SILK AND SECRETS (40 page)

Juliet stopped combing her hair as the blood drained from her face. “So Ian may be alive, but we don’t know for sure.”

She had been mourning her brother for weeks; to learn that he might be alive was as great a shock as hearing that he was dead. In fact, this was worse, because of the uncertainty. She wanted to swear or weep but didn’t know which. Trying to convince herself that Ian was the man who lived, she said, “I always thought that report of the ferengi crossing himself didn’t sound like Ian. Surely it would be more likely if the man executed was of the Orthodox Church.”

Ross’s gaze was sympathetic, but he would not encourage false hope. “Perhaps, but lately the amir has had better relations with Russia than Britain. It is more likely that he would have executed a Briton.”

Juliet skipped to the underlying question. “Why would the amir claim he executed Ian if he didn’t?”

Ross shook his head. “I have no idea. It could be policy or it could be sheer bloody-mindedness. Nasrullah may have decided that saying he had executed a spy would intimidate other potential spies, but that it was wasteful to kill a Briton who might someday be useful as a hostage. Or there could be other reasons. We’ll probably never know.”

Juliet raised her fist to her mouth and bit her knuckles, hard. Then she closed her eyes for a long moment. When she opened them again, her gaze was hard. “Now that we know Ian might be alive, what are we going to do about it?”

Ross’s mouth twisted and he began to pace. With his golden hair and his long, lithe strides, he was like a caged lion. “I doubt that we can do anything.”

“We must try to rescue him,” Juliet said, knowing that she could not possibly abandon her brother if he was alive, any more than she could have deserted her husband.

Ross’s glance was sardonic. “In other words, after we escape from the nayeb’s compound, we break into a heavily guarded prison, remove a man who is probably in dreadful physical condition from a twenty-foot-deep hole, smuggle him out of the city, then get him safely across the Kara Kum desert in the most hazardous season of the year. And he may not be Ian.”

“We came here to try to save him,” she said stubbornly. “Knowing that he may be alive, we can’t just walk away.”

Ross sighed. “Once more, for what seems like the hundredth time, we are back to the question of whether there is any value in a person committing suicide in a good cause. You know how I feel about that.”

Juliet’s temper flared. “In other words, you’re too much of a coward to try to save him.”

“Of course I’m a coward,” he said promptly. “I’ve been in a flat panic ever since I left Constantinople, and the last few weeks have left me quivering like a bowl of aspic. But the issue isn’t fear: it’s whether it is
possible
to do anything.”

Ross’s words disarmed Juliet to the point where she would have smiled if she had not been so upset. She had seen enough of her husband in action to know that an accusation of cowardice was patently absurd. “I’m sorry,” she said contritely. “I should not have said that. But I can’t bear the idea that Ian might be within a mile of us and suffering terribly. We
must
do something.” She ran her fingers distractedly through her hair. “Do you think Abdul Samut Khan knows whether it is Ian in the Black Well? If so, perhaps you can bribe the truth out of him.”

“If he knows, I don’t think he’ll tell us, or he would already have hinted that he had valuable knowledge.” Ross frowned. “In one sense, knowing whether the prisoner is Ian or the Russian is not the crucial issue. It will probably be impossible to find out which man is in the Black Well, and in any case, I don’t like the idea of leaving any European to the amir’s tender mercies.” He stopped pacing and swung around to face Juliet. “I want to propose a bargain to you.”

She eyed him warily. “What kind of bargain?”

“We must determine whether we have a chance of rescuing the prisoner. If it is possible—not guaranteed, but possible—I promise that I will participate wholeheartedly in a rescue scheme.” Steel entered his voice and he caught her gaze with his. “In return, I want you to agree that if the prison is so well-guarded that there is no realistic hope of success, we will
not
make a suicidal attempt. Instead, we will leave Bokhara as we planned. When and if we reach Teheran, we will contact the British and Russian authorities. Diplomatic pressure might be more effective than heroics on our part.”

Unless the man in the Black Well died in the meantime. But Ross was right; trust him to cut through the emotional tangle to the underlying truth. There was a difference between taking a risk with some hope of success and going to certain death; they must decide which category a rescue attempt fell into. Still… “Who decides what is possible?”

“I was afraid you’d ask that,” he said ruefully. “Since we are going to be working with sketchy information, we’ll just have to talk it out, with me hoping that you’ll be reasonable. Otherwise it’s a stalemate—I doubt if you can successfully invade the prison without my help, while I won’t leave Bokhara without you.”

Juliet arched her brows. “You should know better than to expect me to be reasonable.”

“I said hope, not expect.” He gave her a fleeting smile. “Just remember that the longer we stay, the greater the chance of trouble. Tonight Abdul Samut Khan hinted rather broadly that Shahid Mahmud might decide to deal with us on his own if the army is away very long, and he is one man who will want to destroy you as well as me.”

Juliet winced. She would take her chances with Shahid if she was armed, but she didn’t want him to corner her in a corridor again. “Then there is no time to waste. We need to find a man who is familiar with the prison— Saleh’s brother or Hussayn Kasem may know someone who can answer our questions. And it might be worth talking to Ephraim ben Abraham in more depth.”

“If you visit him, take Saleh,” Ross suggested. “He has an honest face and Ephraim might talk to him.”

“Are you saying that I don’t have an honest face?”

“As Jalal, you don’t have any face at all.” He began unbuttoning his shirt. “You realize that the odds of our reaching Persia alive have just gotten considerably worse? Until today, I thought the worst danger would be crossing the Kara Kum. If we go after the ferengi prisoner, we’ll be lucky to get out of the city at all.”

Juliet shrugged fatalistically. “Perhaps our Muslim friends are right and what will happen is already written. Or maybe they are wrong and it isn’t written, but in either case there isn’t much point in worrying.” She rose and went to stand in front of him so that she could take over the work of unbuttoning. “Your faithful servant is the one who should remove your clothing, O master,” she murmured as her fingers strayed to the warm flesh below the fabric.

He gave a slow smile and caught her hand for a moment, holding it against his heart. “You may not be an obedient servant very often, but I like the times when you pretend.”

Juliet felt a rush of tenderness so profound that it defied speech, so she leaned forward and kissed his bare throat, feeling the pulse of life beneath her lips. There could not be another man anywhere who would understand and accept her as Ross did. Soon she would lose him, either to death or to England, but she made a promise to herself that before that happened, she would somehow find the courage to tell him how much she loved him.

Information about the prison came with unexpected ease. The next day Juliet visited Saleh and Murad early. The boy Reza was off playing with Saleh’s nephews, so she was able to speak freely. Without mentioning the source, she described what Ross had been told and their hope that they might be able to rescue the prisoner in the Black Well.

When she was done, Saleh frowned. “It will be difficult, but it is to your advantage that the army is just leaving the city. With so many soldiers departing, there will be confusion in the palace and the prison, perhaps a shortage of guards. You might accomplish something that would be impossible at another time, but it is essential to learn more about the prison.”

“I was hoping that your brother might know a man who works there, or that he knows a man who will know another man.”

Before Saleh could reply, Murad said, “You need seek no further, for I know exactly the right person.”

When the other two stared at him, Murad grinned.

“His name is Hafiz and his father keeps a silk shop in the next street. We met in a teahouse and have become friends. Hafiz works for his father in the day and in the prison at night, though he does not much like being there. He wants to earn enough money to open a teahouse of his own.”

Saleh stroked his beard. “Truly it is God’s mercy that brought the two of you together.”

Juliet leaned forward in excitement. “If Hafiz will help us, he might have his teahouse much sooner. Can he be trusted not to betray us to the amir?”

Murad considered carefully. The last weeks had matured him. While he still had an engaging boyish grin, he was more thoughtful now, more likely to think before he spoke. Juliet guessed that he was attempting to be more like Ross.

Finally Murad said, “Yes, I believe he is an honest man, and I know that he wishes to earn money.”

Saleh nodded approvingly. “An auspicious combination.”

“Can I meet Hafiz now?” Juliet asked.

“He should be at his father’s shop.” Murad glanced at Juliet. “Would you like to buy some silk from Hafiz’s father, Lady Khilburn? I think that will be a good place to begin.”

So together they went to buy silk.

It was almost curfew when Juliet returned that evening, and Ross was becoming worried over her prolonged absence. However, when she breezed into their rooms and removed her veil, her face was glowing. “You know the Arab term
baraka?
It means the grace or power of God.”

“I’m familiar with the concept.” Ross gave her a welcoming kiss, his arms going around her hard in his relief. “That was how I felt toward the end of the
bozkashi
match, as if I was filled with transcendent power and could not fail.”

Juliet dropped a floppy package wrapped in cheap cotton onto the divan. “Well, the
baraka
is with us.”

“Does that mean you discovered something useful?” He glanced at the package she had brought in. “Or just that you had a successful day of shopping in the bazaars?”

She grinned, unfazed by his teasing. “I did buy rather a lot of very expensive silk. Not the local kind, but some that was imported from China. Exquisitely light, almost transparent. A complete waste of money, but buying it was a vital step in the information-gathering process. It turns out that a friend of Murad’s works at the prison, and from what he told me, the procedures are surprisingly casual. I think we might be able to talk our way in through pure audacity. I also called on the Kasems and Ephraim ben Abraham.”

Ross sat her down on the divan, then pulled her boots off and began rubbing her feet. They were long and slender and shapely, like the rest of her. “You’ve had a full day.”

“That feels wonderful.” As he massaged her feet, Juliet gave an ecstatic sigh and wiggled her toes with pleasure. “After you hear what I’ve learned, even you will admit that we have a decent chance of getting Ian out of the prison.”

“It might not be Ian who is there,” he said softly.

Her face clouded for a moment. Then she shook her head, refusing to think about it. “Every marriage needs one person in charge of worrying, and in this marriage, you’re it.”

Slightly taken aback, Ross stopped massaging her feet. “I always thought of it as having common sense.”

Juliet leaned forward and gave him a sweet, hot kiss. “You’re in charge of that too.” Then she settled back and began recounting all that she had been told.

By the time she was done, Ross was willing to admit that there was a possibility that they could get into the prison, and more important, get out again—if none of a thousand different things went wrong. Lavish bribes would have to be paid, which was not a problem. The danger was that many people would be involved, and each additional person increased the likelihood of error or betrayal.

Still, they had a chance, and he had made a bargain. They would not leave Bokhara without trying to rescue the mysterious man who languished in the Black Well.

Perhaps the
baraka
was indeed with them, but as his massage progressed from Juliet’s slim feet to higher and more interesting places, the phrase that came to mind was not Arabic but the ironic motto of the Roman gladiator:
Nos morituri, te salutamus.

We who are about to die salute you.

As a climactic shower of silver and amber light blazed across the sky, Abdul Samut Khan clapped a jovial hand on his guest’s shoulder. “Splendid fireworks, do you not agree? The Chinese engineer who does them for me is a master of his craft.”

“Indeed he is,” Ross said. “Your festival will be long remembered.”

When the last rockets had faded away, slaves relit torches and lamps. The nayeb’s description of a small feast for a few friends had been an understatement of massive proportions, for several hundred guests, many of them officers, were enjoying the nayeb’s hospitality. Tomorrow the army would march for Kokand to the sound of drums and the firing of cannon, but now an air of fevered pleasure-seeking filled the gardens.

Mountains of food had been served and Ross had caught a couple of whiffs of burning hashish, but the absence of alcohol meant that the crowd was orderly compared to a European one. In one corner a storyteller resumed spinning tales of the famous Nasreddin Hoja to a rapt audience, while mimes performed on an impromptu stage at the far end of the compound.

Of course there were no women, except for Juliet, who skulked around in the shadows, unobtrusively observing. Ross guessed that the ladies of the nayeb’s harem were all wistfully watching the festivities from behind their latticed windows.

“Now it is time for the dancing,” Abdul Samut Khan said with great anticipation. “You will sit with me in front.” He had kept Ross close all night. It was an honor, of course, but also an effective way of ensuring that the ferengi did not take advantage of the confusion to try to escape. To underline the point, Yawer Shahid Mahmud was never far away.