The Snake Stone (11 page)

F
OR
the time it takes to say a mass.
Yashim sat down. The book was written—assembled was a better word—by a Dr. Stephanitzes, late physician-in-ordinary to the Greek army of independence. It had been recently published in Athens, the capital of independent Greece. The paper was cheap; the gold-blocked title on the cover was blurred around the edges.

Yashim had never come across such a book before—a wild flinging together of prophecy, prejudice, false premise, and circular argument. It preached a story that began with the collapse of Byzantine power in 1453 and wound its way, over hundreds of pages and many false starts and irrelevant asides, to its eventual restoration under its last emperor, miraculously reborn.

Yashim discovered the oracles of an ancient patriarch, Tarasios, and of Leo the Wise; the prognostications of Methodios of Patara; the curiously prophetic epitaph on the tomb of Constantine the Great, who had founded the city fifteen hundred years before; all of them twisted and sugared up by the visions of one Agathangelos, who foresaw the city liberated by a great phalanx of blond northern giants, while the Turks themselves were to be chased away beyond the Red Apple Tree.

This, then, was the Great Idea. A farrago of blasphemies and wishful thinking—but heady stuff, Yashim had to admit. Like sticking your nose through the gateway to the Spice Bazaar. If you were a Greek, and you wanted to believe, then here was the sacred text, without a doubt.

I
N
the church of St. George, the archimandrite waved the censer again and filled the air with the grateful fragrance of sandalwood and frankincense. He intoned the words of the creed.

I believe in One God, Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth and of everything visible and invisible,
he sang.

And in One Lord, Jesus Christ, the only-begotten Son of God, begotten of the Father before all ages.

Light of Light, True God of True God, begotten, not made, consubstantial with the Father, through Whom all things were made.

He sang the words; his body trembled to the majestic statement of faith; but his mind was elsewhere. Had he, he wondered, already said too much?

I acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins.

And then there was the book. The Ottoman authorities probably didn’t know that it existed. It was better that way.

I await the resurrection of the dead.

And the life of the ages to come.

That was the way it should be kept.

Amen.

Y
ASHIM
made his way into the Grand Bazaar. It was two days since Goulandris the bookseller had been killed, and still confidence had not returned: locked doors punctuated the frothy rows of booths, the vendors seemed subdued, the crowd less busy than usual.

Malakian was at his doorway, sitting quietly on a mat with his hands in his lap.

“Do you have news?”

Yashim inclined his head. “Lefèvre, the Frenchman we talked about? He was killed in Pera.”

Malakian sighed. “It is like I said. Lefèvre lived a dangerous life.”

“That’s not quite what you said, Malakian efendi. You said he did not always dig with a spade.”

“It is the same, my friend. In Istanbul, I think, it is better that the ground is not disturbed.”

“Lefèvre disturbed something.” Yashim squatted down beside the old man. “Or someone.”

“You will have a coffee with me,” Malakian said.

Yashim could tell he didn’t mean it. He declined. “The Hetira, efendi.”

The old Armenian paused before replying. “I think a man like Lefèvre would work where money is to be found. But sometimes in these places there are too many secrets, also, and so there is no trust. A negotiation is not easy. I am sorry for his children.”

“His children?” Yashim found it hard to imagine a Lefèvre with children. But then, what would he know? “Do you have children, Malakian efendi?”

The old man nodded solemnly. “Five,” he said.

“God’s blessing upon them,” Yashim said politely. “Malakian efendi, do you still have that coin for Dr. Millingen? The English collector?”

It was Malakian who looked surprised. “Of course. He does not come here every day.”

“I will be in Pera this afternoon,” Yashim said. “I could take him the coin, if you liked.”

Malakian turned his head to look at Yashim. “You want to meet Dr. Millingen?”

“Yes,” Yashim said.

“M
Y
French is—indifferent, I’m afraid,” said Millingen. He laughed pleasantly and held out a hand. Yashim took it: the doctor had a firm grip. Scarcely older than Yashim, he looked in good shape: the grizzled hair, the lean, brown face, the tall, erect posture. He was neatly dressed in a black cutaway coat and a brilliant white shirt; his cravat was loose at the neck.

“Most kind of you to come. Aram’s been throwing out hints these past few weeks, and my collector’s instinct tells me what you’ve brought. You aren’t an addict, too?”

Yashim smiled. “I do not collect coins, doctor.”

“Good for you! I caught the bug in Greece—time on my hands. It’s nothing much, but I’ve been making a collection of late Byzantine coinage. All those states and little kingdoms which grew up after the crusaders sacked the city in 1204. Silver obloids minted by the Morean despots, for instance. This, I suspect, may be the one I’m missing.”

Dr. Millingen slid the coin from its pouch onto his leather-topped desk and prodded it with his finger. “I knew it. An angelus. Damn, but Malakian is clever. I’ll wager he had this coin the whole time.” He looked up and pulled a face. “A collector is a very weak man, wouldn’t you say? Six months ago I would not have given five piastres for this coin. Now it arrives to close a gap, and Aram Malakian will have me paying through the nose.”

“Well, I suppose if Malakian always supplies you with your coins, he can’t help knowing what you are looking for,” Yashim pointed out.

“Ah, no.” Millingen wagged his finger. “That’s part of the game—when I remember to play it properly. I don’t rely on Aram, you see. There are other dealers, though I admit he’s the best. Sometimes I think they operate a ring, pool their information. So I have to lean on friends outside the bazaar, too. You’d be surprised. There’s a monk in Filibe who helps me, and an old friend in Athens. A doctor, like me. But Malakian! He’ll ruin me!”

Yashim smiled. “I’m afraid he only asked me to bring it over. He didn’t mention money.”

“Not a word!” Dr. Millingen laughed again, and ran his hands through his curls. “The old fox! He knows I’ve been sitting here with my tongue hanging out. And in a moment I’ll put this angelus with the others and complete the set. And then how could I ever let it go again? Oh, Yashim efendi, I’m afraid our old friend has quite deceived you. You have just sold your first angelus.”

Yashim smiled. “I am afraid, Dr. Millingen, that it is I who have perhaps deceived you. I was glad to bring you this coin, but really it is some information that I want.”

Millingen waved his hand. “Fire away,” he said affably.

Yashim found himself hesitating. “At the palace, they will speak for me.”

Dr. Millingen leaned forward slightly. “Yes, Yashim efendi. I believe I know you.”

Yashim felt encouraged. “I knew the unfortunate Monsieur Lefèvre, as well. The man who was killed.”

“Ah, yes. Bad business, that.”

“He told me you had met once.”

Millingen looked surprised. “It’s quite possible. Who knows? I’m afraid he was rather beyond recognition this morning.”

“You examined the body.”

“An autopsy. It means to have a look for oneself—from the ancient Greek. I never liked the postmortem stuff, to be honest. I’m a doctor, not a pathologist: it’s my job to save lives.”

“Lives may be saved if we can find out who did this.”

Millingen looked dubious. “A dark alley, in the middle of the night? You can rule out witnesses. Those dogs make enough noise to wake the dead. Anyway, this is Pera, not Stamboul.”

“Efendi?”

“It would take more than murder to get the Perotes out of their own houses on a dark night. Haven’t you noticed—the people here are colder than a Scotch welcome?”

“But the cause of death—and the time. You reached a judgment?”

Millingen frowned. “Yes, I did. It was somewhat spectacular—the trunk was hacked open, from stomach to sternum. But he was actually killed, I suspect, with a blackjack: a powerful blow to the base of the neck. He was almost certainly unconscious when they cut him open. Spatchcocked, you might say, like a widgeon or a teal.”

“But why?”

“Purest speculation: whoever killed him wanted to attract the dogs. Quite decent plan—although it’s the dogs, ironically, which help me suggest a time of death.”

“How’s that, Dr. Millingen?”

“The teeth marks. Some are older, which caused a loss of blood when the body was still fresh. Then an overlapping set of marks, sometimes a parallel set. The dogs tend to feed by night, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Last night the body was pulled apart. And of course there are other indications, like the state of decomposition, desiccation of the eyeballs, and such. He couldn’t have been killed much later than the night before last; possibly, I suppose, a little earlier. I’ll be suggesting a time of death between noon Monday and, say, six o’clock on the Tuesday morning.”

Not good, Yashim thought: that put him and Lefèvre together, alone, at a time when he could have been killed.

“How soon can you make your report, Dr. Millingen?” He hoped it sounded casual.

Millingen smiled. “Between you and me, it could be tomorrow. But the ambassador’s given me a week.” He glanced down at the coin on his desk. “I wish you luck, Yashim efendi. These sort of crimes are the hardest to resolve.”

Yashim nodded. He liked Millingen’s air of detachment: it was a professional air. The manner of a man trained to notice things. “Dr. Millingen, you’ve been among the Greeks. You have some experience of their—ambitions.”

Millingen frowned. “I know many Greeks, of course. But their ambitions? I’m afraid I don’t quite—”

“No, forgive me,” Yashim said. “There’s a society, a secret society, I’ve learned a bit about recently. The Hetira. I wondered if you’d heard of it?”

“Umm.” Millingen reached forward and picked up the Morean coin. “Secret societies.” He shook his head and chuckled. “The Greeks are a very charming people. But…I got to know many of them years ago, in the Morea. They were all involved in the struggle for Greek independence, of course—I went to Missilonghi with Lord Byron.

“What was it that Lord Byron used to say? The Greeks don’t know a problem from a poker. The truth is, they’d intrigue over a potato—and when I say they were involved in the struggle, I don’t mean they went out to win it. Most of the time they fought each other. Very disappointing. Byron wanted them to be like classical Greeks, full of the Platonic virtues; and they aren’t. Nobody is. They’re a good people, but they’re like children. A Greek can laugh, cry, forget, and want to kill his best friend all in the space of an afternoon!” He leaned back and smiled. “When I was a boy, we used to make ourselves dens in the bushes. We’d have Bonaparte marching through the garden, and we’d be ready to take him on—and his army. That’s the Greeks all through. They make themselves secret worlds. It’s politics, if you like—but it’s play, too.”

He held the coin between finger and thumb and flicked it so that it spun round.

“A Greek’s a brave fighter on the battlefield—the battlefield that exists in his own head. He slaughters Albanians, routs the Turks, and battles Mehmed Ali to the very gates of Cairo! He’ll take on the world, like Alexander the Great—except that afterward he smokes his pipe, drinks a coffee, forgets, and sits like an old Turk. It’s what you call kif, isn’t it? A state of contented contemplation. The Greeks pretend they don’t have it, and to look at them sometimes you’d believe it—but they’ve got the kif habit worse than anyone.” He closed his eyes and let his head drift slowly; then he snapped awake and chuckled again. “But do you know why he doesn’t fight? I’ll tell you this for nothing. A Greek can never obey another Greek. They’re all in factions, and every faction has a single member.”

Yashim laughed. What Dr. Millingen said was unanswerable: the Greeks were quixotic. No one could deny that the little kingdom of Greece had been founded largely in spite of the Greeks’ own efforts. Eleven years ago, in 1828, an Anglo-French fleet had destroyed the Ottomans at Navarino, and dictated the terms of Greek independence to end a civil war that had been dragging on for years.

“A secret society, doctor?”

Dr. Millingen had begun to let the coin run across the back of his hand, weaving it in and out between his fingers.

“In my experience, there are many Greek secret societies. It’s in the blood. Some are for trade. Some for family. In the kingdom of Greece, so I’ve heard, some agitate for a republic, or socialism.”

“Yes, I see. And the Hetira?”

“I’ve heard of them. You are a friend of Malakian’s, so I’ll tell you what I know: it’s not to be repeated, if you understand me. The Hetira are anti-Ottoman, in a fairly subdued way. Most secret societies are, or they wouldn’t exist. But the Hetira really despise the kingdom of Greece. They believe that the kingdom was constructed by secret negotiation between the Ottoman Empire and the European powers, to keep Greeks in the Ottoman lands quiet.”

“A conspiracy?”

“Between a cunning sultan and compliant foreign ambassadors. For the likes of the Hetira, Greece is nothing more than a sop to European opinion. In the meantime, they indulge a dream. They want a new empire. Greeks don’t live in Greece alone. Trabzon, Izmir, Constantinople: they’re full of Greeks, aren’t they?”

Yashim watched in fascination as the angelus rippled between Millingen’s knuckles. “But also Turks. And Armenians, Jews. What of them?”

The doctor turned his wrist, and his fingers closed around the coin. When he opened his hand, it had gone.

Yashim smiled and stood up. “That’s a pretty trick,” he said.

“Missilonghi was a very long drawn-out affair.” Dr. Millingen laughed. “As I say, we had time on our hands. But interesting company.”

He flexed his fingers.

The ancient coin winked in his palm.