The Sultan's Seal by Jenny White Page A

great deal about the present political debates and intrigues. After all, she has hosted many of the participants in her own home.
    Sybil suggests that she practice her Turkish, and they end the evening laughing over mistranslated witticisms and slips of the tongue. Nevertheless, Kamil thinks her command of the language remarkable. She has none of the finesse of those raised at court or schooled in the byzantine labyrinths of bureaucratic politesse, but can converse quite freely and understand much of what she hears. He compliments her sincerely and, for the first time in a long while, is sorry to see a social evening end. On his way to the door, Bernie catches up with him, pats him on the back, and winks.
    “Fancy a game of billiards sometime?”
    As his horse negotiates the steep paths on the way home, Kamil wonders at the sudden flashes of companionship and trust that sometimes kindle between total strangers. Can he trust his new friendship with Bernie or is real friendship something that emerges only over years of shared history and challenges faced together, like the bond that has developed between him and Michel? In his experience, the initial bridge of trust and comradeship too easily splinters under the pressure of personal ambition or rots through as proximity leads to a greater understanding of the other’s flaws. Before long, a promotion or a move to a different province sends the last planks sweeping down the river.
    He realizes there had been no opportune moment to ask Sybil about Mary Dixon.

9
Memory
    T his is Kamil’s third visit to the British Embassy and he is still not inured to the paintings on the reception room wall. He has elected not to bother the ambassador with any further questions; it is Sybil who generally answers them in any case. He wishes to ask her about women’s activities, he tells himself. The door opens and he rises, expecting the butler to lead him to another area of the cavernous embassy.
    Instead, it is Sybil herself, in a gown embroidered with blue flowers. Emerging from the lace collar, her throat has the same round solidity of the woman in the painting behind him.
    “Hello, Kamil Pasha. What a pleasure to see you again so soon.”
    “It was a lovely evening, Sybil Hanoum. Thank you.” Kamil tries but fails to stop himself from looking into her eyes. “It’s good of you to see me again.”
    Sybil lowers her lashes, although Kamil can still feel the weight of her gaze. She holds out her hand toward a comfortable chair near the fire. “Please sit.”
    Kamil realizes with some distaste that they are to remain in this most inappropriate room.
    He sits, his back to the painting, but remains distracted by the thought that Sybil, who has settled herself in the chair opposite him, will have to look directly at it while they speak.
    She doesn’t seem to notice the painting, but sits smiling, her eyes on his face. Her face is slightly flushed. “Can I offer you some tea?”
    “Yes, that would be most agreeable. Thank you.”
    Neither looks directly at the other.
    She stands and tugs at the bellpull on the wall behind the settee. Above the lace collar, the back of her neck rises white and smooth until it is lost in a widening arrow of brown hair. Her hips swell beneath the gown. Kamil looks at his hands and forces himself to think of Mary Dixon, dead, a body, a cipher. That is what he has come for—an answer.
    Sybil settles herself back into her chair.
    “To what do I owe the pleasure of your call, Kamil Pasha? I imagine it must be something quite urgent.”
    “I wanted to speak with you about my investigation into Mary Dixon’s death. Perhaps you have some insight where I have none.”
    Pleased, Sybil leans imperceptibly forward. “Whatever I can do to help.”
    The lack of demurral and false modesty pleases Kamil. The maid pushes in a trolley of tea and ginger cakes. She pours the tea and leaves.
    It soon emerges that Sybil has little to add to what is already known about Mary