description of the thief?”
“Short and stout, with curly hair that fell below his ears, wearing a wide jacket and a turban. Oh, and the boy said the man was bent over as if he was locking the door. Then he ran off with something bulky under his arm.”
“The reliquary wrapped in the carpet.”
“Right. But it’s not much to go on. Short, fat, and curly haired. Could be anyone. Could be me.” He showed a row of tobacco-stained teeth beneath his mustache.
“You’re not short.”
“True.” Omar rubbed his balding head.
“So the thief wasn’t disturbed. But why take just a worthless box?”
“Exactly. You’d think he’d be tempted by the chalice. It was sitting there in full view in the storeroom.”
Kamil clicked his tongue in disapproval.
“There was also a spilled medicine bottle.”
“What do you make of that?”
“That the room wasn’t only used for storage.”
“Let’s go there,” Kamil suggested.
On their way out of the station, Omar stopped by the policeman Ali’s desk, leaned over, and told him in a low voice, “Go find our ear in Charshamba. I want to know if there’s any new activity. The magistrate here wants to get his hands dirty.” He turned to Kamil. “I should wear one of those necklaces the old warriors had where they strung up their enemies’ ears. I swear, having informants in the right place at the right time makes the difference between being a policeman and a donkey.”
They stepped into Small Market Street, where a young officer was waiting with their horses. The sky had become overcast and thunder rumbled over the sunflower fields in distant Thrace. They turned down one, then another narrow lane. Kamil tried to remember their route but soon lost track. Wooden houses in various stages of decay listed into the lane on both sides, their protruding second stories almost touching overhead. Some of the houses were missing wooden slats, revealing naked laths beneath gaping holes. The houses were set within a gap-toothed landscape of ruined brick walls, many with the characteristic striped pattern, alternating brick and stone, laid by Byzantine masons. The district looked wounded, Kamil thought, still festering after four hundred years. Late-summer carnations brightened crumbling windowsills and sagging balconies.
Except where the streets narrowed, they walked their horses side by side. Pedestrians, peddlers and their carts, and the ubiquitous cats scattered before them. As they rode, Kamil filled Omar in on the rash of thefts and the way antiquities were appearing in Europe within weeks of being stolen. “This has to be an organized ring. For such a fast delivery system, they must have very good connections.”
Omar nodded thoughtfully. “Not the usual family business then, although you’d be surprised how clever and connected some of these people are. I’ve heard rumors, though, about a new dealer who pays so much that he’s driving the old-timers out of business. Unless they sell to him, of course. They call him Kubalou. That’s all I know.”
Kamil’s mind began to sort new possibilities. “He’s Cuban?”
“That’s what they say. I’ve never seen him. For that matter, I couldn’t tell a Cuban from a cantaloupe. He speaks English, does everything through middlemen so nothing leads back to him. Maybe that’s what the killings are about. As you said, a turf war, but between the dealers, not the thieves. Kubalou’s gang against the old families.”
“It’s the extent of the operation that puzzles me. It’s on an entirely different scale from anything we’ve seen before, things disappearing all over the empire and ending up in London. We tracked some items stolen in Bursa and Edirne to Istanbul, so it looks like the smuggling routes converge here. If we could find the Kariye thief, he might lead us to the next level up in the hierarchy. It seems unlikely that one man could be behind something as elaborate as this.” He guided his horse around a
“Short and stout, with curly hair that fell below his ears, wearing a wide jacket and a turban. Oh, and the boy said the man was bent over as if he was locking the door. Then he ran off with something bulky under his arm.”
“The reliquary wrapped in the carpet.”
“Right. But it’s not much to go on. Short, fat, and curly haired. Could be anyone. Could be me.” He showed a row of tobacco-stained teeth beneath his mustache.
“You’re not short.”
“True.” Omar rubbed his balding head.
“So the thief wasn’t disturbed. But why take just a worthless box?”
“Exactly. You’d think he’d be tempted by the chalice. It was sitting there in full view in the storeroom.”
Kamil clicked his tongue in disapproval.
“There was also a spilled medicine bottle.”
“What do you make of that?”
“That the room wasn’t only used for storage.”
“Let’s go there,” Kamil suggested.
On their way out of the station, Omar stopped by the policeman Ali’s desk, leaned over, and told him in a low voice, “Go find our ear in Charshamba. I want to know if there’s any new activity. The magistrate here wants to get his hands dirty.” He turned to Kamil. “I should wear one of those necklaces the old warriors had where they strung up their enemies’ ears. I swear, having informants in the right place at the right time makes the difference between being a policeman and a donkey.”
They stepped into Small Market Street, where a young officer was waiting with their horses. The sky had become overcast and thunder rumbled over the sunflower fields in distant Thrace. They turned down one, then another narrow lane. Kamil tried to remember their route but soon lost track. Wooden houses in various stages of decay listed into the lane on both sides, their protruding second stories almost touching overhead. Some of the houses were missing wooden slats, revealing naked laths beneath gaping holes. The houses were set within a gap-toothed landscape of ruined brick walls, many with the characteristic striped pattern, alternating brick and stone, laid by Byzantine masons. The district looked wounded, Kamil thought, still festering after four hundred years. Late-summer carnations brightened crumbling windowsills and sagging balconies.
Except where the streets narrowed, they walked their horses side by side. Pedestrians, peddlers and their carts, and the ubiquitous cats scattered before them. As they rode, Kamil filled Omar in on the rash of thefts and the way antiquities were appearing in Europe within weeks of being stolen. “This has to be an organized ring. For such a fast delivery system, they must have very good connections.”
Omar nodded thoughtfully. “Not the usual family business then, although you’d be surprised how clever and connected some of these people are. I’ve heard rumors, though, about a new dealer who pays so much that he’s driving the old-timers out of business. Unless they sell to him, of course. They call him Kubalou. That’s all I know.”
Kamil’s mind began to sort new possibilities. “He’s Cuban?”
“That’s what they say. I’ve never seen him. For that matter, I couldn’t tell a Cuban from a cantaloupe. He speaks English, does everything through middlemen so nothing leads back to him. Maybe that’s what the killings are about. As you said, a turf war, but between the dealers, not the thieves. Kubalou’s gang against the old families.”
“It’s the extent of the operation that puzzles me. It’s on an entirely different scale from anything we’ve seen before, things disappearing all over the empire and ending up in London. We tracked some items stolen in Bursa and Edirne to Istanbul, so it looks like the smuggling routes converge here. If we could find the Kariye thief, he might lead us to the next level up in the hierarchy. It seems unlikely that one man could be behind something as elaborate as this.” He guided his horse around a
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