The Baklava Club: A Novel (Investigator Yashim) (14 page)

Mrs. Baxi did not know anything about back; that part, at least, she had forgotten; and of course the driver knew nothing about it, either. If he was to wait, he explained, he would expect to be paid half-fare up front, ambassador or no ambassador.

Palewski ground his teeth. Marta was dispatched for the money. By now a small crowd of little boys had formed around the residency gates: any hitch was worth watching. There were some men around, too, casual loafers and even a few students with nothing much better to do during their lunch break, standing at the back of the boys and gawking at the Polish ambassador’s preparations to go out in a carriage.

Marta brought the money, the driver was paid, and at last Palewski claimed his fare by climbing into the cab.

Only now did it occur to him that he should have sent the cab to wait at the port, without approaching the residency at all. He shrank back against the tattered leather seats, gripping the sides as the cab lumbered forward at a gentle trot. He could see the crowd of boys parting as they passed through the gates, and some of them ran alongside, caroling and hooting. One of them jumped up onto the footplate and pushed his face against the glass like a gargoyle.

Palewski closed his eyes. There was sweat on his chin, and he leaned forward to open the window, detaching the leather strap that pegged the pane in place. Nothing happened; the window did not budge. He had not expected it to.

The boys fell away as the cab turned into the Grande Rue, lurching from side to side so that Palewski was thrown against the upholstery. The window dropped with a sudden crash, and hot air wafted in. The driver slowed. Palewski imagined him peering down to assess what damage had been done, and prayed he would not stop.

After a few anxious moments the horse picked up, and they carried on jouncing along the Grande Rue. Palewski laid his hat on the floor and took a grip of the window with one hand, bracing himself against the far side of the cab with the other.

At Taksim, the new building petered out. He glimpsed the tiled roof of the water tank, and then he stuck out his feet to brace himself as they half-slid, half-toppled downhill toward the Bosphorus.

“Should have walked,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “Bloody conspicuous…! Old man … shaken … to pieces.”

His foot slipped from the wall of the cab and landed on his hat, denting the crown. “Damn!”

They slowed to a stop. Palewski retrieved his hat and stuck his head out the window.

They had arrived at the water’s edge—with a flock of sheep!

“Push on!” Palewski shouted to the driver. “Quick, get ahead!”

There was still a gap—he whacked the hat in frustration against the window ledge. He’d have seized it—why did cabmen have to be such laggards? The sheep jostled against the wheels of the cab.

He flung himself back into the seat, and consulted his watch.

Seven minutes to two. At two o’clock, the prince would come ashore.

He closed his eyes in an agony of indecision. Ten minutes to walk to the quay. Without the sheep, five by carriage. The sheep would block the road for the next mile to Tophane, unless the driver maneuvered past them. But would he?

The inactivity was unbearable. He pictured Czartoryski stepping confusedly onto the quay, expecting—what? A friendly face, Palewski, a carriage … Loungers in the port, noting his arrival. Runners to the Russian embassy.

Palewski took out his handkerchief to mop his forehead and instead crumpled it up and bit into it.

With an oath he snatched at the handle of the door and leaped out, into the sheep.

“At the gates!” he shouted. The driver looked around in surprise. “At the gates, wait. You understand? Get there as fast as you can, and wait for me!”

He began to wade through the flock, then turned. The driver was looking straight ahead with his one good eye.

“Double fare, driver! When we get back—understood?”

A ewe butted him in the back of his knees and he lurched forward to avoid falling. He was wading through sheep, touching a hand to each head as he swam by. When he looked around, the driver was still staring fixedly ahead.

Palewski shoved and cursed his way to the edge of the flock, on the landward side. In a few moments he had overtaken them, pursued by the irritated shouts of the drovers. His dented hat was still in his hand.

A mile, he had guessed: it seemed like two. He walked like a man possessed, sweat streaming down his collar.

All that mattered was to reach the quayside before Prince Czartoryski came ashore. His legs scissored madly, he hunched forward, the afternoon sun beat down on his unprotected head—and he felt the most important moment of his whole diplomatic career turning away from him like a sunflower!

The boat would be late, he told himself, as the port inched itself toward him beneath his swirling feet.

He glanced back: he could see the flock like a pale rug spread across the road, and the cab still bringing up the rear. He’d secure his guest, get out of the port, and meet the cab under the trees. He was disheveled—why not? Czartoryski would understand—the drama. The haste. The excitement! Why, it was like Moscow, back in ’12!

Palewski surged ahead, young again.

And found himself jostling on the crowded quay.

26

“I think it’s disgraceful, to keep a horse like that.”

Eliza pulled Compston back and pointed at the bony nag.

“They come like that. Special breed,” Compston explained. It was not the time to discuss the welfare of Istanbul cab horses: it was miracle enough that they had spotted one when it was wanted. “Bred like greyhounds, all rib.”

“Nonsense. In Ireland, horse like that, we’d shoot it. Doesn’t the driver feed his animal?”

Compston chose to ignore the question.

“Hey, driver! Take us to Pera!
Pera götürür!
”

The driver didn’t look around. Compston noticed that he had a funny eye. He led Eliza around the horse’s nose, aiming to try from the other side.

“Hey, driver!”

The driver looked down.

“To Pera! We want to go to the British embassy.”

The driver glanced over his shoulder, perplexed. If he had understood the arrangement properly, he was to wait here by the trees for the ambassador. But first it was a one-way fare, then they wanted fetching home, and finally the ambassador had leaped out of the cab with some unintelligible remark. What if his plans had changed again? These young Franks must be connected to the ambassador in some way.

“Twenty
kuruş
, blast it! I’ll give you twenty to help this young lady get home.”

The driver shifted uneasily in his seat. It was a lot of money. Twenty
kuru
ş
was twice what the ambassador had offered—and he might not be back for hours—if he came at all.

“Forty,” he growled.

“Thirty.”

“Thirty-five.”

“Get in, Miss Day.” Compston tugged open the door.

“Certainly not, Mr. Compston. Do you see how he treats his nag? Why, the nosebag’s full of nothing but chaff!”

“Certainly not?”

“I’ve no intention—”

George Compston was solidly built. He scooped up Eliza by the waist and dumped her in the cab. Then he climbed in after her and slammed the door. “There.”

Eliza was too astonished to protest. The cab moved off and she scrambled unsteadily into the seat.

“Mr. Compston!” she exclaimed, but her eyes were strangely bright.

To Compston’s astonishment, she began to laugh.

“Oh, Mr. Compston! You’re a rotten guide, but that doesn’t really matter, does it? There’s always a Murray’s Handbook … I do like a fellow who can get a girl a cab!”

Compston flushed. Eliza was still laughing—she looked awfully well, he thought.

As he glanced through the back window of the cab, he thought he saw two men in the road, in top hats.

One of them was gesticulating.

Compston turned his head. There was a sudden bang from somewhere along the road, and Eliza clutched his arm.

“What was that?”

“Oh, firecracker,” he said airily. He was on surer ground here. “Mahommedan festival stuff. Wedding, probably. It’s typical Istanbul, Miss Day.”

27

“O
H
Christ!” roared Palewski, as he watched his cab clatter away up the dusty shore road. “Come back!”

The prince laid a hand on his arm, and Palewski swiveled around. “Please, Palewski. Don’t excite yourself. I am quite sure—”

Palewski was never to learn what Prince Czartoryski was so sure about. There was a bang, followed by a ripple of sounds like seeds popping open, and the breath shot from his chest.

28

F
OR
Giancarlo, Rafael, and Fabrizio it was also a rough morning.

La Piuma’s instructions had been clear, down to the name of the ship and the date of its expected arrival. The mark, La Piuma wrote, was a European nobleman, seventy years old, tall, slender, and traveling alone. In all probability he would be met by the Polish ambassador, Count Palewski.

It was essential, La Piuma wrote, that the nobleman never leave the port. Once in Palewski’s protective custody he would be hard to reach, and the intelligence he carried would have been passed on. It was vital, for the success of the cause, that the stranger be stopped—preferably on board ship, but if that was too difficult to arrange, certainly on the quayside.

Giancarlo had swept his fair hair from his forehead and gritted his teeth.

There was a final flourish:
Prepare yourselves
, and a small sketch drawing of a quill.

Rafael flushed when he read Palewski’s name.

“Palewski! That complicates the business.”

Fabrizio shrugged. “La Piuma doesn’t say it is a problem.”

“He’s been good to us,” Rafael said stubbornly. “I mean—he’s a friend. And he favors the revolution.”

“La Piuma may have information we can’t guess at.” Giancarlo gestured to the letter. “We have to be careful, Rafael.”

“I don’t like it, all the same,” Rafael said.

“It’s not what you like or don’t like!” Fabrizio burst out. “We aren’t here to talk and talk. We offered ourselves to the cause, and now it makes a demand. So, fulfill the demand,
e basta
!”

He chopped the air with his hand.

Rafael cocked his head: “What about Birgit?”

“She’s asleep,” Giancarlo said, as if that explained everything.

“Man’s work,” Fabrizio had said, smoothing his black hair. “I’ll see you both later.”

29

T
WO
figures shimmered at the foot of the bed: Palewski supposed they were angels. He was surprised that his side still hurt. He thought that a man on his way to heaven should be relieved of all pain and anxiety.

The anxiety returned: first he groped for it, then startled, and groaned aloud. He saw his own pale hand on the cobbles, and there was a cab, driving away, and a man—falling. A hand on his arm—the prince! Yes—then Czartoryski falling. Blood—had there been blood?

But it seemed that it was he, Palewski, who had fallen.

He was not surprised when one of the angels clarified by his bedside into the figure of Marta. He shot out a hand.

“The prince!”

Marta squeezed his fingers. “Kyrie,” she murmured.

Palewski followed her sideways glance: “Yashim! The prince…”

Yashim moved up the bed and sat down gently at Palewski’s side. “The prince? Tell us about him.”

“I met him—at the port. There was—there was a cab. Mine. I took it there. It was gone.”

He controlled a grimace; fresh sweat beaded his forehead. Marta took a flannel and dabbed it across his face. He closed his eyes.

“A cab. Sheep.” His voice had sunk to a mumble.

Yashim leaned forward. “And the prince?”

His eyelids fluttered. “The cab…” His murmur was indistinct.

Yashim glanced up at Marta inquiringly. She pulled a face. “There was a cab, Yashim efendi. The widow Baxi found it for the kyrie, so that he could go to the port and bring his guest home.”

“His guest—?”

“He did not give me his name.”

“This prince, do you think?” Yashim frowned. Palewski’s special guest, obviously, but prince of where?

“Who is the prince—and where is he?”

Palewski stirred, and his lips moved toward Yashim. “Cab … gone. Is Char … Ch—”

His teeth began to chatter. Marta mopped his forehead.

“Who brought him home, Marta?”

“Two men, efendi. They walked him back—he could walk, a little. They were Turks. Maybe fishermen. They would not stay.”

When Marta had summoned Yashim earlier that afternoon, Palewski was already on his bed. Dr. Millingen was explaining to Marta how to pick out the pellets.

“Peppered with shot, on his left side,” he explained. He held a pair of tweezers and dropped a lead pellet into a bowl by the bed. It pinged against the china. “Torn up. Must keep the wounds clean. He’s out for the moment, which is no bad thing—this sort of probing hurts.” He bent over Palewski’s ribs, and stretched the skin with his fingers. With the other hand he inserted tweezers carefully into the little round hole. Palewski groaned and jerked.

Millingen paused. “Steady, old man.” He began groping into the wound with the sharp metal jaws. “Bah, it’s these tiny pellets.”

Yashim peered into the bowl. The shot that Millingen and Marta had extracted was lying in a sticky heap at the bottom; a few had stuck to the sides.

“This shot—it’s too small to kill a man,” Yashim murmured. “Except at point-blank range.”

The leeches arrived in a jar, sticking to the glass. Millingen rolled up his sleeve and plunged his hand into the jar. One by one, he began applying them to the wounds.

“A few steps closer,” Millingen agreed, “and the ambassador would probably have died. Whoever let his gun off like this must be feeling pretty shoddy. Dangerous sport, hunting.”

Another pellet clinked into the bowl.

“I’ll say something for the ambassador, it’s not his first wound by a long chalk. Saber scars.” Dr. Millingen gestured vaguely with his tweezers. “Of course, he was a much younger man.” He peered closer. “Bullet wound, too. Which war?”