The Devil She Knows (10 page)

Constantinople, May 1887

T
he Customs Office was small, the lines long, and the over-heated air pressed down on every person waiting to be seen with far more energy than their official greeters did. Certainly the Ottoman bureaucrats sitting behind the high desks had spent more effort perfecting their wardrobes than they had honoring any concern for their fellow citizens.

“Relax, gracious lady,” ‘Abd al-Hamid, Portia's half-Turkish, half-Parisian courier murmured in French. “Soon they will realize you are a true European lady and not someone to be left swimming among these filthy mackerel. They will lift you up and you will shine like a star on the boulevards below Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque. You have my word on it.”

“Hmm,” she murmured, having been reduced to monosyllabic responses by the dozen times he'd provided the same reassurance.

She brushed a non-existent piece of lint from her brocade lapel and promised herself never again to be nervous about facing down journalists. Anything on the other side of the Atlantic had to be a pleasure compared to this.

The Orient Express had only been running its high-speed train from Paris to Constantinople for four years. But it had already succeeded in monopolizing all the respectable, or at least moneyed, European travelers. Apparently, no Ottoman official believed that a titled British lady would stoop to arriving on a small Egyptian steamer from Alexandria, rather than aboard the gold-embossed blue cars with their startling abundance of polished teak, crystal, and liveried attendants.

Instead, they'd left her standing amid the hordes of ordinary supplicants for entry into a fading empire's capital, papers clutched in sweaty hands and bribes hidden in sleeves below eyes darting to find the most likely recipient.

In this dusty room, where honesty was even rarer than shafts of light, everyone sitting behind a desk was willing to accept money, whether or not they wielded any apparent authority. A single narrow door beyond them offered the sole entry into Constantinople's fabled urbanity.

Even the ushers welcomed coins faster than any Egyptian street urchin.

But nobody ever changed their behavior, except perhaps to utter a few extra platitudes.

At least she hadn't seen any gold find its way into the cold-eyed policemen's hands. But she didn't want to move close enough to know for sure. There were far, far too many of them whose police baton formed an appallingly efficient metronome to their lounging.

Sweat slithered down the nape of her neck and under her dress, like Cleopatra's asp. She yanked herself rigidly upright, back into her best impersonation of Aunt Viola's Southern belle manners.

Heaven forbid somebody think she was too nervous—or follow her twitching eyes toward St. Arles' appalling gift. First-rate maker, solid oak, and bound in painted black iron, it weighed more than any other piece of luggage she owned.

She couldn't possibly look scared now. Not possible—or were the police watching them?

Surely not. They had to have an open mind; otherwise, she couldn't tell them about the trunk and whatever plot St. Arles had concocted.

“Ah,
sacré bleu, madame,
the heat,” her maid Sidonie sighed and fanned herself even harder, like a homing pigeon longing to break free. “If we were in Paris…”

“I promise you that once my family arrives, all will be well. Plus, I was named for our illustrious Sultan—God be pleased with him!—so the luck will soon be with us.”

Portia shot her courier a dubious look at that piece of pious optimism. Bitter necessity had forced her to hire a courier for the mechanics of escorting her through Moslem countries on Moslem ships to Constantinople—buying boat tickets, conveying her luggage between ships at various ports, and so on. The half-Turkish, half-French ‘Abd al-Hamid had seemed ideal in Cairo, where he'd spoken longingly of seeing his father's family in Constantinople once again and be welcomed under his nickname of Abdul.

But any idealism rasped her nerves all the way north, especially when she was near a reminder of St. Arles.

“‘Abd al-Hamid?” the clerk called. He consulted the piece of paper in his hand again. “‘Abd al-Hamid of Cairo, plus two foreign ladies?”

“That is us! What did I tell you? Soon we will be out of here.” A smile burst across her courier's face and he quickly chivvied their neighbors into bringing her mountains of luggage forward.

Portia hoped her expression was as confident as his. She planted her parasol firmly on the mercifully clean floor and crossed her hands on its handle in a European lady's most self-possessed stance, ready to command the respect due to a woman of means and station. God willing she'd soon be facing somebody who could help her with that awful trunk.

Sidonie lined up beside her. She probably hoped her silent support would release them more quickly.

Moments after they reached the customs officer, the door to freedom opened and a pair of Turks entered. Their suits were the equal of anything in Paris and their fezzes—the tall, conical, flat-topped felt hats worn by Turks—were of equally high quality.

A flood of joyful Turkish burst out between them and her courier, who leaned around the massive desk to gesticulate better.

Portia tweaked the folds of her overskirt so it draped more evenly. Surely she'd been too skittish in looking for a threat where there was none. Even so, it wouldn't hurt to make sure she looked her best.

The customs officer tapped his pen on his inkwell to demand proper respect.

“Ah yes.” Her courier swung back and instantly dropped into French with an apologetic glance at Portia.

“Pray forgive me but it is a very long time since I have seen my father's family. I did not know if they would receive my message and meet me here. I am ‘Abd al-Hamid and these are my charges, Portia Countess St. Arles”—he did so enjoy rolling her title around on his tongue—“and Mademoiselle Sidonie Armand, her maid.”

Clearly unimpressed, the bureaucrat's fingers silently demanded their paperwork. “Where are you staying?”

The documents slid forward, accompanied by a truly ridiculous number of pound notes.

“The Countess and her maid are staying at the Pera Palace, while I have reservations at the Yildiz.”

The official's hard countenance abruptly lost its resemblance to marble. Instead his eyes looked like twilight gleaming on a revolver, the last light of day before eternal night.

“Yildiz?” the official repeated, making the name sound like a place he'd never allow his son to utter, much less enter. He tapped his left shoulder with ‘Abd al-Hamid's identity papers.

“Yes, it's a hotel near Al-Sarkaji. I'll be moving, of course, now that my family's here.” ‘Abd al-Hamid waggled his fingers at the older newcomer, a burly, well-dressed fellow whose dark eyes moved with the same bird-like quickness as Abdul's. But her courier's looks must have come from his French mother, given how slender his waist was when compared to his relatives. The other two grinned back at him and mimed dancing, their hands rising toward their shoulders as if ready to clasp him.

The bureaucrat assessed all of them like mackerel lined up on marble, ready for the fishmonger.

Portia wanted to grab a mantle to ward off her sudden chill.

“A man named for our beloved Sultan plans to lodge at a hotel matching the Sultan's palace?” the bureaucrat barked.

His voice carried through the entire room, like Satan entering a circle of hell. A ripple of silence spread outward. Truncheons slid into policemen's fists.

Portia's skin lifted, desperate to flee. Sidonie's cold fingers slid into hers and she gripped them, offering a reassurance her heart didn't quite believe.

“I will cancel my reservation immediately,” ‘Abd al-Hamid asserted, far more desperately than she'd ever thought he could speak. He started to back away from the big desk. “I'd never dream of setting myself up as a figurehead for any movement against our beloved Sultan—”

“Guards! Take him!”

Policemen sprang upon ‘Abd al-Hamid and knocked him down to the floor in a flurry of blows, never pausing to see whether he fought or not.

Sidonie screamed and hid her face against Portia.

“Now see here,” Portia shouted, trying to defend her employee. “He did nothing wrong. He only came here to serve me.”

Something crunched, achingly close, and ‘Abd al-Hamid screamed.

Horror rose in Portia's belly, more urgent than nausea. None of her youthful escapades had brought her this close to violence. Vile as the burn victims at the ranch had been, they'd been almost a mile away, not literally next to her elbow.

A truncheon swung past her ear and she took a quick step back to protect the sobbing Sidonie.

A flood of Turkish entreaties and curses poured out of ‘Abd al-Hamid's relatives.

Jostling arms shoved Portia out of the way. She staggered a few steps farther before she caught her balance and wrapped her arms around Sidonie.

“You can't take him,” she shouted again before realizing she was speaking in English. She tried again in French but nobody was listening.

More men charged forward and helped drag the heaving, bloody lump that had been ‘Abd al-Hamid out of the room. His family chased them, arguing vehemently at every step until an iron-barred door thudded behind all of them.

Portia turned on the customs officer, her arms still wrapped around Sidonie.

“Why did you arrest him?” she accused, angrier than she could ever recall being, even at St. Arles. “He did nothing wrong, except being born. I demand that you have him released at once.”

A few heads turned to listen, even the other officials who'd not yet started to reexamine the desperate applicants at their desks.

The superstitious fool's face flushed and his eyes narrowed. He brusquely flipped through the paperwork on his desk, the fat bribe nowhere in sight.

“You, countess, have been consorting with a known traitor to the Sultan.” Even his moustache seemed to sneer at her passport.

“Traitor?” Indignation grabbed every word from her tongue.

“In fact, I believe the situation warrants a detailed examination of all parties, starting with your reasons for traveling here, your luggage…”

Luggage? Oh, dear Lord, if he opened St. Arles's damnable wooden box, they'd all go to prison. She barely managed to hold herself upright, despite the harpies carving out the inside of her skull with razor-edged blades.

“Is there a problem, officer?”

An American drawl had never sounded so divine to Portia before, even when it was speaking French.

Did she know that voice?

She pivoted, Sidonie a half step behind her.

“Gareth,” she whispered. What on earth was Gareth Lowell doing in Constantinople? She'd seen him for the first time when she was twelve, at a taffy pulling party. He'd walked into the San Francisco mansion's kitchen from a winter storm, windblown and alert, rough around the edges from his time in the mining camps.

Now he touched his hat to her, silver eyes clear as spring water in the Sierra Nevada mountains. He still had broad shoulders, strong hands marked with old calluses and scars, the easy grace of a man who could explode into action between one breath and the next. Or, worse for her heartbeat, the level brows over deep-set eyes above a rock-solid jaw, all framing the firm mouth every woman understood could bring either heaven or hell.

Hope sent a little warmth into her fingers, at least for her friends.

“Mr. Lowell.” The obnoxious customs official dropped her passport onto the floor and rose from his chair, as if lifted by a superior force.

“Sir.” A single syllable but every bureaucrat flinched. Most went speedily back to work, while the one dealing with Portia launched into an incoherent explanation.

Gareth studied him pitilessly without responding. Power swirled around the Westerner now like a fine perfume, the casual ability to give orders to strong men and have them immediately obeyed. A first-rate London tailor had made his clothes but she wouldn't have been surprised to see him produce his beloved Colt or even a bowie knife.

His eyebrows drew together when he saw hers and Sidonie's tumbled passports. He said nothing, only shot the greedy official a single, barbed glance.

The fool flinched. “But, sir, madame is a—”

“My friend,” Gareth said implacably. “As is her maid.”

“But they were with—” the superstitious idiot tried again.

“How high in the Almabayn do you wish to continue this discussion?” Gareth asked, friendly as the soft whoosh of a revolver clearing its holster.

Almabayn?
What was that? All important business was supposed to go through the Grand Vizier's office. Was Gareth running an enormous bluff?

But she had to support Gareth or they were all done for. She jabbed Sidonie sharply in the ribs to make her stand erect.

The customs officer blanched under his better's stern gaze and quickly stooped to fumble together the fallen documents.

Gareth was actually pulling it off. The harpies started to flee Portia's skull.

“Please forgive me, sir, for having disturbed you and your friends,” the bureaucrat stuttered. “I can assure you I would never have done so if I had known who they were. If you will but give me the chance, I am sure I can explain everything.”

He emphasized his point with his customs stamp but missed Sidonie's passport entirely.

“Really,” said Gareth dryly. “However, I'd prefer to have my friends enjoy a quick arrival upon Constantinople's streets.”

“Oh yes, of course, what was I thinking?” The customs officer flashed a narrow smile. He almost became an octopus in his flurry of eagerly flailing arms and shuffling hands, desperately working to process their documents.

Gareth accepted the third properly approved passport.

“Where is my lady's manservant?” he inquired calmly.