The Devil She Knows - By Diane Whiteside Page 0,84
that my wife’s luggage contains a large enough bribe to make the palace guards disappear.”
Portia barely stopped herself from going slack-jawed in surprise. That was one description of a dozen rifles and their ammunition—but hardly the most accurate. It might be the most polite one, though.
“Bribes. Faugh!” Adem made a violent gesture then pounded his fists together. “They will be the death of our country.”
“Adem!”
Dark eyes clashed with darker before the sire won.
“Continue, please.” The saucer shook slightly in the old bureaucrat’s hand but his voice was completely steady.
“We believe they will take action tonight, sir, on the Night of Absolution,” Gareth said. “I have some ideas on how to stop them but doing so will require all of our assistance.”
“What is the Night of Absolution?” asked Pendleton.
“It’s one of five religious festivals when the mosques are outlined in lights,” Adem answered, his mind clearly elsewhere. “Many people spend the night outside in the streets, praying or visiting friends.”
“But why is it called the Night of Absolution?”
“Allah comes closest to Earth at this time and settles the destiny of each believer for the coming year. Some describe it as being similar to a court of law, where decisions are handed down,” Kahil explained.
“Court of law?” Pendleton shook his head and settled back.
“What does that have to do with snatching a former sultan?” Barnesworth queried. He leaned forward, his single eye alight with curiosity.
“The streets will be lined with soldiers for the Sultan’s procession to the mosque,” Adem said crisply. “It usually weakens the forces at Chiragan Palace.”
“Can’t they get enough from elsewhere?”
“Too many disciplined troops are needed. Turkish soldiers aren’t fed or clothed by the state, except for those stationed within Constantinople.”
“Such as at Chiragan Palace,” Portia gave the example, feeling rather hollow. Soldiers who weren’t reliably fed? Good heavens, how trustworthy could they be?
“We need to stop the attack.” Gareth watched his host, whose fingertip was endlessly circling his coffee cup’s rim.
“Can you identify them?” Ancient eyes contemplated the Bosporus’s glittering waters floating past.
“Yes—and ensure they’re arrested for stealing from foreigners. But only with your help, sir.”
Kerem Ali Pasha looked at each of his sons. His grandson wailed in the distance and he flinched, growing decades older.
“Very well. What do you want us to do?”
Chapter Thirty-five
Kerem Ali Pasha bowed politely, but not too deeply, to Qadri Bey, the new head of the secret police. One had to remember all of the nuances for why one was supposedly here—and not keep thinking about exactly how Qadri Bey had gotten his blameless predecessor exiled to Aleppo. A western fan whirred overhead, incapable of eavesdropping through the shadows unlike old-fashioned slaves.
A single sheet of paper, covered in Kerem Ali’s handwriting, glittered balefully from the official’s blotter.
The entire family had worked on their reports with Meryem’s aid. Even his mother had contributed a note obliquely urging an investigation of strange doings in the old palace.
“You state here that a group plans to attack Chiragan Palace.” Qadri Bey picked up the page and pretended to exam it more closely.
“Yes indeed, sir.” The honorific rasped his throat worse than all of a mackerel’s bones.
He owed Lowell his son’s life and he trusted the man. If Lowell said there was a threat, then the dagger was poised, ready to fall sooner than his family had guessed. That certainty alone kept his face calm.
He stretched his legs out, in a casual assumption of authority designed to prod the other into action.
“They are driven like sheep by the British, Qadri Bey,” he added. “If you reach out your hand, you could cut their throats.”
Flat black eyes turned inward and the overly polished hand slowly waved the sheet back and forth. Finally a snake’s obscene spark of life returned to them.
“The Sultan wishes to thank you for your concern.”
Kerem Ali gratefully recognized the dismissal and rose, gathering his dignity around him like a cloak.
“A token of his gratitude will be delivered to your home.” For a moment, naked envy blasted the secret police chief’s face.
Kerem Ali bowed very fast before he saw too much then left as rapidly as possible.
Everything Lowell had said was true—and more? They must have already suspected a plot, for which his words provided the evidence and a chance to catch the devils behind it.
Allah willing, the same brutes who’d so swiftly knocked out his son would not eliminate Lowell and his wife.
Portia longed for an enormous hat, or two, or three. Or maybe a half dozen brocaded kaftans with matching pants. Anything to drip