The Devil She Knows - By Diane Whiteside Page 0,62
step to the right, spun, and ducked through an open doorway into the meager excuse for a room behind it.
Here an ancient oil lamp spluttered and fought the shadows to reveal broken stools scattered amidst furniture makers’ clamps. The attics at St. Arles Castle were cleaner and more welcoming. But he’d wager a year’s rents that if he returned in an hour—or if the Sultan’s spies appeared—only impoverished, ignorant upholsterers would be discovered.
Four men spanned the wall facing him, clearly blocking the best escape route from this rat hole. They were undoubtedly natives and possibly kinsmen, given their dark hair and stocky build. Everything about them, from their suspicious expressions to their hands only millimeters away from their weapons, suited this district. Except for their well-fed air.
“Greetings,” he said shortly. The sooner he finished with them, the sooner he could have a decent meal at the ambassador’s home.
“Sir,” the eldest returned in a tone which implied the title was only a formality.
“When can you fetch me the chest?” St. Arles went straight to business. At least these foreigners had enough education to speak French.
“That’s not part of the bargain,” the appointed speaker retorted. “You were to bring us the trunk, then we would secretly deliver it to the palace.”
“That problem is your fault. If you hadn’t gone against my orders and tried to steal it from the hotel, the stupid female wouldn’t be frightened enough to hide behind that American.”
“At a state secretary’s heavily guarded yali,” his so-called ally added. “I thought she had brought it here at your command.”
St. Arles sincerely wished a single glance would make them all choke on their own cleverness.
“How many men will you have to proclaim the revolution after we deliver the chest?” he asked and moved in, close enough to split them. “I’m sure you’ll want to proclaim your reformist decrees in as many places as possible.”
“Enough.” His opponents didn’t quite look at each other.
“Are you certain?” he prodded, pleased with their response. Poor bastards couldn’t even attack him, since it would be months before the embassy would send out a replacement. He was their only hope for a speedy revolution.
“If we hold Constantinople, we hold the empire,” answered the slender one in the rear. He brushed past the others to come forward into the light, bright as a freshly sharpened knife.
“We guarantee we’ll control Rumeli Hisar, plus the other forts here and along the Dardanelles, sailor boy,” their foremost speaker added far too quietly. A blade spun casually between his fingers. “You may want to sail your fleet through here to attack Russia—”
Damn their eyes, they knew all too well exactly how to block him, while he could only bargain with gold or a new Sultan. Bullets in their obstinate backs would be far more satisfying.
Was there nothing the Turks held dear, other than their damnable pastel palaces which they’d built by selling their revenues to foreigners?
By God, he’d demand nothing less than a marquisate for pulling this off.
He stretched his lapels and tried to pretend they were proper Europeans.
“Two years ago, Russia nearly swept into India through Afghanistan. When we tried to protect her by all means necessary, your Sultan stopped us.”
“You mean he would not let you start your war from our territory,” the other youth stepped forward into the light, betraying fashionable French attire. Entirely too much intelligence sharpened his gaze.
“Taking our fleet through the Dardanelles and past Constantinople to attack Russia’s only warm water port,” St. Arles spun to face each of them in turn, his fingertips only millimeters from his gun. “Your lives and land would never have been at issue.”
“But our honor and national pride would have been. We would have become a British satrapy,” the younger man added bluntly and stepped back to assume his guard post again.
Damn the fellow for plain speaking on a matter of foreign affairs. St. Arles shook out his coat, wishing it was a naval uniform.
“Your ships will have safe passage, Mr. Englishman.” The elder’s broad shoulders almost blocked out the room’s few rays of sunshine. “But it will be done by treaty after we have our revolution. We will have reforms, as in the days of the Tanzimat.”
“You can’t turn back the clock to fifty years ago.” Damn, but it was enjoyable to turn the knife in their pride even a small bit. He eyed each one of their outfits in turn then curled his lip at their pitiful attempts at fashion.
Somebody stiffened and metal snicked against leather.