compromise; he’ll level the whole country first.”
“I’m more worried about what might happen when Hammid learns that we have made the deal.” Malik put down the newspaper. “It has to look like a hostile transaction.”
“Shah wants to meet with you. Tell him that.” Anwar hesitated, then moved back to what was, for him, the real issue. “Can you give up the girl?” he asked.
“For five thousand kurush, I’ll have to,” Malik said, and walked away.
* * *
Secretary Danforth accepted a cup of tea from Beatrice Woolcott and added a lump of sugar to it. He looked up as the servant, Listak, silently offered him a tray of comfits.
“Have one,” James said. “My wife makes them from an old family recipe, using the local hazelnuts in place of Georgia pecans. They’re very good.”
Danforth selected a delicacy and dropped it onto the gilt rimmed porcelain plate at his elbow. The china was the finest Limoges, in keeping with the rest of the appointments in the stately home.
James Woolcott was indeed prospering in Turkey.
“So the official word from the Sultan is that there is nothing he can do?” James said, continuing the conversation that the arrival of refreshments had interrupted.
Danforth nodded, his mouth full. He patted his lips with a napkin and swallowed before replying.
“He says that the people who kidnapped your niece are outlaws living under a death sentence. If apprehended, they will of course suffer the ultimate penalty, but until then no monarch can halt completely the commission of crimes in his country.”
“In other words, go scratch,” Beatrice said dryly, sniffing and flicking an invisible bit of lint from the tight cuff of her organdy sleeve.
“I’m afraid so,” Danforth agreed. “The Sultan knows that our country is in sympathy with the rebels so he’s not going to lift a finger to help locate a missing American woman. Your niece is a victim of international gamesmanship.”
“Then Kalid Shah is our only hope,” James observed.
“I told you he would be,” Beatrice said.
“Do you think this bandit will listen to him?” James asked the Secretary.
Danforth set down his cup and dusted crumbs from his fingertips.
“If he doesn’t, you’ll never see your niece again,” he said gravely.
* * *
The side street just off the main thoroughfare was more like an alley, too narrow for anything but foot traffic and deeply rutted from the carts used to transport goods to the shops. The adobe structure at its end was low and dark, full of the smells of closely packed humanity and the dense smoke from Turkish tobacco. The babble of many languages formed a background noise as Kalid Shah loomed in the doorway of the cayhanesi , or coffeehouse.
Kalid was dressed like a British businessman in a three piece suit, his kaffe skin, vaguely European features and Victorian beard enhancing the Western tourist effect. He spotted Malik Bey immediately at the back of the room. The younger man was disguised as a bedouin, with flowing robes and a headscarf obscuring his hair and the lower part of his face.
The disguise was a precaution. Malik had never been turned in for the substantial reward offered for his capture, but a desperate peasant in a moment of weakness might just recognize him and alter his fate forever.
The two men moved toward one another without haste, meeting next to a scarred table in the middle of the room. Kalid gestured for Malik to sit and then ordered two cups of boza , the fermented barley drink popular with the country’s working class majority. He spoke in Turkish to the barmaid and then switched to English when he addressed Malik, to reduce the chance of their conversation being overheard and understood.
“I am here to redeem the American girl,” Kalid said. “What do you want for her?”
“Five thousand kurush,” Malik replied.
“That’s quite a bit.”
“Not for a relative of your beloved pashana’s,” Malik replied
“I’m more worried about what might happen when Hammid learns that we have made the deal.” Malik put down the newspaper. “It has to look like a hostile transaction.”
“Shah wants to meet with you. Tell him that.” Anwar hesitated, then moved back to what was, for him, the real issue. “Can you give up the girl?” he asked.
“For five thousand kurush, I’ll have to,” Malik said, and walked away.
* * *
Secretary Danforth accepted a cup of tea from Beatrice Woolcott and added a lump of sugar to it. He looked up as the servant, Listak, silently offered him a tray of comfits.
“Have one,” James said. “My wife makes them from an old family recipe, using the local hazelnuts in place of Georgia pecans. They’re very good.”
Danforth selected a delicacy and dropped it onto the gilt rimmed porcelain plate at his elbow. The china was the finest Limoges, in keeping with the rest of the appointments in the stately home.
James Woolcott was indeed prospering in Turkey.
“So the official word from the Sultan is that there is nothing he can do?” James said, continuing the conversation that the arrival of refreshments had interrupted.
Danforth nodded, his mouth full. He patted his lips with a napkin and swallowed before replying.
“He says that the people who kidnapped your niece are outlaws living under a death sentence. If apprehended, they will of course suffer the ultimate penalty, but until then no monarch can halt completely the commission of crimes in his country.”
“In other words, go scratch,” Beatrice said dryly, sniffing and flicking an invisible bit of lint from the tight cuff of her organdy sleeve.
“I’m afraid so,” Danforth agreed. “The Sultan knows that our country is in sympathy with the rebels so he’s not going to lift a finger to help locate a missing American woman. Your niece is a victim of international gamesmanship.”
“Then Kalid Shah is our only hope,” James observed.
“I told you he would be,” Beatrice said.
“Do you think this bandit will listen to him?” James asked the Secretary.
Danforth set down his cup and dusted crumbs from his fingertips.
“If he doesn’t, you’ll never see your niece again,” he said gravely.
* * *
The side street just off the main thoroughfare was more like an alley, too narrow for anything but foot traffic and deeply rutted from the carts used to transport goods to the shops. The adobe structure at its end was low and dark, full of the smells of closely packed humanity and the dense smoke from Turkish tobacco. The babble of many languages formed a background noise as Kalid Shah loomed in the doorway of the cayhanesi , or coffeehouse.
Kalid was dressed like a British businessman in a three piece suit, his kaffe skin, vaguely European features and Victorian beard enhancing the Western tourist effect. He spotted Malik Bey immediately at the back of the room. The younger man was disguised as a bedouin, with flowing robes and a headscarf obscuring his hair and the lower part of his face.
The disguise was a precaution. Malik had never been turned in for the substantial reward offered for his capture, but a desperate peasant in a moment of weakness might just recognize him and alter his fate forever.
The two men moved toward one another without haste, meeting next to a scarred table in the middle of the room. Kalid gestured for Malik to sit and then ordered two cups of boza , the fermented barley drink popular with the country’s working class majority. He spoke in Turkish to the barmaid and then switched to English when he addressed Malik, to reduce the chance of their conversation being overheard and understood.
“I am here to redeem the American girl,” Kalid said. “What do you want for her?”
“Five thousand kurush,” Malik replied.
“That’s quite a bit.”
“Not for a relative of your beloved pashana’s,” Malik replied
Similar Books
