Empire of Lies

by Raymond Khoury

  He would have much preferred to die with a more uplifting, optimistic thought to soften the brutal certainty of his impending demise. Sadly for Ayman Rasheed, no such thought materialized by the time he hit the ground. In those frantic, breathless two and a half seconds, his story, and his secret, were extinguished forever.

  Or so he thought.

  34

  “I’m home, why?”

  Nisreen tensed up at the breathless and frantic tone of her husband’s voice.

  After Ramazan had left her at the coffeehouse, she’d hurried back to the office for a client meeting she couldn’t cancel, after which she’d taken a tram back to the bus stop to meet the kids. She was now home, helping the children with their homework, when Ramazan called.

  “It’s gone bad,” he blurted. “All of it.”

  She turned away from the kids and lowered her voice. “What are you talking about?”

  “Ayman Pasha. They came for him. Agents, from the Hafiye. He shot two of them; then he disappeared. He disappeared, Nisreen.”

  His words were like a cattle prod to her brain. “He what?”

  “He disappeared. Vanished, right before my eyes.”

  “Aman Tanrım,” she hissed.

  “It works, Nisreen. It works. It’s all true. But the other agents—they were there. They saw it, too.” His tone had veered from urgency to fear. “What am I going to do?”

  His fear was burning through the airwaves and igniting her own terror. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Two of their men are dead, Nisreen.”

  “But it’s not your fault. You said he shot them.”

  “They’re going to want to know why it happened. They’re going to want to know how he disappeared. Assuming they don’t already know.”

  She was scrambling for solutions. “So you tell them.”

  His tone turned even more desperate. “Are you mad? Tell them? What do you think they’ll do after that? You think they’re going to say, ‘Tashakur, hekeem, we’re most grateful to you; now go home and resume your life as if nothing happened’? They’re not going to risk leaving me free to run around knowing what I know.”

  “So you say you don’t know anything. You say you were as shocked as they were.”

  “They’re not going to buy that. Not one hundred percent. Which means they won’t take the risk of cutting me loose. Just in case I did know.”

  He was right. Nisreen knew it. “Where are you now?”

  “I’m heading to the parking lot.”

  “Okay. Okay.” She was struggling to tame the rabid thoughts attacking her. “We have to get out of here.”

  “We? This has nothing to do with you.”

  “We have to disappear together, Ramazan. Otherwise, they’ll take me and they’ll use me to pressure you into giving yourself up.”

  “No—”

  “Maybe they know about me already,” she suddenly realized. “Whichever way you look at it, we’re in this together.”

  “It’s hopeless anyway. They’re going to find us—you know they will. We’re screwed.”

  “No,” she insisted firmly. “We have to disappear, Ramazan. For now, anyway. We have to get away from here.”

  “And go where?”

  “I don’t know. But don’t come here. They’ll be sending people around. Let’s meet somewhere.”

  “Where?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut, looking for an answer. “The florist next to Zeynep’s place. Pick us up from there.”

  “Us?”

  “I’ve got to bring the kids with me. I can’t leave them behind.”

  “Istaghfarullah, Nisreen. The kids? This is crazy.”

  “We don’t have a choice. We can’t leave them behind.” A different thought erupted. “What about Kamal? Did you call him?”

  “No.”

  “He can help.”

  “No, Nisreen. He’s one of them.”

  “He’s your brother. Call him, I’m sure he—”

  “No, Nisreen. And don’t call him either. You know he can’t be trusted.”

  “But he’s—”

  “Don’t call him. Promise me. Not until I see you. Then we’ll talk.”

  Nisreen forced herself to stop arguing. It could wait. The priority was to get to safety. She needed to get herself and the children out of there, fast.

  “Okay,” she told him. “The florist.”

  “Hurry. And be careful.”

  “You too.”

  * * *

  Kamal spotted the commotion outside the hospital the second he got across the bridge.

  Up ahead, other cops were cordoning off the hospital’s entrance. He pulled out his badge as he hurried up to them.

  “Kamal Arslan Agha,” he said as he flashed his badge. “What’s going on?”

  “There’s been a shooting. Three dead,” one of the cops informed him, before adding pointedly, “I think two of them are yours.”

  “What?” A spasm of worry shot through him. “What about the third victim?”

  “A doctor.”

  The spasm burst wide. “Who? Do you have a name?”

  “No. It’s still a mess in there.”

  Battling a maelstrom of worry, Kamal cut through the mayhem in the hospital’s forecourt while reaching for his phone and speed-dialing his brother’s number again, his eyes desperately scanning the gaggle of visibly agitated doctors, nurses, and civilians who were streaming out and congregating well clear of the entrance. He couldn’t see Ramazan among them. Five police cruisers were scattered haphazardly outside the lobby’s portico, and distant sirens were converging.

  Ramazan still wasn’t picking up his phone. Kamal killed the call as he reached the entrance, where he spotted a balding man in a white hospital coat talking to three police officers.

  “Who’s in charge here?” He barged in, interrupting them, his badge out.

  “I’m the chief of medicine,” the balding man replied.

  “What happened?”

  The doctor’s face crinkled with uncertainty. “I don’t know exactly. It seems four of your men came here to arrest someone—a patient in the ICU. The man shot two of them dead along with one of our surgeons.”

  Patient. ICU. The analyst’s call. Connections were fusing together in his brain.

  He steeled himself for the worst. “Who was the surgeon?”

  “Moshe Fonseca.”

  Kamal flinched. Mercifully, it wasn’t his brother, but he still recognized the name—it was one he’d heard Ramazan mention, someone he worked with. Back when they still talked.

  “My brother works here. Sayyid Ramazan Hekim. Do you know where he is?”

  “No, I don’t. But the man who killed Moshe—Moshe and your brother operated on him two days ago. He was their patient. They were both with him when it happened.”

  “So where’s my brother?”

  “I don’t know. We’re looking for him.”

  “What about the shooter?”

  One of the cops said, “We don’t know. He might still be in there.”

  Just then, the crowd cleared enough for Kamal to spot two men in plain clothes that he vaguely recognized in the entrance lobby. They were huddled with four cops and seemed to be giving them instructions. He’d seen them around the Citadel. He didn’t know them personally, but he knew they were agents.

  Z Directorate ones.

  “Excuse me,” he said brusquely as he stepped away and half sprinted over to the two men.

  He reached them just as the cops paired up and trotted off in different directions. He had his badge out, but judging by the two agents’ reactions, they seemed to already know who he was.

  “Kamal Agha,” one of them said.

  “You were in there? When the shooting happened?”

  The agent looked a question at the other man and hesitated about replying. The other man looked equally uncomfortable; then his expression hardened. “We’ve been ordered not to discuss it.”

  �
��What?”

  “We can’t talk about it.”

  “Says who?”

  The men demurred, and said nothing.

  “Says who?” Kamal barked.

  A hesitation. Then, “Fehmi Pasha,” from the first one.

  Fehmi Kuzey. Celaleddin’s top lieutenant and the man in charge of the Z Directorate. For him to be personally involved at this level was beyond ominous.

  Kamal frowned, trying to make sense of the colliding bits of narrative. “We’re on the same team. You can talk to me.”

  “Our orders were unequivocal. No one.”

  Kamal felt an urge to smash something. “Look, my brother’s missing. Ramazan Hekim. You know where he is?”

  The exchanged furtive looks again, and then the same agent ventured a nod.

  “You saw him?”

  Another nod.

  “He was there? When the shooting happened?”

  More hesitation. No reply this time.

  “Bismillah, he’s my brother. I need to know that he’s okay.”

  The agent who spoke earlier nodded grudgingly. “He was there—”

  “Enough,” his hard-assed partner interrupted.

  “It’s his brother,” the first agent countered, then pressed on, words tumbling out quickly. “He was there when it started. He was in the room with the shooter. But once it was over, he was gone.”

  “So where is he?”

  “I don’t know. We were busy dealing with the shooter.”

  “What happened to him?”

  This question visibly generated the biggest unease in the two men.

  “What? Is he dead?”

  Nothing.

  “He’s not? Is he still in there? Did he get away?”

  They were like walls. Concrete, soundproof, immovable walls. Then the hard-assed agent shook his head. “You’ll have to ask Fehmi Pasha.”

  It was all Kamal could do not to grab him and batter a full answer out of him. But he knew he needed to control himself. Now, more than ever.

  He had no choice. He needed to find out what happened to his brother.

  He dialed Nisreen.

  * * *

  “He disappeared?”

  “That’s what they’re saying,” Fehmi Kuzey told the Hafiye’s commander. “One second he was there; then he wasn’t.”

  “As in, he gave them the slip.”

  “As in, he physically vanished into thin air.”

  Celaleddin scowled. “Fehmi—”

  “I know how it sounds, pasha. But that’s what they said. These are some of my top guys, and I can tell you they’re seriously spooked. You should have heard them describe it.”

  “And this happened in their full view? They actually saw it?”

  “They had him cornered in the ICU. No windows. One exit, past them. I don’t want to believe it either, but unless they’re in on it with him, there’s no other explanation.”

  Most of Huseyin Celaleddin Pasha’s finely honed and rigidly rational brain still wasn’t buying it. But a small, instinctive cavity within it was rebelling. Yes, people didn’t suddenly dematerialize. Sure, it wasn’t possible.

  And yet … he had two men down and a dead surgeon. Whatever really happened, this was no longer some kind of prank. It was dead serious. And his lieutenant had assured him that the agents who’d seen it happen were dependable men. The penalties for lying or for being part of some twisted conspiracy were severe enough to ensure that, almost invariably, any Hafiye agent would be dependable.

  He got the rest of the lowdown from Kuzey, fast and efficient. Time was clearly of the essence.

  “All right,” he told him. “We need to contain it. Make sure your men don’t speak to anyone about it. And I mean no one. Tell them to round up anyone else who might have seen what happened and put them on ice—discreetly.”

  “Yes, pasha.”

  “And find Ramazan Hekim and his wife. I want them here before the night is out.”

  * * *

  Kamal listened to the phone ring through for five or six rings and was about to hang up when Nisreen picked up.

  “Nisreen, it’s me.” He wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t want to alarm her and didn’t know if she’d heard about the shooting at the hospital. “I need to talk to Ramazan. Do you know where he is?”

  Her reply didn’t come easily. “I don’t,” she finally offered, her voice tinged with hesitation. “Why? What’s going on?”

  She was lying to him. No doubt. She sounded breathless, and he knew that clipped tone well. She was under duress.

  “Is he with you?”

  “No, I told you—”

  “Nisreen, listen to me. I don’t know what’s happening, but whatever it is, it’s serious. Let me help you.”

  More hesitation. This time, he heard footsteps and a passing car horn and realized she was out, on the streets, walking. Fast.

  “Nisreen—”

  “No. I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  “Nisreen, listen to me—”

  “I can’t, Kamal. I promised him.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Let me—”

  “I can’t.”

  Then he heard Noor’s voice say, “Anneh?” in a worried, frightened way. Then the line went dead.

  Kamal spat out a curse twice, three times. He looked into the distance, his eyes registering nothing, his mind frantically rummaging for a good move. One came fast.

  He hit the speed-dial again. His phone number was screened and accepted by the system, and one of the trace operators picked up almost instantly. It was a young recruit to the team, one he’d spoken to before.

  “I need a location lock on a number,” Kamal told him, and gave him Ramazan’s mobile number.

  “Coming up,” the operator said.

  Kamal heard him tap some keys. Then the operator came back, too soon for him to have initiated the search. “Hang on, I just gave you guys that location.”

  “What?”

  “The trace on that number. It’s live. I’ve got it up on my screen as we speak.”

  A jolt of alarm. They were already on Ramazan. “Who has it? Who asked for it?”

  “Someone from Z Directorate. Samer Alameddin Agha. So who are we tracking? Must be some target to have you all on his tail.”

  “Just ship it to my phone, will you? Quick.”

  More tapped keys, then, “Should be with you—now.”

  Kamal opened the link and studied the screen. Ramazan was moving away from the hospital—in a car, judging by the speed. He was headed toward his home.

  “Keep me posted,” Kamal told the operator before killing the call and hitting Ramazan’s speed-dial again. He needed to warn him that he was being tracked. He needed Ramazan to pull the battery out of his phone before they got to him.

  The call rang through. As before, his brother didn’t pick up. Kamal wasn’t waiting. He was already on the move. He cut the call just as it went to voice mail and stepped into the street, right in the path of a slow-moving sedan, his arms up and wide, his open badge in one hand.

  The car screeched to a halt. Within seconds, Kamal had yanked the door open, pulled its hapless driver out, and was speeding away, chasing after the moving blip on his phone.

  35

  With no particular destination in mind, Ramazan steered the family car north, along a wide boulevard, toward the road that circled the city. Nisreen was next to him, Tarek and Noor strapped into the back seats. The evening traffic was heavy but flowing. The evening prayers were done, and the sidewalks were crowded with people, mostly men, heading home from work.

  “Where are we going, baba?” Tarek asked in a small, anxious voice.

  Ramazan glanced in the rearview mirror. He could just about see the low, anxious eyes of his son peering back at him. He didn’t know what to answer and looked over at Nisreen.

  She twisted around to face the kids and summoned up a smile and as much chirpiness as she could muster. “We’re—we’re just going for a drive, hayatim. Mayb
e we’ll get some ice cream. Would you like that?”

  The kids both nodded in silence and with a hesitation that was a far cry from the usual delight such an announcement would bring.

  Nisreen turned to Ramazan. She dropped her voice. “Where are we going?”

  “I don’t know.”

  A stifling silence smothered the car.

  Nisreen cut through it. “Kamal called.”

  “He’s been calling me, too.”

  “He was looking for you.”

  “Bok,” he cursed. “You spoke to him?”

  “I had to, Ramazan. I—”

  He interrupted her brusquely. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing. But look at us. Look at what’s happening. I don’t think we have a choice. I think we need his help.”

  “So he can turn us in and be an even bigger hero?”

  “He’s still your brother,” she countered. “And I can’t see any other option.”

  “My brother wouldn’t still be one of them,” he shot back bitterly.

  “So what are we going to do?”

  Ramazan didn’t have time to come up with an answer.

  The police siren that ripped the air around them took care of that.

  * * *

  Kamal kept one eye on the screen of his phone as he cut through the traffic, weaving between slow-moving cars in fits and spurts and diving into any opening he could fit his car into as he chased after the moving red dot on the live map of the city.

  He wasn’t in a department vehicle, which meant he didn’t have access to a radio and couldn’t monitor the progress of whoever else was following the same red dot. He also didn’t have a siren or a set of strobe lights to help cleave a path through the sea of cars ahead of him. The horn would have to do, but its effectiveness was limited; Ottoman drivers used their horns so frequently that they had grown immune to them.

  He wondered where they were heading. They were about three blocks from the road that led out of the city. Wherever they were intending to go, Kamal had no doubt that they wouldn’t reach it. The people tracking them would undoubtedly intercept them before they went too far.

  He needed to be there when they did.

  The car in front of him slowed as it reached an intersection with a traffic light that turned red. Crushing the horn with his palm, Kamal swerved around it and streaked through the crossing, narrowly avoiding a crowded bus—and, as he did, he heard a siren in the distance, coming from his left, a police car that must have been crossing the next intersection at roughly the same time. That gave him an idea. He pushed ahead, eyes peeled for the next left turning, then dove into it when he spotted it. He blew up the narrow street, emerging onto a parallel avenue to the one he had been on. Up ahead, he could see his target’s white strobe lights. Just as the siren was different from that used by the police, so too were the blue and red spinning lights.