The Baklava Club: A Novel (Investigator Yashim) by Jason Goodwin Page B

priest scribbling at Palewski’s escritoire.
    “Signor Yashim!”
    There were several empty bottles on the sideboard, and one had rolled close to the window seat where Birgit still sat with her hands folded and a slight smile on her face. Giancarlo was sitting beside her, Rafael at the bookshelves. Fabrizio was bent into an armchair, like a spring, cleaning his nails with a thin knife.
    “My apologies, gentlemen, and mademoiselle. I’m afraid that I have detained the ambassador on some government business—he sends his apologies with mine.”
    The priest got up from the desk. He bowed slightly and touched his forehead. “Father Doherty,” he said.
    “Yashim. I’m an old friend of the ambassador’s.”
    “A privilege. I’ve enjoyed Count Palewski’s company since mass today, and am delighted to make the acquaintance of any friend of his. I had an inkling that the ambassador was detained, so I have taken the liberty of writing him a note.” He gestured to the escritoire.
    “Of course. I’ll see he gets it.”
    “It’s been quite a day!” The priest’s eyes twinkled as he took his leave. “I’ve enjoyed our discussion, Giancarlo, all you young people … well, a pleasure. A very great pleasure.”
    When he had gone, Giancarlo asked if Palewski would be coming back. “No? Then we should not disturb him any longer. Come on, boys and girls.”
    “But I am comfortable,” Fabrizio protested. “The ambassador doesn’t mind.”
    “I say we go.”
    The girl at the window seat looked from one to the other, and arched her eyebrows.
    “You go if you like,” Fabrizio retorted, lowering his eyelids. His face was slightly flushed. “I want to stay.”
    “If it helps, I’m going, too,” Yashim said peaceably. “It’s dark already.”
    Birgit got to her feet and picked up her shawl. Giancarlo and Rafael were at the door.
    “We’re leaving.” Giancarlo stood looking at Fabrizio.
    Fabrizio made a slight movement and something whirred through the air to strike the doorjamb with a soft thud. It happened so quickly that Yashim was not sure what it was.
    Giancarlo was the first to move. “You bloody idiot,” he hissed. He reached out and yanked a small knife from the wood. “You could have killed someone.”
    Fabrizio smiled. “I wasn’t aiming to kill anyone. It was only a joke.”
    Giancarlo glanced at Yashim, awkwardly, his face set. He pressed the knife between his fingers and the blade disappeared; he slipped it into his pocket. “I’m sorry, Signor Yashim.” He lowered his voice. “Fabrizio can be like this when he’s had a bit too much to drink.”
    Yashim responded with a murmur; Fabrizio got to his feet.
    “Va bene.”
    They stood aside to let him pass, then followed down the stairs.
    At the door, Yashim gave a sigh of impatience. “I was meant to fetch some papers. You go on.”
    They said their farewells. When they had gone, Yashim went upstairs to find Palewski already coming down.
    “You got them to go? Thank you.”
    “Father Doherty left you a note.”
    Palewski took a glass of brandy to the escritoire, and picked up the note. “ Dear Palewski , blah blah, great pleasure  … blah blah … your young friends … unexpected treat … Father Doherty . Hmm. Wonder why he bothered, really.”
    “Feeling better?”
    “Not so mad, at any rate. I suppose it’ll pass. It was just—such a jolt, Yashim. Must have been something in the air, God knows.”
    “Hmm. Not the only thing in the air this evening.” Yashim told Palewski about the knife-throwing incident. “Your pretty Dane again, I suspect.”
    Palewski took a sip of brandy. “Now you’re making me jealous. Girls like that shouldn’t be let out,” he added. “We should adopt Ottoman practice, keep ’em in the harem.”
    Yashim laughed, thinking of Natasha Borisova with the valide at Topkapi. “We seem to have got it the wrong way around today. The beauties running around Istanbul, and the solemn ones in the