Disclaimer: This story is based on a hodge-podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of the characters and own none of them, except for all of my original ones.
Side Notes:
Thank you to Le Chat Noir for betaing! Her own wonderful writing can be found here at ffn, under the pen name "Chatastic".
Thanks for all of the encouraging e-mails and reviews – they really motivate me to write, especially when I get bogged down with other commitments. It's been awhile since my last update, due to a busy schedule of traveling, family get-togethers and weddings. I also wrote a piece for a contest—something I think you will enjoy—which should be posted to FFN once the contest is over. :) But we're back on schedule again until Thanksgiving, so you shouldn't have to wait a month for the next update (blushes).
Again, thanks for all of the awesome reviews and encouragement!
The Best of Intentions
September, 1882: The Fifth Cellar below the Opéra Populairé, Paris
Only the quiet, monotonous sloshing of water echoed through the dark caverns of the underground lake, where the young Comte de Chagny crouched, protected by the weak circle of light emitted by his lantern. The quiet waves…and somewhere, far away, the footfalls of Norry's two gardeners as they combed the black labyrinth in search of the body.
His body, thought Raoul. The monster of a man who had tormented my family and me for too long. Now, at last, he would bury him in the past, once and for all. Perhaps, even for Christine, the man would become only a distant memory—a few discordant notes in a melody that would surface now and again, when someone mentioned the name "Erik," or wore a mask. Nothing more. Just a rotting corpse buried deep beneath the stones of the Opéra Populairé. A dead body, guarding a secret from the rest of the world…
"A secret," the man murmured. He smoothed a hand over the metal deed box at his side, his eyes straying to the great hole before him. A good hour or more had been spent cautiously searching the floor of the fifth cellar, looking for hollow places, outlines, triggers, anything that might indicate the location of one of Erik's trapdoors. Somehow, for Christine's sake, it seemed wrong to leave Erik lying wherever they found him, unconsecrated, despite the creature's blatant rejection of all things holy. His boat was tethered on this side of the lake, which meant that he was somewhere in the labyrinth. And since the ghost had not afforded them the courtesy of placing himself in his coffin before dying, and Raoul had no desire to once more venture into the Phantom's underground lair after the previous insane visit, one of the ghost's own trapdoors seemed to suit their purposes.
At last, they had found a suitable one just off the shore of the lake, and had pried it up. Upon closer inspection, the small cavern beneath seemed to serve no sinister threat, other than to trap its inhabitant beneath the stone floor, presumably until Erik came to claim them or they died of starvation. In any case, the square opening was large enough to serve as a grave.
A fitting place for the Fraternité's oath to rest, the young Comte mused darkly. In the place where it all began: where my brother 'drowned'. He quietly cursed Philippe for bringing the mess to his doorstep.
Sighing, the young Comte rocked back on his heels and glanced up the darkened corridors, searching for any sign of his two companions. Certain that they were long gone, he grabbed a rope, tied it around the box, and leaned over the opening of the grave. With the care of a mourner lowering a coffin into the ground, he placed the box into the hole and dropped the rope, bidding the cursed papers adieu until he needed to reclaim them.
"Now all we need is a body to bury with it," he murmured, the corners of his mouth quirking.
And then he saw him.
Felt him, rather, at first; the prickly feeling upon the back of his neck; the suddenly heavy, tense air, warning him of the presence of another. His gaze remained riveted to the trapdoor before him, knowing that if he looked up, he would see two golden eyes staring at him, glowing like a wild animal's, ready to attack. Even now, he could feel them burning into him with barely-contained madness.
He dared not look up.
He had to look up.
They were there in a shadowed corner, just to his left—two glittering circles reflecting the yellow light of his lantern, trained upon him, watching him.
Christine's "angel" was not dead after all, as the Epoque had proclaimed.
The devil was very much alive.
Raoul's hands began to tremble. He hastily glanced away, pretending that he had not seen. Cursing, he cast about for some way to escape without provoking the man in the shadows.
Another trap had been laid and he had walked right into it with all the carelessness of a man who had been handed the world. How could he possibly leave the cellar alive this time?
The gardeners, he thought quickly. Cautiously, he backed away from the grave and strode to the corridor's entrance, the eyes following his every stride.
"Hello there!" Raoul called shakily into the darkness.
No answer.
"Messieurs?"
Still nothing. Raoul began to panic. Suppose Erik had killed them already, and had come for him last? He knew very well what happened to those who dared intrude in the Phantom's lair…
"Messieurs," he shouted again, "it is growing dark! We should return…"
At last, a faint reply. "Right away, sir!" came the voice of one of the young gardeners.
Raoul exhaled in relief. With as much calm countenance as he could muster, he made a show of gathering up their pick axes and other tools into a pile, all the while glancing down the hallway for his servants' return.
It was then he remembered it. The oath. A treacherous item that would mean the end for him, should it fall into the wrong hands. And now it rested in his greatest enemy's own trap door. He had to get it back—jump into the opening perhaps, and once the gardeners returned...
And then they would know about it as well, and Erik would take the oath, and kill us all…Raoul's hands grew clammy with terror, his eyes wild. It was lost to him…lost, and would be recovered by Erik, he was sure of it. Now his life was once again in the palm of the Phantom's hand, and Raoul himself had placed it there.
Why hasn't he made his move? the Comte's mind raced, braced for the attack that would surely put an end to his life. The eyes were still upon him, waiting. He grasped a pickaxe in his hand, tightening his grip upon the handle. Erik was there, somewhere in the shadows, ready to leap—
"Monsieur le Comte."
Raoul jumped and spun around. It was his two gardeners, returned from the labyrinth. He dropped the tool. "Mon Dieu," he exclaimed breathlessly, "you startled me! Never mind, it is time for us to leave."
"But Monsieur le Comte, we have not found the body—"
"And we likely shall not," Raoul interjected. "These halls are so extensive; we shall meet our own deaths if we continue to search for the man. Let him rest in peace, in his own labyrinth. That is burial enough." He hastily knelt and pushed at the heavy trap door.
Confused as to what purpose recovering the grave served, the two gardeners shrugged and followed suit, daring not to question their employer. Soon the ground was smooth again, and the heavy floor stone was slid back into place.
One of the servants stepped back to study their work, brushing a hand across his sweaty forehead and streaking it with dirt. "I can't say I'll be sad to leave this place. Dark and frightening is one thing, but this place is cursed."
The second gardener nodded. "The whole time we were searching those passages until right before you called to us, I swear upon the Virgin Mary herself that someone was following us, watching us. All the way down here! The ghosts of the communards, or the fellow we were looking for himself—"
"Which is why it is time for us to leave," Raoul nervously interrupted. "Your wives will be wondering what has happened, and Christine will be beside herself as it is."
"Christine…"
The voice was soft, barely a whisper that could easily be mistaken for a drafty wind in the tunnels or the sloshing of the underground lake. So quiet, it was like the last breath of a dying man, resigned, just before his chest stilled and his heart stopped.
The others had not heard it, but Raoul had.
And he knew that he would leave the fifth cellar alive.
OOOOO
Erik abruptly sat up, startled by the memory of that long-ago afternoon. Raoul de Chagny and his servants, combing the labyrinth to find and bury him; taking the time to close the heavy trap door and cover it, despite its being far from the reaches of any human, save himself…
He knew where the oath of Fraternité was.
Where else could it have been so well hidden? At the time, when Erik happened upon him,it had appeared that the boy had merely been transfixed upon the trapdoor, staring into the blackness of his rival's grave and leaving his servants to do the hunting. When the factor of the missing oath was added, however.
Raoul had to have known that Erik saw him that day, near the shores of Lake Averne. He had also known that Erik spared his life yet again. And after time passed and the oath had not resurfaced, the Comte would have assumed that either Erik had not found the oath, or he had chosen not to make use of it.
And that was why the boy had instructed Madame Giry to send Christine back to me, he mused. Ever so slowly, a smile spread across his oddly bearded, hideous face, twisting at the unbelievable irony of it all. When he finally escaped from this hellish place and found his wife, he would return to Paris and put an end to this nonsense once and for all.
If the oath is even there, he remembered suddenly. For if the boy is still alive, he could very well have returned to my cellar and reclaimed it by now. This whole mess could be over, Christine would be the Comtesse again, and Jean-Paul their son.
Erik shook his head to clear away the bitter thought. Christine belonged to him, loved him, he was sure of it. And yet, in the three months that he had resided in the cesspit of Istanbul, amidst the desperation of a hundred men, it was easy to believe that Christine had given up on him. In fact, hadn't he been the one to encourage her to find her husband in Prague, and let him care for her?
At the time, had he truly believed that she would abandon him, as he asked?
Somewhere beyond the walls of the prison—either in one of the bazaars or the busy docks, he wasn't sure—he heard the loud clanging of a bell, signaling the end of a workday. Soon the familiar call to prayer would sound, its exotic melody wrapping its arms around him, reminding him of the balmy days he had spent in his wife's arms, as well. The ezan was the only link to some marking of time, of structure. Without it, one day might as well be twenty. Without it, he might very well go insane in his hatred, as he slowly had those years under the opera house. Hate was simply an art form he had perfected with time, as he had his music and his murders.
Yes, hatred even had a face. But it was no longer that of the youthful Raoul de Chagny; rather, an older, gaunt face with twisted lips and eyes as hard as his own: Mas Quennell's.
"When will you let go of your hate?" Christine had asked him in London.
When it ceases to sustain me, he answered silently. And oh, how he could hate.
He was going to kill Mas once he left Istanbul. And he would escape eventually, there was no doubt about it. The three months spent in his prison had not been wasted ruminating over how splendid his life in Jerusalem had been, or how much better life would be once he left, oh no. His time had been put to better use: learning all he could of his prison. The thickness of the walls, judging by the muffled voices he sometimes heard on the other side. Where the hallways led to, the number of floors, sets of stairs, placement of prisoners, and location of weapon storages. The patterns and tendencies of the guards—when they changed shifts, where they kept their keys, their habits, weaknesses, physical strength, everything.
The prison, Erik had discovered, was located north of Istanbul in a tower within the massive Fortress of Europe: Rumeli Hisari. More than 400 years old, the walls and towers snaked along the cypress-covered hills of the Bosphorus strait's western banks. Across the blue waters on the eastern shore towered the Rumeli's twin Fortress of Asia, the Anadolu Hisari. Together, these two structures had presided over Constantinople and the bridge between continents for nearly a half-century.
The Rumeli had served as many things since Mehmet the Conqueror had built it to capture Constantinople: garrison for the sultan's elite Janissaries, guardian over the east-west supply route, a prison for out-of-favor foreign envoys and prisoners-of-war, even a location for festivals. Officially, the prisons had been closed since 1832 and the fortress had supposedly fallen into disrepair. Some locals and few family members of prisoners and guards, however, knew that the Rumeli was a place where the Ottomans put people they wished the world to forget—spies, politicians, rebels, anarchists. The Rumeli prison, after all, no longer existed.
Neither did its prisoners.
Erik glanced at the Russian man chained next to him. The man, little more than a boy, really, had only been brought to Rumeli six days ago on a charge of espionage. Or so he assumed; the new prisoner had yet to tell him.
"Tell me, Gospadin—why do you not speak with me?" Erik asked.
The Russian paled and turned away.
"Am I so utterly hideous, that you cannot stand to look at me?" he goaded. "I assure you, sir, that your face will look as mine does before long."
The prisoner's head snapped up, his wide eyes suddenly riveted to his neighbor's visage. His jaw dropped as he studied the man's face. "Did…did they do that to you?" he whispered.
A low, bitter laugh was his response. "In a way, I suppose," Erik replied sardonically. "Oh, do not be so concerned, Gospadin. They can do nothing to you that will not heal with time. Most things heal with time, you know. With time, and revenge."
The youthful Russian said nothing, not quite sure what to make of the man.
"Do you have a wife and children, Gospadin?" Erik asked.
The prisoner nodded. "A wife of two years, and a child. A little girl named Evelina. Her name means—"
"Life," Erik said. "A fitting name for your first child."
"Yes," murmured the Russian, his voice breaking. He shook his head and turned away from his companion's gruesome face, struggling with little success to put on a brave front in the face of adversity. Erik respectfully glanced away as the man's tears fell. He really had no experience listening to other men's sorrows, and found silence to be vastly agreeable to offering comfort. Comfort, in such a place, would simply be an insult.
At last the Russian spoke. "Are they going to kill me? I have heard them talk, seen their secretive looks."
Erik nodded candidly. "I imagine so."
The Russian closed his eyes painfully, a few tears sliding from under his dark eyelashes. Head hung in defeat, he could not bring himself to raise it again. "How is it you are still alive, sir?"
Erik shrugged. "I am not entirely sure. I believe it is because I am worth more to them alive. There is a man, an enemy of Russia, that wishes to extract some sort of information from me. And as the Sultan is forever warring with Russia, this particular man is useful to them. It is entirely political, really; I am a pawn, of sorts. You see, if you are of value to them, you remain alive." He looked pointedly at the man. "Can you be of value to them in some way, to save your life?"
The Russian stared at Erik, weighing his options. He answered softly, "I would rather die with my secrets. If I betray Russia, I betray my family."
"Then you are a better man than most in here, Gospadin," Erik said quietly.
Three weeks later, the young Russian spy was hung in the inner courtyard of the prison, just after the morning ezan. By noon, a new prisoner was chained next to Erik's pallet—this time a former vizier.
The vizier would not look at him.
OOOOO
"Number seven-thirteen, you have a guest."
Erik glanced up at the Turkish guard nonchalantly. "The last time I had a visitor, he asked your men to beat me within an inch of my life. I would rather stay here, if you don't mind."
The guard raised his cane threateningly. "And they shall do so again, if you again forget that you are nothing but a worthless orosbu pitchi with a mutilated face. Your visitor will be seeing you here, as it is."
Erik smirked. "I am hardly presentable to see anyone, sir." He held up a tattered corner of his abaya, then dropped it.
The guard shrugged and turned to leave. "Very well then. I shall just tell the priest that you do not want visitors."
"Wait, Effendi."
The Turk paused and turned back, eyebrows raised.
"A priest?" Erik asked incredulously.
"An older man; says he is a friend of yours, has news of your family. I will tell him to leave."
Erik's breath caught in his dry throat. He swallowed, gripping his chains anxiously. "Send him in."
The man who strode into the prison chamber was the last man on earth Erik had expected to see in the black and white of a priest. The familiar person had discarded his astrakhan cap and robe, and was now dressed head to toe in the vestments of a Franciscan, his holy bible gripped tightly by his nervous fingers.
Erik's eyebrows quirked in amusement.
"A Persian priest!" he exclaimed wryly. "This is not something we in Istanbul are treated to everyday." He held out his hand in greeting. "You need not look so concerned, Father; none of the guards present speak French."
One of the gendarmes stepped forward, pointing his cane at the men in warning. "Speak in Turkish, ayip."
Erik scowled, then continued the conversation in crystal-clear, acerbic Turkish, his words over-pronounced and just loud enough for the guard to hear. "Tell me, how on earth did you convince my Turkish companions that you truly are a man of the cloth? They are most suspicious creatures."
The Persian smiled. "I began to explain the intricacies of the Catholic Persian Rite and the Missale Chaldaicum. They waved me through the gate in less than a minute." He studied the emaciated man before him. "You look horrible, Erik."
"I have never been a handsome man, du stæm." His hand went to his face, unconsciously covering his deformities.
"That is not what I meant. And you need not cover your face; I know very well what it looks like."
Erik lowered his hand. "Let us say that we are not as formal at the Rumeli Hisari as in Paris. Fine clothing, food, and masks do not seem to be as vital here."
Nadir scrutinized his friend's filthy, beaten condition, his jade eyes resting upon the man's bandaged right hand. "How did that happen?" he asked quietly. "What did they do?"
"An envoy, doing a bit of eavesdropping in addition to his official duties—little more than a boy—was imprisoned here. He had a wife and child." He sighed wearily. "They came to take him to the gallows, and I interfered. The Turkish guards do not take kindly to interference."
"How noble of you," Nadir muttered. "Lashing out against the Ottomans when it would make absolutely no difference in the boy's fate; now you have a broken hand, which is of no use to anyone." The Persian narrowed his eyes. "Foolish nobility seems to be your credo, of late. What you did for us in Jerusalem—"
Erik grimaced. "I truly hope that you are not about to thank me. I am in no mood to humor such behavior. How is Christine?"
Nadir glanced at the floor. "She is well, I suppose. I really do not know."
The prisoner's golden eyes flared. "What the devil does that mean?" he snapped. "How could you not know?"
"We have not heard a word of them since that day in Jerusalem—"
Erik threw his hands up in the air, chains rattling. "Have you not even tried to look for them? They are keeping me alive here for a reason, Nadir; Mas Quennell doesn't know where she is, and that is the only reason I am here and not on a pile of corpses. He is still looking for her, don't you see? Good God, I saved your worthless life that day, and you did not even think to help my wife—"
"—Yes, your wife," the Persian quickly interrupted. "Papillon is with us in Istanbul—Father Jakob and I—you remember the other cleric from Jerusalem? She wishes to visit you—"
Whatever retorts Erik had prepared died on his lips. He studied his friend curiously, trying to make sense of his odd words. Papi? His wife? Why would…
And then he realized exactly what the Persian intended to do. Prisoners were allowed a monthly visit with their wives. Usually, they were unchained from the wall for such a visit.
However, often times, certain unpleasant things befell a woman who visited her husband—especially one who had been shamed because her husband was in prison. A silent agreement of sorts, a risk each woman took but no one ever spoke of. All knew it happened, however; the consequential devastation of the imprisoned was evidence enough.
It was too much of a risk.
"No."
Nadir cleared his throat. "But Erik—"
"—I said no, you stupid man! I do not want her to see me, nor do I wish her to entertain the thought, do you understand? Tell her to go home to France."
"I have tried, du stæm, but she is very much of a mind to see you. Nothing I can say will persuade her otherwise. Perhaps no harm will come to her," the Persian said emphatically.
Erik stared at the man before him, trying to read his thoughts. "Nadir, let me be frank," he said quickly in French, aware of the guard hovering above him. "When a woman visits the Rumeli, she is searched for weapons at the gate, then led to her husband. She and the prisoner are taken to a small room, always accompanied by two guards."
"Speak Turkish!" the gendarme threatened, his fingers tightening over his cane.
Erik rushed on, ignoring him. "Many times, after the prisoner is returned to his chains, the guards will have a bit of fun. Do you understand what I am saying, Nadir? Wives of prisoners are not respected. They are often sold, or worse. I will find a way out, myself—"
The cane came down across the man's shoulders with a blow so forceful, it momentarily numbed every single nerve along his spine, before white pain ripped through his back. He put a hand to the ground to steady himself, fighting to pull air back into his lungs.
The Persian dropped to his knees next to his friend and clasped his shoulder, helping to steady him. Leaning forward, he hastily whispered into Erik's ear.
"She will come in three days' time. Be prepared, rest, and stay as healthy as possible. No more interferences with the guards." Nadir's eyes met his, pleading. "Make sure that she is not harmed, my friend."
Erik nodded, his lips turning white, jaw clenched. "I will."
The Persian released the man's shoulders and rose, smoothing a hand over his black robe. He glared at the guard still brandishing the cane, his cold jade eyes and authoritative manner every bit that of the Mazenderan daroga from so long ago. Hissing through his teeth, he strode past the guard and down the filthy, dank halls of the Rumeli Hisari and into the fresh open air of Istanbul.
The breeze off of the Bosphorus was the only relief from the pounding sun afforded to the dock-goers that hot August afternoon. Just beyond the gates of the fortress stretched the blue waters of the strait, its merchant ships sailing lazily up and down it between the Black and Marmara Seas, laden with silks and spices of the Middle East.
Nadir strolled down the shore, allowing the fresh air to cool his boiling blood, scanning the multitudes of people for a familiar blonde head. He saw her standing next to the ferry dock with the old Father Jakob, dressed in her simple gray dress, hair tucked and pinned under a plain straw hat with a wide brim that shaded her brown eyes. Calling out to her, she turned and saw him, a grin spreading across her lovely face. She held out her small, gloved hand and for a moment, Nadir thought she would tangle her fingers with his. His hand was quickly relinquished, however, and she gestured to the small boat at the dock.
"You are just in time, M. Khan," Papi said. "The ferry is leaving shortly, and another will not be available for an entire hour. Shall we?"
"Then I am glad I was not late," the Persian replied quietly, once more claiming her hand to help her aboard the boat.
The maid nodded her thanks and strode to the secluded area of the ferry. Nadir and Father Jakob followed, each placing liras in the attendant's box and settling into a seat next to her.
Three months in each other's company had forged a friendship between the Persian, the Frenchwoman, and the Franciscan priest—an event that would have been as unlikely under any other circumstance as the sky shedding snow upon the scorched summer lands of Turkey. And yet fate sometimes has a way of bringing the unlikeliest of creatures together.
For weeks they had scoured prison after Ottoman prison, searching for their captive friend. Just as their searching began to seem in vain, a few well-placed liras in the hands of a gendarme purchased a story of a secluded prison hidden within the ancient walls of the Rumeli Hisari, one which very few knew about, and even fewer returned from—prisoners, or their family. A few more liras, and they were given the story of the jailed assassin from Persia who had a face so gruesome, the prison guards dared not touch it with their canes and risk marring such perfect hideousness.
"Oh!" Papi exclaimed, breaking into the Persian's thoughts. "Here is your knap sack, safe and sound." She handed the brown leather bag to the daroga, her fingers brushing his as he took it.
"Thank you," he said softly, his eyes not leaving her blushing face. The bag contained his neatly-rolled yelek vest and fez, discarded for his priestly garments. He shrugged out of the black robes and slipped the vest over his cotton kaftan, enjoying the sudden rush of cool air that the lighter garments afforded him.
"May my father and grandfather forgive me for wearing Turkish garbage," he muttered as he placed the red cap on his head and wound a white turban scarf around it. Tucking the vestments back into the bag, he leaned back and watched the ornate palaces as the boat gradually moved south along the shoreline.
"Well?" asked Father Jakob, his expression one of pure hope. "Was it this one? Was it him?"
A smile slowly spread across Nadir's face. "It was him—as stubborn and arrogant as ever."
"Praise God!" breathed the priest, his eyes turned to heaven.
The Persian cleared his throat. "I would not be so quick as to thank God yet, Father. This prison is not like the others."
He told his companions of what he had seen—Erik, beaten and chained to a wall, lined by prisoner after filthy prisoner. How there was a guard in nearly every hallway, each carrying a gun and a wooden cane. The stench, the darkness, the rats—
"There are no large open rooms or obvious routes," he continued. "It is a maze; a dark, ancient labyrinth of hallways and staircases winding through the towers and barracks of the old fortress. It will be nearly impossible for Mlle. Nitot to find her way through the passages, once Erik is free."
"I can do it!" Papi cried, her brown eyes shining with excitement. "Please, let me try to help. If M. Reinard has his lasso, then we could make it."
"Papillon, who knows whether he will even be able to use it or not! His hand is broken, and he is chained to a wall. If they do not release him when you visit—"
"Please, Nadir—I have to try." The woman grasped his hands. "This is why I am here, why I came with you—to help!"
"It appears to be the only way, Monsieur," added Father Jakob. "We already know that the guards will not unchain him for you, and most likely not for me. For his 'wife', however…"
Nadir shook his head, placing his hands over Papi's. "I beg of you, Mademoiselle—explain to me why this is so important, you would risk your life so carelessly? Erik does not wish you to, by the way. And after speaking with him and seeing the prison, I am inclined to strongly agree with him."
"Perhaps if you accompanied her, you would have a better chance of escape," offered the old priest. "You only have to make it out of the fortress, and the boat will be waiting in the Bosphorus to take us to the Black Sea. It isn't very far. You could somehow hide a pistol under your robes, or a dagger."
"Possibly," Nadir murmured reflectively. "I noticed that they did not look at my ankles at the gate, because of the sandals. A knife could be strapped there. However, if they did search my ankles, we would be finished."
The conversation parried back and forth in such a manner the entire six miles back to central Istanbul, then even further as they made their way past the Topkapi to the Bazaar Quarter. Weaving their way through the vibrant Grand bazaar, they were so engrossed in their enigmatic preparations that none of them noticed two Turks, a gruff older man and a younger, rather petite, fair-faced companion wandering in the opposite direction towards a dingy meyhane.
OOOOO
Christine squinted into the dimly lit tavern, momentarily blinded by the drastic shift from daylight to darkness. As her eyes adjusted to her surroundings, however, she began to make out square tables and chairs scattered across a brown tiled floor, some occupied by patrons puffing bubble pipes and sipping raki. The odor of cooking fish mingled with the fragrant narghile and created a most unpleasant smell. She thanked the heavens that after four months with child, her bouts of nausea had at last seen fit to depart.
Tucking a few loose curls under her turban, Christine put her hand to her nose and pressed forward, pointing to an unoccupied table in the far corner of the small meyhane.
She and Norry settled into their chairs, positioning them so they could watch for the arrival of Zeki, the eleven-year-old boy she had hired to serve as a translator of sorts. The child was remarkable—she had stumbled upon him in the Egyptian spice bazaar when he tried to sell her a jar of pistachios, rattling off one language after the other until he determined that she spoke French. After buying his jar of pistachios and chatting over a lunch of lukewarm soup, she discovered that a good number of Constantinople's street urchins spoke many languages, learned by carefully observing foreign tradesmen, tourists, and missionaries in the many bazaars. Most of them would never receive any sort of formal schooling, but they could speak to Turkey's wealthy visitors—and that was what earned a decent living.
"I don't know if that little scamp will be showing his face today, Madame," Norry said. "He may very well have taken your purse of liras and ran off to make mischief with them. Those coins are as good as gone."
She shook her head, smiling. "He will be here, Norry, and with this gendarme of his. As long as there is a promise of more liras, he will come."
Over the past week, Zeki had proven to be of tremendous value, worth much more than a purse of liras. For more than a month, Christine and Norry had bumbled about Istanbul like two lost sheep amongst a pack of wolves, fruitlessly searching prisons for Erik and spending a small fortune for secrets that proved to be nothing more than fable. Within three days of hiring the boy, however, not only did they have a loyal guide (as long as a coin was placed upon his palm), they had a link to the underbelly of Istanbul and all of its dirty dealings.
And now, after three months, she finally had hope of finding her husband.
"There," exclaimed Norry, nodding to the doorway. Sure enough, in strode their jaunty eleven-year-old in a rumpled kaftan, fez askew, followed by an equally rumpled and considerably more grizzled man. Zeki spotted them in the corner and waved, pointing them out to his companion. The older man studied the foreigners for moment, then frowned, his bushy brows knitting together in annoyance. He barked something at the boy and lightly pushed him towards the waiting party. Zeki shrugged and shuffled over to his employer.
"Hello, Zeki Bey," Christine said.
The boy's chest puffed with pride, quite pleased with the formal address. "Effendi," he nodded to each of his companions.
Christine gestured to the man lurking in the doorway. "Will your friend not join us? I should very much like to speak with him. And Norry has already requested a bottle of raki."
The boy's eyes glistened at the thought of imbibing in drink with a pretty French lady—albeit, the oddest lady he had ever met—but his happy demeanor abruptly clouded. "He will not meet with you, Christine Hanim. I told him that you are very nice, but…"
He glanced back at the man, shrugging his shoulders.
"That is foolishness," Norry growled. "Why not? Thinks he is too good to sit at a table with a couple of foreigners?"
'No," said the boy measuredly. "He says that he will not meet with a woman who dresses as a man. It is insulting."
Christine glanced down at her male attire—billowed pants, cotton kaftan just baggy enough to hide her slightly rounded midsection, woven vest. Yes, it was offensive in this particular culture…if passers-by actually noticed that she was not a man. And most had not. Rather, dressing as a man had afforded her passage into a variety of places she would not normally be admitted to, as well as the ability to exercise a freedom she would not be able to as a woman—French or not.
She smiled sweetly. "Perhaps all your friend needs is a bit of persuading," she said gently, and nonchalantly plopped a purse-full of liras onto the table. Across the room, the man's eyes widened considerably and he sauntered over to the dark corner, suddenly cured of his averseness to ill-bred women. Men's clothing isn't the only key to getting what you want, Christine mused. Money seems to work just as well. She silently blessed Raoul and Erik for bestowing small fortunes upon her.
The man bowed to Christine and Norry. "Effendi," he grinned, his smile crafty and catlike. He spoke to the boy, who nodded along, repeating his words.
"My friend says that he is glad to be of service to you, and 'the Sultan's gendarme is yours to command.'"
Christine gestured for the man to sit, her own artful smile still plastered upon her lips. "Zeki has implied that you have information which may be of use to me. The more you can tell, the more I shall thank you." She absently tapped the purse under her hand while Zeki translated her words. "If your story does not ring true, you shall receive nothing from me," she added for good measure.
The man's eye twitched slightly. He folded his hands and leaned forward on the table, fingers barely inches from hers, his words low.
"He promises you, Hanim," Zeki repeated, "he will be nothing but truthful."
Norry growled low and eyed the man in warning, quietly flashed the hilt of a knife at his belt. The Turk held up his hands and slid back in his chair with all the ease in the world.
Christine cleared her throat and continued, ignoring the interlude. "I am looking for a man—a French man, imprisoned somewhere within Istanbul or the outskirts."
"A…skirt?" Zeki questioned, confused.
"Outskirts – outside the city."
The boy giggled. "My friend says that there could be many such men imprisoned in Istanbul."
"Yes," she continued, "but this one is different. He was in service to Persia twenty years ago—a political assassin. And he wears a mask."
"Why does he wear a mask?" the child asked curiously.
Christine stared at him, unsure of how to reply. "His face…"
The man clapped his hands, startling the others at the table. "Ayip!" he exclaimed, his words to the boy a jumble of Turkish.
"The monster in Rumeli Hisari…the man with half a face," the boy quickly translated. "He was called the Lover of Trapdoors. Yes, he has have heard of him."
Christine grabbed Norry's arm in excitement. "Rumeli Hisari—the fortress on the Bosphorus? I didn't know that there was a prison there. Are you sure? He is alive?"
The gendarme nodded and continued, catching the woman's exhilaration.
"Most certainly," Zeki repeated. "The Ottomans keep its location a secret because of its important prisoners. He is there, though. My friend has been told that your Frenchman has given the guards a lot of trouble."
"It sounds like him," Norry added. "I would think it weren't him, if he wasn't stirring up some sort of commotion. That fellow lives and breathes strife."
Christine scowled at the caretaker and pressed on. "What else can you tell me of the Rumeli, sir?" She pulled the drawstring of the purse and removed several liras, placing them on the table.
The man's eyes shone greedily. He reached across the table and covered the purse, as well as her hand, with his great palm.
"Anything you would like to know, Hanim," said the boy, his own eyes bright with hunger for the coins.
She grinned sardonically and slid her fingers from the man's, along with the coins. "Tell me all you know. In fact, if you can take me there tomorrow morning, this entire bag shall be yours."
"The entire bag?" Norry shook his head, mumbling about money and foolishness.
Zeki leapt from the table and clapped his hands, shrieking with delight, causing several of the meyhane patrons to pause in their narghile puffing and turn to see who was creating such a stir.
"Done!" exclaimed the Turk, slapping the table. "Tomorrow morning, right after the morning ezan, I shall take you and your friend to Rumeli Hisari and offer my protection," he replied in perfect French. "Oh, and be sure to dress as a woman tomorrow. The guards will not be kind should they discover you are pretending to be a man."
Norry and Christine stared at the man, mouths slack, utterly taken aback. The caretaker growled and loosed a string of oaths in French, daring the man to understand them.
Christine exhaled, her eyes falling shut in utter relief, and ignored whatever took place between Norry and her Turkish guides. Nothing mattered at all, except for her newfound hope.
Erik was alive! He was only six miles away. And tomorrow, she would see her beloved Angel again.
A/N: Posting a map of Istanbul on my Web site, as I write.
Story Recommendation: Das Phantom von Deutschland, by SparklyScorpion
Das Phantom von Deustchland is set in Nazi-occupied Paris, and is a loose retelling of POTO with some twists and turns here to make the story fresh. Christine is a resistance worker, Raoul is a downed British fighter pilot, and Erik is a Nazi infiltrator determined to destroy the movement.
First of all, kudos to SparklyScorpion for taking on such a challenging storyline. Not many authors can write an alternate reality story based on Phantom, set it in this particularly sensitive time period, and have it come out as strong as Das Phantom von Deustchland does. The author has done a lot of research, and it really makes the story. Erik can be very dark and frightening, and then he can be heartbreaking. Raoul and Christine's characterizations are also well done.
In making Erik a Nazi, the author has chosen a difficult path; she manages to make Erik a hated figure, and at the same time is able to stir a sympathy for him without using romantic clichés or cheap plot devices. He is not a nice person, yet the reader is drawn to him in very much the same way we are drawn to Leroux's Erik. She does not in any way condone the Nazi movement or Erik's actions, and has made it very clear; rather, she simply tells a very human story that seems to get better with each chapter! Enjoy :)