A Touch of Sin (30 page)

Nor was a Turk always what he seemed in this country where the two races had lived together in various stages of ease and dispute since the fifteenth century.

"We'll need transport for the women once they're found," Hadji remarked.

"And enough trusted men to bring them back to camp," a colleague added.

"Pasha Bey will be—"

"Difficult to take," a young officer declared, his brows drawn together in a scowl. "He rides with Makriyannis's troops, who have the best marksmen and more luck than infidels deserve."

"We locate him first," Hadji brusquely said. "Then we send him a message that we've recaptured the harem. He'll walk into our trap."

"If we can find him," an officer countered.

"We'd better or we die by slow degrees."

"Will he come?"

"Of course. He and Makriyannis are men of honor," an officer sardonically replied.

Trixi spent a restless night at the monastery. The armed monks stood guard throughout the night, the first relief at midnight, another at dawn. She could hear the murmur of voices, the patrols passing by on the circuit of the grounds, such vigilance eerie in a house of God. She finally rose when the first light muted the brilliance of the starlit sky and, dressing quickly, went outside. She wished to inspect her stronghold, the walls, the grounds, buildings, and sheltered gardens; she needed to satisfy herself that she was indeed secure.

After the past weeks of pursuit and personal jeopardy, she was no longer comfortable leaving her safety completely to others. She'd ask for a pistol this morning when she saw Pappas Gregorios, she decided, following the path that led to the courtyard. It would be wise to examine the stables as well, should she and Chris require a horse quickly. She'd heeded Pasha's warning. How could she not, with the degree of military readiness displayed at the monastery?

Chris would have to be forewarned in some ambiguous way that flight might be necessary. Fortunately, he was still of an age where such conduct could be couched in terms of adventure and fantasy. She'd talk to Jules and decide on a suitable story.

A glint of sunlight glistened off the barrel of a rifle high in the tower of the chapel, where a monk perched as lookout. The monastery was well positioned, she reflected, to defend against attack. Later, she'd ask permission to climb the tower and survey the approaches to the monastery.

Day one, with two or three more to go before Pasha returned, she mused, crossing the courtyard. How strange that she was contemplating methods of defense on a guarded hillside in Greece. All because fate had dragooned her into a despicable marriage and Gericault had appeared to save her soul.

As for Pasha, she benevolently thought, he'd given her the will and the spirit to take charge of her future and for that, she realized after the events of last night, she not only loved him, she owed him her life.

An unnerving thought for a woman so recently come into a modicum of independence. Perhaps, she thought with a faint smile, she could owe him a
portion
of her life.

And that portion; she thought, smiling broadly as she mounted the stairway to the archbishop's quarters, wouldn't be in question. The reflection seemed scandalously salacious in such a setting and suppressing the delectable images from their passionate hours together, she returned to matters of a more immediate and pragmatic nature.

Knocking on the priest's door, she waited in the dawn of a summer day to be bid enter. That she was or would soon be the target of men determined to do her harm seemed remote in the calm stillness of morning.

Pasha had no such illusions. He knew anyone connected to him was in danger. He had a host of enemies in Greece, any of whom would take whatever means possible to bring him down—to defeat Makriyannis and his troops and thus eliminate the most threatening force currently at war with the sultan.

He and Makriyannis rode at the head of the troops, their horses lathered, the pace an all-out gallop, the necessity of reaching Tripolitza with all speed spurring them. Their barb steeds were bred to maintain a steady gallop for long distances; with luck, they should reach Tripolitza before noon. But once the supply train began the journey to Nauplia, their snail's pace would make them a prime target for any Turkish attack.

"Do you expect Hussein to reappear?" Makriyannis inquired, turning to cast a searching glance at Pasha.

"As soon as he can put some courage back into his troops," Pasha replied, his eyes heavy-lidded, lounging half asleep in his padded saddle.

"Will he want the women back?"

Pasha's dark brows rose in sardonic inquiry. "Do fish swim?"

"A shame the ladies sail home today."

"A fucking shame." Pasha smiled faintly. "If we had the time, I'd like to go in some night and slit his throat while he sleeps in that great silk tent of his."

"And put an end to his vendetta."

"The world would be a finer place."

"Maybe after this trip back to Nauplia."

Pasha shrugged. "Not likely, with Ibrahim on the move north again and Athens still under siege. Hussein will have to wait."

Hadji entered Nauplia that afternoon wearing Greek dress, appearing like any other guerrilla fighter in the city. Waiting in the square across the street from his uncle's tobacco shop until it was empty of customers, he cautiously approached the entrance and opening the door, quietly walked in.

His uncle looked up from behind the counter, his shock visible. Hurrying around the counter, he put his finger to his mouth and motioning with his hand led his nephew down a corridor, through a doorway into a small office without windows. "Stay here. I have to find Ali to take over."

He returned within minutes and sat down behind a table strewn with papers and tobacco containers. He lifted a bottle of
raki
from a nearby shelf, uncorked it, poured himself a glass, and drank it down in one gulp. Pushing the bottle across the table toward Hadji, he gazed at his nephew. "What do you want?" he coolly said. "I hope it's only information, because I'm not interested in putting my life in jeopardy for that stupid Albanian Ibrahim."
¹⁶

"I have similar reservations, uncle, but at the moment, my life is at stake." He went on to explain the necessity of carrying out Hussein Djeritl's orders. "If you could discover where the women of his harem have been taken, as well as the location of Pasha Bey, my mother, your sister, would be as grateful as I. Otherwise my colleagues and I will be sent to the Porte in cages to die."

His uncle grimaced, shifted in his chair, reached for the liquor bottle again. "You understand my life would be forfeit as well as my family's if my treachery were revealed."

"Hire an informer."

"Worse. None of them can be trusted."

"Simply give me some possible locations then. I'll reconnoiter them myself."

"Pasha Bey's residence is no secret. I'll direct you there. And for the sake of my sister, I'll ask two sources I trust what they know of the harem ladies. But I won't do more. I'm sorry, my family would die by the hands of the Greeks if I were implicated in your plot."

Hadji nodded his agreement. The two men shared a drink, shook hands, and agreed to meet after the store had closed for the night. Hadji left to survey Pasha's house and warehouse, while his uncle went in search of his friends and any information they might have on Hussein's harem.

Later that evening, his uncle related the news that the harem had left Nauplia that day in English ships.

Hadji listened to the information with mixed feelings. Hussein's reactions were unpredictable, and his harem was definitely gone. On the other hand, he and his colleagues couldn't be expected to return the harem once the women had been placed on English ships beyond their reach. A modicum of relief invaded his senses.

For his part, he'd discovered possible recompense for the loss of Hussein's harem. A worker in Pasha Bey's warehouse had been loquacious after several drinks in the cafe, and Hadji had learned that Pasha Bey's newest paramour had been placed for safekeeping in the armed monastery of St. Elijah. Perhaps Hussein would settle for an alternative prize in lieu of his lost harem. And with his English paramour Hussein's captive, Pasha Bey was sure to come calling.

At which point his head could be placed on the pike outside of Hussein's tent with a minimum of effort.

Hadji smiled and extended his hand to his uncle. "Thank you. I'll be gone from Nauplia before morning. You and your family can rest easy."

"I never saw you, should anyone ask. I'll deny you in public. You understand?"

"Certainly." Hadji stood and bowed. "You won't see me again."

A moment later, alone in his office, the uncle of Hadji poured himself a large
raki
, the tremor in his hands visible. It was over and he'd survived. Short of torture, he'd never tell anyone of this visit.

When Hadji returned to the small camp north of the city where his colleagues waited, his news was greeted with cheerful smiles. England and Turkey were allies. International repercussions would ensue should they attempt to recapture the harem.

"Thank Allah for the women's swift departure," one of the officers rejoiced.

"One less obstacle in our bid for life," another declared.

"But we still need Pasha Bey," Hadji reminded them, "and he's a formidable opponent. I suggest we take his woman, and…" He went on to explain.

He'd spent considerable time reconnoitering the monastery site that day and he outlined the stronghold's defenses. "We have to go in tonight in order to return to Hussein in time. The steep rise above the monastery offers the best ingress."

Each man had responsibility for maintaining watch on the dozen patrolling guards Hadji had estimated were on at night. Their routine had to remain unbroken, for they reported in sequence at ten-minute intervals. It would be up to two of them to slip between the patrols, pass through the north gardens, and enter the building where the Englishwoman slept. "I talked to the guard at the front gate this afternoon. I told him I'd brought a message to the government from the siege at Athens and had half a day leave before returning. By good fortune, he had relatives near Athens. He gave me a letter to deliver to them. The Englishwoman is of supreme importance to Pasha Bey. He left orders for no one to be admitted into the monastery for any reason. The gates are sealed until his return."

"Hussein should be pleased to have her if she's so prized by Pasha Bey."

"But more pleased to have Pasha Bey's head," Hadji tersely said.

Weapons were checked, yataghans and daggers the weapon of choice tonight. Only in extremity would their guns be fired. They hoped to take the woman out noiselessly so they could be well on their way to Navarino before her loss was discovered.

The cloudly night aided their movements, their approach undetected. Everyone counted under their breath, watching the armed monks pass under the wall, knowing another would soon follow. "Now," Hadji whispered after the guard disappeared, and the two men jumped, landing in the soft dirt of the garden. Clothed in monk's garb, Hadji and his companion moved through the shadowed garden on bare feet, careful to make no sound in the silent night. Keeping to the shadowed wall, they approached the doorway into the wing housing the Englishwoman. The door hinge squeaked as they pulled it open and both men froze, their hands on their daggers. Taut seconds passed while they waited to see if the noise had wakened anyone. After several breath-held moments, the stillness remained unbroken, and they continued their course, easing themselves through the door. On alert for any movement in the darkened corridor, they advanced toward the stairway. The woman was on the second floor, Hadji had deducted from his conversation with the guard at the gate. She'd been given the room with the best view of the bay.

Like muffled wraiths, they ascended the narrow staircase, crossed the landing at the top of the stairs, and stood in the doorway of a large room dominated by a bed and an elaborate prie-dieu. The woman lay asleep, her golden hair pale in the darkness, her skin alabaster, her white sleeping gown drawing the eye in the shadowed room.

Both men stood transfixed for a moment by the glorious female confined within the walls of the monastery. A delectable enchantress their master was sure to appreciate.

At a signal from Hadji, they moved swiftly. A dark hand clamped hard over the woman's mouth, her eyes were covered before she could completely open them, and seconds later she was secured with bonds, hand and foot. A gag replaced the unyielding hand and she was tossed over Hadji's shoulder.

Who were her captors? Trixi wondered, surprised at her lack of hysteria. Alarm was useless in any event, at this stage, she decided. Instead her mind raced with possible enemies—such capable enemies. Were the Grosvenors so far from England? Or the Clouards? Who else could it be? Where were the monks on guard? And then a jolt of terror chilled her to the core. Had Chris been taken? Please, God, no, she silently pleaded. He was too young to be frightened from his sleep, too young to be torn from his mother. As if propelled by a sudden madness, she kicked and twisted and turned, trying to break free, her panic giving her strength.

Quickly coming to a stop, Hadji whispered briefly to his companion and immediately a hand covered her mouth and nose, cutting off her air supply.

She lost consciousness within moments, and Hadji ran from the building. Racing through the garden, he lifted her to the men on the wall. Pulling Trixi's limp body up, two officers bundled her into a plain dark cloak and handed her down to a horseman outside the monastery wall. Settling his burden across his lap, he walked his horse away from the monastery wall as quietly as possible.

It was three-thirty in the morning, two hours before sunrise.

Two hours before the guard at the monastery would change.

When Pasha first saw the monk riding hard toward them, the horse and rider were barely visible on the horizon. But the black flaring robe was distinctive enough to send an immediate danger signal to his brain. Whipping his mount away from the supply train plodding down the road to Nauplia, he raced toward the oncoming rider, praying his instincts were wrong.