“I think he was a Swiss,” he said carefully.
Amelie was silent for a while. Yashim added salt, pepper, and a pinch of cinnamon to the rice, and covered it with a domed lid. “Did he tell you about his time in Greece?” he asked.
“Oh yes. He saw the Parthenon, and Epidaurus in the Peloponnese. He said there was so much more waiting to be unearthed—and thank God Napoleon had invaded Egypt, not Greece!”
“But he had a war there, all the same,” Yashim said. “If he went in the twenties.”
“He never told me much about that,” Amelie said.
“What about Byron? Did he mention Missilonghi?”
“Was that where Byron died? No. Max never said anything about that.”
“So he never said anything about Dr. Millingen—or Dr. Meyer?” Yashim trimmed the stems of four baby artichokes and set them to steam over the stock. He glanced around.
Amelie was holding her head in her hand, as if deep in thought.
“Millingen?” She looked up quickly, in time for Yashim to notice a pink flush fading from her cheeks. “The sultan’s physician?”
Yashim stood with the knife in one hand, the disk of the choke in the other.
“I—” She gave a little laugh. “I met him, just yesterday. Isn’t that a coincidence?”
“Extraordinary,” Yashim agreed mildly, turning to the chopping block again.
“I didn’t want to tell you—I thought you’d be angry with me.”
Yashim began to slice the choke carefully.
“I was stuck here with nothing to do, so I decided to go and have a look at Aya Sofia. I’m afraid I got a little carried away, and I forgot that Christians are not welcome in a mosque.”
“That depends on the mosque,” Yashim said. “But Aya Sofia—no. An unbeliever—and a woman alone. At least—you were alone?”
“It was thoughtless of me. I’m sorry. I hope I haven’t offended you.”
Yashim looked down at the chopping board. “No,” he said. “What happened?”
“They chased me out. It was frightening—I wasn’t sure what they would do to me. Then a carriage pulled up and I tumbled in.”
“I see. And Dr. Millingen?”
“It was his carriage. He brought me back here.”
Yashim pursed his lips gently, sunk in thought.
“You came straight on here, from Aya Sofia?”
“Yes. He was perfectly gentlemanly, very stiff and English. He was in a hurry. I thought you would be angry— and then you weren’t here. And when you did come back, you were half dead, and, well, you know the rest. I forgot the whole thing until now.”
Yashim picked up the board and swept the slices of artichoke into the pan with his fingers. He had a prickling sensation in the back of his head.
He stirred the rice slowly.
Something here, he knew, was wrong—and it wasn’t his pilaf. There was something about Amelie that was odd as well, beyond her hesitation or her blushes.
She was wearing a pair of little pointed slippers.
98
PALEWSKI reached out from under the bedclothes to take the tea. “Thank you, Marta.”
“Wrong,” Yashim said, settling himself at the foot of the bed. Palewski opened his eyes.
“Good God, it’s you! Really, Yashim, you may as well have a bed here until the wretched Lefevre woman’s gone.”
“Too late.” Yashim pulled a folded paper from his cloak. “I found this note under my door this morning.”
Palewski opened it.
