Yashim studied his friend absently. "Yes. But it also meant that she wasn't sent away with the other women when Sultan Mahmut died. She stayed with the valide, while the harems changed over."

"You mean that whoever put her there knew the sultan was about to die?"

Yashim nodded.

Palewski said: "Who?"

"You keep asking me," Yashim said. "But you already know. Who would want a spy in Fevzi Ahmet's house? Who would be most threatened by Fevzi Ahmet's promotion to three horsetails-so much so that he would get Tulin to burn his house to the ground?"

Palewski shook his head. "I don't see-"

"You do! You do!" Yashim was excited now. "It was you who pointed it out in the first place. You said he needed a crisis, to stay in power."

"Husrev Pasha? The grand vizier?"

"Husrev Pasha was always afraid of Fevzi Ahmet," Yashim said. "And terrified of losing power. He needed access to the valide, to the sultan, everything. Once Abdulmecid came to the throne, he and Tulin saw their chance. They planned to let her reach the sultan's bed."

"So he and Tulin worked together?"

"She was a Bosniac-like Husrev Pasha. They both come from Bosnia."

"You mean Husrev Pasha told the Russians about Roxelana? Granted he wants power, hates Fevzi Pasha, all that-but why would he tell the Russians anything?"

Yashim hunched forward. "Not the Russians, Palewski. Just one Russian. One Russian greedy and gullible enough to think that he could use the information for his own, private ends."

Palewski raised an eyebrow.

"At the outset of this ... investigation, I made two guesses. The first, that Fevzi Ahmet murdered the man in the well. The second that the man in the well-let's call him Boris-was working for Galytsin."

Palewski shrugged. "The Totenkopf, Yashim. My contribution."

"And a very good one-only it misled me. Boris was blackmailing Fevzi Ahmet because he knew his daughter was alive. He knew where she was, too. But Fevzi Ahmet didn't kill him. He maybe a monster but he's not so stupid that he'd drop a body where it was bound to be discovered."

"Who did?"

"Galytsin. Not personally. He sent his thugs-who are not reliable. Later, when the body was recovered, Galytsin was at pains to get the branded piece of skin, which could identify the man. First the little man on the ferry, then the invitation to take a carriage-an abduction, in effect."

"But-you went to see him, later that morning."

"Yes-but it was too late to have me disappear. I'd spoken to the grand vizier. And anyway, I gave him what he wanted."

"But why would Galytsin want ... Boris killed?"

"He had him killed because the man was working privately, on his own account. He was using information to blackmail Fevzi, instead of sharing it with his nominal employer."

Palewski whistled through his teeth. "Is that why you let Fevzi Ahmet go?"

"Partly that. Partly because his treason is more complicated than it looks. He defected because he knew his career was finished once Husrev had taken power. But also because he had to get away, and save his little girl. Egypt is the safest place for her."

Palewski stood up and went to the windows. "Why did Husrev tell Boris about the girl?"

"I think he had two reasons. First, he wanted to cultivate Boris himself-to provide himself with a friend on the other side. Also, to terrify Fevzi."

He stared for a long time into the dark.

"If anything you've told me is true, Yashim, I hope you plan to keep it to yourself. That little gap, after all."

Yashim gave a curious smile. "You surprise me." He stared at his friend's back. "If I keep quiet, we'll never know for sure."

Palewski turned around. "You'll be dead, Yashim."

Yashim nodded. He thought of the Ceremony of the Birth: the dying child, the mother's grief. He thought of how he stood apart from the central mystery of life.

"That wouldn't be so terrible either, in the scheme of things," he said. "Fevzi Pasha gave me a way to serve-all that." He waved a hand. "The sultan. The empire. Its people, too, I hope. It's what I do."

He smiled again, remembering Kadri on the banks of the Golden Horn.

"It's the only thing that makes any sense of my own life," he added. "And in the end, it isn't about people, or sultans, or corruption. It's about the truth. The little gap, in this case, is for me."

Palewski looked at him without speaking. Then he gave an imperceptible bow.

"Of course, Yashim." Tears stood in his eyes. "Forgive me. I was only thinking selfishly."

Yashim took his hand in his.

"Truth is the only protection we have," he said. He glanced at the dark windows. "Husrev always works late."

"Now?"

"Now is as good a time as any."

Palewski accompanied him to the front door.

"Be careful, my old friend."

Yashim nodded, and went out into the dark.

151.

"YASHIM?"

The old pasha raised his eyes to the door, but the shadow was deep, and his eyes were ruined by years of scrutinizing papers.

"Yashim? Is that you?"

A figure stepped into the lamplight.

"Who are you?" The pasha was not afraid. Not yet. "What do you want?"

Whatever he expected, it was not that voice.

"You won't remember me, Husrev Janovic. Why should you?" The stranger used the language of Husrev's youth; the language of the mountains of Bosnia. "I saw you when you came to our village. Your village."

Husrev's hand moved slowly toward the little bell. "Our village?"

"Polje, Husrev. The family home."

"You want money?" Husrev Pasha growled. "Or work? Why are you here?"

The man stepped closer. "I want vengeance, for the girl you stole."

Husrev Pasha blinked hurriedly. "Girl? What girl?"

"Janetta. The woman you stole to be a sailor's wh.o.r.e."

"Janetta-?" The grand vizier frowned.

"My wife."

Husrev's yellow eyes flickered to the shadow that stood before him. "She will become a queen," he said, slowly. "You are-what? A shepherd? What can you give that woman now?"

The man hesitated. Husrev Pasha's hand closed around the bell.

"My wife is dead. She died. In a fire at the sailor's house."

"No, no." Husrev Pasha lifted the bell and shook it.

The peal startled the man.

He saw his journey coming to nothing. His vengeance unappeased.

But he was swift with a knife. He had always been good with the knife.

Husrev Pasha caught the spark of metal in the light.

The man with the knife knew how to kill.

A weight caught him below the knees. He was a big man and he fell back, seeing the ceiling spin, and the raised knife in his hand-and then the room was full of voices.