Did they go out together?"
"Yes,
so I understand."
"Where?"
The
seraskier sighed. "Nobody seems to know. They came off duty at five. They went
back to their dormitory and spent some time there--I know, because they
overlapped with the men coming on for night duty."
"Doing
what?"
"Nothing
much, apparently. Loafing on their bunks. Books, a game of cards, something
like that. The last man out saw two of them playing cards."
"For
money?"
"I--I
don't know. Probably not. I hope not. These were good young men."
"The
man who saw them playing, was he the last man to see them at all?"
"Yes."
"So
nobody checks on people as they leave the barracks?"
"Well,
no. The sentries are there to check people as they come in. Why should they
check people going out?"
To
help a man like me in a situation like this, Yashim thought. That was one
reason; he could think of others. A question of order and discipline.
"Do
the men generally go out, for whatever reason, in uniform?"
"Five
or ten years ago, it was uncommon. Now we encourage the men to be in uniform at
all times. It is better for the people of Istanbul to become acquainted with
the new ways, and better for the men. It improves their morale."
"And
useful for you, too, to check on how they behave."
The
seraskier cracked a rare, dry smile. "That too."
"Would
they visit a brothel? Did they have girls? I'm sorry, efendi, but I have to
ask."
"These
men were officers! What are you saying? The men, yes, the ordinary men see
women in the streets. I know about that. But these were officers. Of good
family."
Yashim
shrugged. "And there are good brothels, too, by all accounts. It doesn't seem
very likely that these four went and sat out the whole evening in a well-lit
cafe, in their uniforms. That's no way to go missing, is it? Sometime in the
course of their evening, their paths had to cross the path of their abductor. Their
murderer. Somewhere--what? Murky, out of the light. In a boat, maybe. On a dark
path. Or in some shady place--a brothel, a gambling saloon."
"Yes,
I see."
"May
I have your permission to interview the officers who shared their dormitory?"
The
seraskier blew the wind between his teeth and stared down at the floor. Yashim
had been here before. People wanted solutions, but they always hoped they could
reach them without creating a fuss. The seraskier wanted to make a public
announcement but was not, it seemed, quite ready to risk offending or alarming
anyone. The forces of the padishah, he would aver, are working ceaselessly and
with complete confidence to bring the perpetrators of this evil deed to
light--and he wouldn't mean a word he said.
"Efendi,
either we must try to find out what happened, or there is no point in my
proceeding with this case."
"Very
well. I will write you a chit."
"A
chit. Will that be enough, do you think? To talk, perhaps. In the murky place:
will a chit hold out?"
The
seraskier looked straight into Yashim's gray eyes. "I'll support you," he said
wearily.
18
****************
YASHIM
arrived early at the little restaurant beneath Galata Point and chose a quiet
alcove that overlooked the channel of the Bosphorus. The Bosphorus had made
Istanbul what it was: the junction of Europe and Asia, the pathway from the
Black Sea into the Mediterranean, the great entrepot of world trade from
ancient times to the present day. From where he sat he could watch the waterway
he loved so much, the narrow sheet of gunmetal that reflected back the shape of
the city it had built.
The
water was as ever thick with shipping. A mountain of white sail rose above the
deck of an Ottoman frigate tacking up the straits. A shoal of fishing smacks,
broad beamed and single masted, held out under an easterly wind for the Sea of
Marmara. A customs boat swept past on its long red oars like a scurrying water
beetle. There were ferries, and skiffs, and overladen barges; lateen-rigged
cutters from the Black Sea coast, houseboats moored by the crowded entrance to
the Golden
"Yes,
so I understand."
"Where?"
The
seraskier sighed. "Nobody seems to know. They came off duty at five. They went
back to their dormitory and spent some time there--I know, because they
overlapped with the men coming on for night duty."
"Doing
what?"
"Nothing
much, apparently. Loafing on their bunks. Books, a game of cards, something
like that. The last man out saw two of them playing cards."
"For
money?"
"I--I
don't know. Probably not. I hope not. These were good young men."
"The
man who saw them playing, was he the last man to see them at all?"
"Yes."
"So
nobody checks on people as they leave the barracks?"
"Well,
no. The sentries are there to check people as they come in. Why should they
check people going out?"
To
help a man like me in a situation like this, Yashim thought. That was one
reason; he could think of others. A question of order and discipline.
"Do
the men generally go out, for whatever reason, in uniform?"
"Five
or ten years ago, it was uncommon. Now we encourage the men to be in uniform at
all times. It is better for the people of Istanbul to become acquainted with
the new ways, and better for the men. It improves their morale."
"And
useful for you, too, to check on how they behave."
The
seraskier cracked a rare, dry smile. "That too."
"Would
they visit a brothel? Did they have girls? I'm sorry, efendi, but I have to
ask."
"These
men were officers! What are you saying? The men, yes, the ordinary men see
women in the streets. I know about that. But these were officers. Of good
family."
Yashim
shrugged. "And there are good brothels, too, by all accounts. It doesn't seem
very likely that these four went and sat out the whole evening in a well-lit
cafe, in their uniforms. That's no way to go missing, is it? Sometime in the
course of their evening, their paths had to cross the path of their abductor. Their
murderer. Somewhere--what? Murky, out of the light. In a boat, maybe. On a dark
path. Or in some shady place--a brothel, a gambling saloon."
"Yes,
I see."
"May
I have your permission to interview the officers who shared their dormitory?"
The
seraskier blew the wind between his teeth and stared down at the floor. Yashim
had been here before. People wanted solutions, but they always hoped they could
reach them without creating a fuss. The seraskier wanted to make a public
announcement but was not, it seemed, quite ready to risk offending or alarming
anyone. The forces of the padishah, he would aver, are working ceaselessly and
with complete confidence to bring the perpetrators of this evil deed to
light--and he wouldn't mean a word he said.
"Efendi,
either we must try to find out what happened, or there is no point in my
proceeding with this case."
"Very
well. I will write you a chit."
"A
chit. Will that be enough, do you think? To talk, perhaps. In the murky place:
will a chit hold out?"
The
seraskier looked straight into Yashim's gray eyes. "I'll support you," he said
wearily.
18
****************
YASHIM
arrived early at the little restaurant beneath Galata Point and chose a quiet
alcove that overlooked the channel of the Bosphorus. The Bosphorus had made
Istanbul what it was: the junction of Europe and Asia, the pathway from the
Black Sea into the Mediterranean, the great entrepot of world trade from
ancient times to the present day. From where he sat he could watch the waterway
he loved so much, the narrow sheet of gunmetal that reflected back the shape of
the city it had built.
The
water was as ever thick with shipping. A mountain of white sail rose above the
deck of an Ottoman frigate tacking up the straits. A shoal of fishing smacks,
broad beamed and single masted, held out under an easterly wind for the Sea of
Marmara. A customs boat swept past on its long red oars like a scurrying water
beetle. There were ferries, and skiffs, and overladen barges; lateen-rigged
cutters from the Black Sea coast, houseboats moored by the crowded entrance to
the Golden
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