Was it better not to ask the questions and live in a fantasy world in which one’s conscience remains clear?

Felix rolls over in bed and covers his face with his hand. He should have studied law. He should have studied law and unearthed an ancient jurisdiction against waking up a gentleman on New Year’s Day.

Wilhelm is standing far too close to him. He puts both fingers in his mouth and whistles. Up, down, trill.

“Wilhelm! Please. What gentleman—”

“Guess who I met last night?”

“How should I know?”

“My uncle.”

“Earth-shattering. I’ve lost count of your uncles.”

“Yes, well, that is not helped by the fact that my father insists I call uncle every man he once drank coffee with.”

“Just tell me about it, Wilhelm. And let me go back to sleep.”

“My uncle. The lawyer. Well, not just a lawyer. He has his finger in every pie that’s worthy of the name.”

Felix opens one eye and then closes it. “Go on.”

“I asked him about the name of that shipping company.”

“Shipping company.” He didn’t drink too much last night, not that he remembers. But talk of a shipping company has him flummoxed.

“Austrian Lloyd.”

Felix blink and sits up in bed.

Wilhelm claps his hands. “Ah, some reaction at last.”

Austrian Lloyd was one of the names that appeared on the bank records Joachim gave him. Every day since he was handed a copy of the brown manila file, he has been trying to trace a thicket of names. The only company that appeared, with regular transaction being paid to them, was Austrian Lloyd. A shipping company.

“My uncle told me that they are the biggest shipping company in these parts, with over 70 steamers.”

“Uninteresting.”

Wilhelm looks offended. “But that’s not all.”

“Go on.”

“They’re waist-high deep in the slave trade.”

Felix shakes his head. “It’s not possible. Even in Ottoman Turkey, slavery was abolished 30 years ago.”

“Well, listen to this. It all blew up ten years ago, when the Mars was searched by the British consul in Izmir and found to be carrying, among other cargo, an 18-year-old boy purchased in Egypt for a pasha in Istanbul. A 16-year-old African. A clutch of little children. So they continued searching. The Jupiter, the Apollo, Urano, the Diana—”

Felix closes his eyes. “So many pagan gods.”

Wilhelm shakes his shoulders. “So many men who think that they are gods.”

The comment sobers him. He passes a hand over his eyes and wishes for a cup of coffee.