that?”
Yashim did not reply.
“Splendid fellows, those sailors,” Palewski remarked. “The wine wasn’t bad at all. Ship a barrel to the residency, maybe.” He yawned. “Good stew. I think we have time to take coffee, and then home.”
But he was wrong: a ferry had already docked. They took seats along the port side, for the view returning to Istanbul. A sail went up and filled in the wind; the rope was cast off. Palewski went to find some coffee.
Yashim was watching idly for dolphins.
“May I?”
Yashim glanced around to see a tiny man in foreign dress bending toward Palewski’s seat. He wore a wide-brimmed flat black hat and carried a cane.
“I’m afraid it’s taken,” Yashim said.
“Everybody wants to drink coffee at the same time,” the little man remarked, hopping onto the seat. “I will sit just for a moment, until your friend comes back.”
He spoke with an accent Yashim could not quite place.
“You may think of me, Yashim efendi, as a ferry,” the stranger continued, swinging his short legs and staring imperturbably out to sea. “Like this one, I go back and forth, picking up and setting down. One friendly shore to the next, you see.” The little man held up his cane and rested his chin on it, like a child peering over a railing. “Today it will be picking up. I am sure of it. I take something quite useless from where it is, and drop it off where it can do some good.”
“And where would that be?”
The man’s expression changed. “Just like the ferry, everyone must buy a ticket. Then there are no questions asked.” He made a movement, quite slight: “Just give me what doesn’t belong to you.”
There was a gun in his right hand, intricate and tiny, like its owner. Its muzzle pointed at Yashim’s stomach.
Yashim threw out his left hand. When the gun wavered he scooped up the little man’s hand with his right, and held it pointing out to sea.
He felt the man’s fingers relax. Yashim slid the gun from his hand. It was not cocked. He wondered if it was even loaded.
“Will you give me the little bit of skin?”
“The next time you try to fire this gun,” Yashim said gently, peering into the chamber, “it will explode in your hand. The action is rusty and the bullet has rusted into the breach. But I suppose you do not mean to fire it.”
“Will you give me the little bit of skin?”
Yashim snapped the gun into place and handed it back. “No, I’m sorry. You see, I, too, have a destination for it in mind.” He glanced up. “Who are you working for?”
Palewski was advancing uncertainly along the deck, bearing two small coffee cups and swaying against the motion of the boat.
The little man caught his glance. He hopped off the seat and tipped his hat. “Goodbye. I wish you a pleasant crossing.”
He walked away with pedantic dignity, tapping his cane along the deck.
“Who,” Palewski said, “was that?”
“Exactly what I mean to find out,” Yashim replied, getting up. “Come along.”
The little man had crossed to the opposite rail, where he stood looking out over the sea. Yashim saw him raise an arm, as if he was loosening his sleeve.
Palewski leaned past Yashim and placed the cups on the bench. When he straightened up, Yashim could see the man moving briskly down the companionway toward the stern of the ferry.
“Go ’round the other way,” he said to Palewski. “Or we’ll be running in circles.”
“Pincer movement? Jolly good.”
Yashim crossed the deck.
The little man vaulted with surprising agility over the stern rail, and the last thing Yashim saw was his head and hat disappearing over the side.
Palewski had seen him, too. They both began to run.
But before Yashim reached the rail, a slender black caïque shot away from the boat’s side and slipped into its wake. The gap between them was widening by the second.
In the caïque, with his back to the ferry, the little man raised a hand in a farewell salute.
“Good lord!” Palewski