Empire of Lies

by Raymond Khoury

  “Ah, Ramazan, you’re already here,” the surgeon said. “Splendid.” He crossed over to the bed and gave the tattooed man a long, curious look. “I think he’s had enough of a rest, don’t you?”

  Ramazan didn’t reply, but Fonseca wasn’t exactly waiting for an answer either. He checked out the thin rubber tubes that came out from under the man’s covers and ran into a small plastic container hanging from the bed’s frame. “His drains are clear.”

  “Yes, there’s been no bleeding since the first night,” Ramazan said, calmly.

  “Good. I’ll take them out in the morning.” He gestured invitingly to Ramazan. “He’s all yours.”

  Ramazan managed a smile and, despite the quiver in his hands, started to bring Rasheed to full consciousness.

  Again, as he had only minutes before, the tattooed man stirred. His eyes moved around behind his eyelids. Then he opened them, his face clouded by the same bewildered look before his gaze settled on Ramazan’s welcoming face.

  “Nice to have you back, effendi,” Ramazan told him, adroitly opting to use the respectful, but hardly imperial, title. “How are you feeling?”

  Rasheed didn’t reply. His eyes were scanning the room, clearly trying to make sense of where he was and what was happening.

  Ramazan knew this was different from when he’d been getting Rasheed to discuss the past. Then, he was only semiconscious and not fully aware of what he was saying. Right now, the drugs would be draining out of him completely, and he’d soon have full awareness. What he remembered from before the surgery, however, was an open question.

  Ramazan gave him a moment. Then he tapped his left arm gently, as he had before. “Can you raise this arm?”

  Rasheed, still visibly trying to work things out, raised it.

  “Excellent. You must be thirsty. Here.” Ramazan picked up the cup of water from the side table and positioned the straw between the man’s dry lips. “Have some water, effendi. Small sips, please.”

  He gave him a moment, then took away the cup and turned to Fonseca. “He’s still groggy,” he told him. “Let’s give him a few minutes.”

  He watched nervously as Fonseca moved closer, right up to the man’s bed. “I just want to know if he’s decided to speak yet,” he told Ramazan without taking his eyes off the tattooed man. “Or if he’s going to keep up the silent treatment. Maybe he’ll be more chatty while he’s still groggy. What do you say, effendi,” he asked the patient, “would you care to enlighten us about who you are? You could perhaps start with your name?”

  As Rasheed stared at the surgeon with a blank, befuddled expression, Ramazan looked on in silent dread, desperately hoping the man would remember to keep up the mute act he’d come in with.

  * * *

  Who he was came back first.

  After that, Rasheed was struggling to remember where he was and what he was doing there.

  Confusing bits of information were burgeoning in his dazed mind, random associations of words and visions that he was trying to make sense of. Were they memories, or imaginings? He didn’t have enough focus to make that distinction. The face looking down on him, though, was unfamiliar. Had he seen him before? The man certainly seemed to think so, but … who was he?

  He scanned the rest of his surroundings. A hospital room, clearly. A modern one. Yes, a hospital. In Paris. He’d come to Paris, to be treated. That’s right. To be cured. He’d come to the hospital he’d scouted before, the … He couldn’t remember its name.

  A woman, a nurse—no recollection of her. Another man—now he seemed somewhat familiar. Why was that? Who was he? He studied him more intently. Yes, there was something about him he remembered. But what? He had to be a doctor, like the other one. Why else would they be there? And what about his condition? He could see a couple of IV lines running down into his arm. Was he cured? Had they fixed what was wrong with him?

  What was wrong? He couldn’t remember. Sensations came back—coughing violently, spitting out blood, feeling out of breath, exhaustion. He wondered about that. He seemed—better. He sucked in a breath tentatively, felt a pain in his lungs, but even then, it felt better. Like his airways had been cleared and widened.

  Yes, he’d come to Paris to be treated. He remembered the darkness, night, by the river. Feeling cold, naked. He remembered someone, a man. Had he killed him? The sensation of the man choking between his arms came rushing back. Yes. He’d taken his clothes. Then the hospital, then … what?

  The man looking down at him, again. What had he said? “If he’s decided to speak yet?” What did that mean?

  One thing he did know. He needed to be cautious. They couldn’t know who he really was. And evidently they were curious. How much did they know? Had he told them? Surely not. He couldn’t have. That must be what the man meant. Rasheed hadn’t said anything. They didn’t know who he was.

  Good. That was good.

  He needed to keep that up as long as he could. It was safer that way.

  And yet … snippets of conversations were creeping into his thoughts. Conversations about … the past. His past. Were they just distant memories, or something else? Were they just internal imaginings? They somehow seemed more real, more visceral. And yet he hadn’t talked about his past with anyone. Had he? No. He was sure of it. Not back then. No one could know the truth about him.

  And yet he could hear these sound bites echoing inside him. Which was worrying.

  His mind was feeling clearer with each breath, but he needed more time. And until he was back in control of his senses, he needed to remain silent, or at least say very little. That much was certain. Once he was better, once he knew his health was taken care of, he would wait until he was alone in the room, and he would vanish. They would wonder all they wanted. They’d never know the truth.

  He kept staring at the face looming down on him, and said nothing. But his attention was drawn away from him, to the other man again. There was something about him.

  Who was he?

  He needed to find out. He also needed to find out what condition he was in. He debated it for a moment, then decided to open the façade if only by a crack.

  “Am I … okay?” he asked, using a frail voice to keep his defenses up.

  The man looking down on him turned to face the more familiar man, smiling with evident satisfaction.

  “Who are you?” Rasheed added weakly.

  “You’re absolutely fine,” Fonseca told him. “I’m your surgeon, Moshe Fonseca. You don’t remember us meeting before the operation?”

  Rasheed feigned studying him, then shook his head once.

  Which seemed to surprise Fonseca. “Ah. Well, you’ll be pleased to hear that it all went well with no complications at all. You’ve got a lovely new valve in there and I see no reason why you shouldn’t be back on your feet in no time.”

  Fonseca. Moshe Fonseca. A vague recollection bloomed. The surgeon who fixed him—the Jew. He looked across at the other man. He’d met him with him. He was … yes, the anesthesiologist. They’d met before the surgery. But there was more to him. Rasheed was sure of it. But what?

  A nurse stepped into the room. She seemed distressed. “Moshe Hekim?” she told Fonseca. “There are some men here to see you. They’re from the Hafiye.” She addressed the other man. “You too, Ramazan Hekim.”

  Ramazan. So that was his name.

  The men looked at each other, confusion playing across their faces.

  “Where are they?” Fonseca asked her.

  “In the waiting area. They insist on seeing you both straightaway.”

  Rasheed watched as Fonseca glanced at Ramazan, and something unspoken passed between them. Then the surgeon shrugged with reluctant acceptance. “Let’s see what they want.” He turned to the nurse who’d come in with him. “This shouldn’t take long. Why don’t you fill out his chart while we see what they want?” Then he glanced at Ramazan, and they both followed the nurse out.

  A murmur of anxiety crept through Rasheed. Agents of the Hafiye,
asking to see his doctors? This was no coincidence.

  He tensed up and breathed as deeply as he could despite the pain lighting up his chest wall, willing his mind to clear itself, needing to make sure he was lucid enough to deal with the threat he sensed was coming.

  * * *

  Kamal was seething with impatience in his traffic-swamped taxi when an incoming call came in.

  He checked the screen. It was his analyst from the Caves. In anger, he hit the receive button, instantly regretting it since the last thing on his mind right now was that insipid body in the Seine.

  “Chaouch komiser,” the analyst said. “I know where your suspect went.”

  It took a moment to sink in. “What?”

  “Your suspect. The man from the quays. I know where he went. I was able to follow his trail by cross-checking the street cams and matching the time codes with in-taxi cams and—”

  It was too much noise for Kamal right now. “Skip the details. Where did he go?”

  “The Hurrem Sultan Külliye. That’s where the taxi dropped him off. I checked the hospital logs. They had a walk-in that morning at the same time. And here’s the thing, chaouch komiser. The man’s still there. In intensive care.”

  The name of the hospital was like a foghorn in Kamal’s ears. The Hurrem Sultan—where his brother worked.

  He looked out the taxi’s window. The hospital was looming up ahead, across the river. A snarl of traffic was blocking his way.

  “All right, thanks. I’ll take it from here,” Kamal told him before clicking off.

  The hospital. On the face of it, this had nothing to do with Ramazan, surely. It could just be a coincidence. But given everything that was happening with Nisreen, he sensed something there. Another danger. Perhaps a bigger one.

  “I’ll walk,” he told the driver as he handed him some money.

  Then he bolted out of the car and started running.

  30

  Ramazan was aware of a growing lump in his throat as he and Fonseca stepped out of the ICU to find the Hafiye agents waiting for them.

  There were four men by the double doors that led into the area. All four were in uniform and had that sour, contemptuous edge in their eyes, as if the entire world was teeming with undesirables that they were burdened with weeding out. Two of them stepped forward to meet Ramazan and Fonseca, while the other two stayed put. The shorter of the two who came forward had a sallow face that had been ravaged by acne at some point in the past, while the taller agent had a trio of fresh parallel scabs across his left cheek that looked like they came from someone’s nails. It did nothing to brighten the malicious air that circled them.

  Quick formal introductions were made before Fonseca dived in and asked, “What’s this about?”

  “We’re interested in a patient of yours,” the acne-scarred agent said. “An unidentified man who’s covered in tattoos. We’d like a word with him.” He turned to Ramazan as he said it.

  Ramazan was making a huge effort to keep his fear in check while trying to act unconcerned and leaving the talking to Fonseca.

  “He’s had major surgery and we’ve only just brought him out of sedation. He’s barely coherent. Whatever it is you want to talk to him about, I’m not sure he’s in much of a position to answer.”

  “Why don’t you leave that for us to decide.” The agent then gave Fonseca a sardonic silent gesture directed at the door of the ICU. “Lead the way, hekeem.”

  * * *

  A riot of thoughts was crowding Rasheed’s mind as he watched the nurse take readings off the monitors by his bed.

  “Your readings are all perfect,” she announced to him as she drew closer and fitted a blood pressure sensor on his arm.

  He needed to be ready, needed to be in a position to counter their threat. He’d try going back to the mute act first, see how that played out. It would buy him time to evaluate what was really going on. He also needed to know more about his condition. Fonseca had said he would remove the drains in the morning, which meant he wouldn’t be able to go back before then.

  “How long do I have to stay in here?” he asked her.

  “Oh, not long at all,” she said. “We’ll move you to the ward tomorrow morning and we could send you home in a couple of days.”

  “When can I walk?” he asked.

  “I’d ask the doctors, but there’s no reason why you can’t be on your feet,” she replied cheerfully. “If you feel up to it, they’ll be delighted to see you take a few steps. But only a few, mind you. And not alone. With someone to assist you, of course. To carry the drains.” She clicked on the monitor and checked the result. “You see what I mean? Everything’s good. Your blood pressure is just fine. Even a bit higher than I expected.”

  “Good,” Rasheed muttered.

  “Well, you were in good hands,” she said as she wrote on his chart. “The best, in fact. And I’ve got to say, you’ve been lucky to have Ramazan Hekim keep such a close eye on you throughout your recovery.”

  A flush of blood swamped Rasheed’s ears. “What do you mean?”

  “He must have come in to check on you half a dozen times since surgery. I’ve never seen him take such an interest in a patient. Are you related? Or friends maybe?”

  Anxious questions were prodding at him from all directions. “And that’s … unusual?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes. Normally he’d have come in once to check on you and that would be it. You’d be on the ward much sooner, which suits everyone as we need these ICU beds for other patients.”

  “But he was here a lot.”

  “That, he was. You got the royal treatment,” the nurse told him.

  “How long have I been in here?”

  “Let’s see.” She dredged her memory. “You were admitted Friday morning, and the surgery was that evening. So you’ve been here for two days.”

  The questions gave way to grave concerns as the nurse’s words spurred some confusing images in his mind—images and sound bites, fragments of conversations, bouncing around in his head, dueling for his attention. But what were they? Real or imagined? He couldn’t tell. Not at first. But by shutting his eyes and concentrating, a few of them started to fall into place, a kind of order appeared, a structure that seemed to revolve around one central image: the doctor, sitting by his bed, and talking.

  Talking.

  To him.

  A two-way conversation. Which Rasheed could barely remember. Two- … or three-way? He had a vague flash of another face, a woman, also in his room, by the bed—then it was gone.

  What had the doctor done? How much did he know? Was Rasheed compromised? Did they know the truth? Is that why the agents were here? Had the doctor called them? Or was he after something else?

  Does he know?

  An urgent dread spiked within him. He had to be on high alert. His entire achievement was at risk.

  He didn’t have too much time to dwell on it. His body was still going through the motions of expunging the drugs that were clouding his thinking when the door to his room opened and the four men—his two doctors and two agents in uniform—walked in.

  31

  “What is your name, “effendi?”

  Rasheed didn’t answer.

  The acne-scarred agent stepped closer and dipped down to take a closer look at the man. “I said, what is your name?”

  Again, no answer.

  The agent swiveled his head to address Fonseca. “Is there any medical reason for him not to speak?”

  Fonseca looked cornered and hesitated before replying. “Well, he—he’s been under heavy sedation, as I told you,” he stammered.

  The agent scrutinized Rasheed again. “Is that so?” He stared at Rasheed’s eyes, as if trying to divine what was going on behind them. “I think he hears me just fine. I think he’s just ignoring me. Playing me for a fool. What do you think, Kerim?” he asked his colleague without turning away. “Do you think he’s playing me for a fool?”

  “If he is,” the agent with the scratch
ed face replied, “it’s a grave misjudgment on his part.”

  The agent stayed in Rasheed’s face. Rasheed stayed quiet. Then the agent’s eyes moved away, and he noticed the tube coming out from under Rasheed’s bedding.

  “What is this tube?”

  “It’s a drain. From his lungs.”

  The agent followed it down. It led to a plastic sack that was hung from the side of the bed. “There’s nothing coming out.”

  “No.”

  “So it’s not necessary.”

  “Not anymore,” Fonseca specified. “We’re going to take it out later today.”

  “Any reason you can’t do it now?”

  Fonseca stumbled for an answer. “Well, it’s—it has to be done under local anesthetic, and—”

  The agent cut him off brusquely. “So you can do it now, here.”

  Fonseca was tripping over his tongue. “I suppose—I mean, yes, if it’s really necessary, but why?”

  “Because it’ll make him easier to transport.”

  “Transport?” Fonseca was alarmed. “You can’t move him. He’s just had major surgery.”

  “Two days ago,” the agent corrected him. “He’ll be fine. We have medical staff on site at the Citadel if he needs anything.”

  “Look, I’m his surgeon. I can’t let you—”

  The agent glared as he raised a firm, silencing finger at Fonseca. “Moshe Hekim. Do as you’re told.”

  * * *

  Rasheed watched nervously as Fonseca did as he was told.

  They injected him with a local anesthetic, and what followed was quick and painless. A deep inhale, and the tube was pulled out. It was surprisingly long, almost a couple of feet, and the shock of seeing it only added to the heightened paranoia that was gripping him.

  They know. They all know. The doctors called them and that’s why they want to take me away.

  He knew full well what the Citadel was. After all, it was under his rule of the city that it had been taken over and turned into the headquarters of law enforcement. He had overseen the first stages of its expansion.