by Leo Gher
People were astonished by Azreal’s rise to power. He was the youngest person ever to lead a prominent Azeri House. It was a good thing that the boy had two steadying hands to guide him: those of Rufet and Mira Nadirov. Although Azreal had been groomed for the position all his life, the 26-year-old still had much to learn, expressly when he dealt with the intrigues at the Council of Elders.
Baku has always been a city of hills and a hodgepodge of architectural styles. In every section of the capital can be found buildings in the styles of the Belle Époque of Paris, Vienna Baroque, soulless Soviet Constructivism, ancient as well as modern interpretations of Islamic design, and of course, the double-walled luxury of the Shirvanshahs. In recent years, a myriad of preposterous skyscrapers had mushroomed along Baku Bay, and most of the 21 elite Houses had built sprawling compounds among the modern showplaces and the out-of-date mansions of nineteenth century oil barons.
Of late, many things had changed. There was an aura of rising fear throughout the city. Old ghouls were reawakening: mob mentality, scapegoating, cultural victimization, and the tyrant’s howl about the grand future that will avenge historic Azeri degradations. Mira Nadirov had sensed the shifting mindsets throughout the past year, and Rufet understood them all too well. They both had warned the Kedar Bey of the dangers. They had counseled President Guliyev as well. But he seemed unmoved by their concerns.
When they pulled up to the residence, David hopped out of the car, and then rushed to the other side to open the door for his boss. “This may take some time, David. I’ve received word from our spy inside the Kos household.”
One of the Kedar staff emerged from the residence and took Qurb’s briefcase. “Have you sent word to the Kedar Bey?” Rufet asked. The man replied with a nod.
David said, “Sounds like trouble.”
“Trouble it is.”
“House Kos?”
“And others… cronies of the Dark Triad.” Afterward, Rufet added, “Find Mira Nadirov and ask her to join us as soon as possible.”
3
Conor and Tali
Conor never felt like an orphan. He belonged to House Kedar, one of the prominent families that ruled Azerbaijan. But his parents were gone, so like all orphans, he chased through life searching after their shadows. He had no fond recollections of his mother, or what it was like to be a young child. He blamed his family for that. They never talked about Zara, and that was a mystery. Until he was six, Conor lived with his Uncle Elshan at the Zebeqi compound, north of Baku. Elshan had just become the Kedar Bey, and young Azreal felt the shield of Elshan’s position, but not his love. Their relationship was all about inheritance, property, and responsibility. There were no fatherly urges in that man: no warm arms wrapping him up in a bath towel, no tender kissing to ward off quaking lips, and no jumping into bed with a guardian against the shadows of the night. Many years later, when Conor had learned the terrible fate of his mother and had the power to act, he ordered all the buildings of Elshan’s compound demolished. Then he turned the property over to the villagers, who wanted to build a madrassa there. He left everything behind, except Elshan’s cruiser, a beautiful Fairlane Targa 62-footer.
When Azreal was a youngster, his uncle Elshan had frequently promised to take him on sea outings, but he never did. It was Rufet who took him on the adventures. With giggly delight, he remembered the speedboat churning up waves past sturgeon fishermen, shooting the water cannon at oilrig ferries, racing against other Caspian powerboaters, and camping on remote islands. Conor grew fond of Rufet. He was the nearest thing to a father that Conor had in those early years.
These days, the craft was moored next to the boathouse at the Kedar residence on Baku Bay. Because it was showing its age, he’d had it refitted and painted. After that, he renamed it. He called it the Zarifa – his mother’s full name – and did the stenciling himself. Now he could see the Zarifa every day from his bedroom window, which was about 75-80 yards from the shore. Besides the boat dock and the personal residence, there were other buildings on the property known as the Zümrә Estates. From the marina to the front gate, the compound stretched a quarter mile north and about 900 feet east. The three low-lying buildings and a parking lot near the front entrance housed the Zümrә business operations. A walking garden of pink and red Azaleas surrounded the residence, ridiculing testaments to the harsh deserts and barren plains just beyond Baku’s seaside location on the Caspian.
Elshan Kedar had been an evil man. He was convicted of many crimes, the greatest of which was the murder – he called it an honor killing – of his own sister, Zarifa. When Elshan was sent to jail, Conor moved in with his close relatives, the Nadirovs. Aunt Mira raised him as if he were her own, but she was more a taskmaster than a nurturer. There was no self-serving brooding in her household, just chores. Because he would one day be the Kedar Bey, which would require discipline and courage, Mira Nadirov took on the duties of rejissor, a regent of sorts.
For the most part, Conor had lived alone on the Zümrә Estates. It was more a business center than a family home. For the past year, however, his cousin Tali had been staying with him. She had finished a degree from Baku State University 15 months earlier and was now working as a political liaison for the company. But Tali was more than a houseguest, she was Conor’s best friend. Though a year younger, Tali often took on the role of consoler, and sometimes even as a shrink. Her mother would often advise her, “Tali, you’ve got to be there for Conor. He often feels lost. He looks to Rufet, but Rufet is not family.”
Mira had raised them together as brother and sister. She knew they loved each other, but when Tali moved in with Conor, it worried the ever-prudent, ever-vigilant Mira. She was appalled and told her daughter so. “Tali,” she warned, “the offended Mullahs will get you. They will come for your head.”
“I don’t care,” Tali would say, the rebuke falling on deaf ears. “This is a new world, Mother. Conor and I are of a different generation.” Conor would never add anything to their discussions. He would just look at Tali – his fiery, gorgeous cousin – with rapturous eyes.
The first time Conor noticed something different about Tali was when she was twelve. Until that tender moment at the Gobustan swimming pool, Tali had always been Little Sis. She enjoyed swimming, which was an oddity because Azeris are not known as a nation of swimmers. But in Soviet times, the Russians had built an indoor pool as part of a high-rise housing complex and recreational facility for expat oil-workers and their families. That’s where Tali could be found in the early morning hours three times a week. She would rise before all others, hop on her bicycle, and pedal down to Dom#3. Grandmother Ana would scold, “It’s dangerous for a little girl to be out on her own so early. Ecnebi are everywhere, Tali.” She meant foreigners, of course.
Tali loved her grandmother, but every time ignored her cautions. Ana sensed much of Zara in Tali: tempestuous yet courageous, a brilliant mind, too busy to be pestered by authority, the dominant in all relationships, even with her elders. Still, everyone was concerned about her safety as well as the family’s reputation. So, grandfather Georghe decided that he would send Conor as her guardian at least once each week. It was his way of letting the Ecnebi know that Azeri clans were watching, protecting their youngest daughter.
The tender moment came on a cold spring day. The 13-year-old Conor – a creature now caught between boyhood and manhood – remembered it vividly. He and grandfather had fought about duties. He wanted to sleep in “just this once,” but Georghe would not have it, and had splashed a glass of water on the boy’s head. “Tali has already left,” he growled, “You must get up, Conor. You cannot allow Little Sis to be at the mercy of those Russian hooligans.” Reluctantly, the sleepy-head did as he was told.
Still bleary-eyed, Conor threw his pajamas at his closet door, then dressed hurriedly – no underwear or socks – and jumped into jeans and loafers. Next, he grabbed the light pullover he had worn the night befo
re. It was a mistake. Even though it was spring, the wind was still blowing from the north, which always made the mornings chilly. Outside, he looked for Tali, but she was nowhere in sight. Conor liked Tali, but they fought thoughtlessly as siblings often do, and he did not want another confrontation.
When Conor arrived at Dom#3, it was empty, and that was unusual. Most days a gaggle of Russian babushkas could be found escorting children to and from the pool, but not today. Puzzled, he rushed through the dressing room to the natatorium; again, no one. Then he spotted a lone swimmer under the water, turning at the far wall, pushing off, and then dolphin-kicking for some 20 feet until the swimmer broke the surface for air. It was a woman – dazzling, riveting – and she wore a ruby-red, skintight two-piece bathing suit.
Maybe he was still drowsy from the early hour, or perhaps it was the shock of the cold north wind that made Conor question what he saw in the pool – a creature, broad-shouldered like Tali, but full-figured with the muscular arms of an Olympic athlete. She was wearing a swimming cap and goggles. Little Sis used neither; at least he could not remember it if she did. Out of the blue, Conor realized he had not paid much attention to Tali in recent days. Slightly panicked he thought, Check the hallways. Nothing. Had she finished… already on her way home? Check the bike rack. But her bike was still there, chained and locked.
When he returned poolside, the water nymph was just making another turn at the near end of the pool. A mermaid, he quipped mentally. She pushed off the wall and then dipped under the surface for another long dolphin-kick. Instinctively, Conor held his breath. Next, the creature shot upward through the surface gulping for air. Conor was flabbergasted. It was Little Sis, and it was not Little Sis. Then she waved.
“Tali,” he shouted. She waved again. Relieved to find her, Conor sat down on one of the lounge chairs next to the pool. Tali continued for two more laps, and when she finished, she set out across the pool for the ladder where Conor was sitting. When he realized she was coming his way Conor stood up. He had always helped her out of the pool, but what emerged poolside was not his Little Sis. She pulled off her goggles first, and when she removed her bathing cap her long, auburn hair fell across her erect, beautifully formed breasts. Eyes glued, Conor was surprised and pleased, when did Tali get breasts? He grabbed a beach towel and then pulled her from the pool. Next, he began patting her dry. As he did so, he brushed her nipples, which were hard and conspicuous in the cold morning air. She looked at him purposefully and said, “Conor, what are you doing?”
“I didn’t know,” he began. Confused and frustrated, the thirteen-year-old felt brutish and geeky at the same time. Eventually, he would learn how to control his testosterone-charged delight, but not today. So, he tried a sheepish smile.
Tali didn’t mind. For a long time, she had, as young girls do, wondered about such a moment, and then she kissed him. “It’s okay, Conor,” she said, taking command of the situation, “nothing we can’t handle.” He was relieved, but their relationship, which had always been resilient, had changed forever.
There were no others on the Zarifa that afternoon as Conor and Tali enjoyed the serene waters of the Caspian. Conor sat at the helm, but he was not piloting the boat, just watching Tali. She was lying on the sun deck. It was late September, and probably the last time she would be sunbathing for the year. The couple used the Zarifa when they wanted to be alone, away from the tumult of Azeri power struggles. Today they were drifting a few miles offshore when a few clouds began rolling in from the north. He thought, maybe it was time to return home.
Conor twisted around in search of Baku, but he could see nothing but haze and sea. He checked the homing beacon; it indicated west by southwest. Okay. Before he could decide about home, he noticed a flashing light on the communications console. It was annoying, and when Conor was annoyed, he would fidget endlessly with the ring on his index finger. It was his signet ring, and the engraving on it was the ancient seal of House Kedar. It was 24-karat, but the value of the ring was not in its gold. It was the seal that mattered, that commanded respect, and permitted him to order a hundred men into action anytime, anywhere. Many were jealous of its power. Some thought it magical – able to ward off jinn, uncover hidden poisons, ensure the favor of grand estates – but to Conor, it was more a burden than a boon.
As the clouds continued to darken, Conor stood up so he could see more of the shoreline. On the horizon where he thought Baku should be, he noticed a swirl of blackness. Odd. It was regularly forming and reforming in the wind. A storm cloud? A waterspout? It moved erratically, like birds trying to avoid a predator. Conor recognized it as a sign of the season coming to an end, but there was also menace in this murmuration of grackles. He would have to consider its meaning more thoroughly.
Then he thought of Tali. She didn’t need protecting, but still, Conor felt an entrenched responsibility for her wellbeing. Returning to the now, he realized that she was wearing only a sundress, and he knew she would soon feel the weather changing. He hurried down to the galley to get a bathrobe and some hot tea. A few minutes later he came on deck. “You read my mind,” she said.
“Looks like weather coming in from the north.”
“Where has our warm autumn gone?”
“Khazri is coming. We should be heading back soon.” But Conor had something else in mind as he sat next to her. They had so little time to themselves when they were on display in Baku. Conor said, “I’ve been so lonely at times.”
“Me too,” Tali replied, but then, “hasn’t Rufet been there for you?”
“That’s different. But yes, he is very loyal. Still, Qurb has his own demons to fight.”
“What about your demons?” she asked. “What haunts your dreams, Conor?”
“You, of course,” he said smiling broadly.
“Be serious.”
“I often dream about my father and his dying moments. I think I could have saved him, but I was off in the wilderness of Zebeqistan confronting Elshan.”
“You have to forgive yourself, Conor. It was not your fault.”
Wanting to change the subject, he asked, “What about you, Tali, what makes you happy?”
“I’m glad to have a place I now call home. Gobustan had so many bad memories.” Then she added, “Do you ever go back there? I mean, to visit their graves?”
“Sometimes,” he replied. “The first time was six months after you left for college.”
“When Mother decided you needed help running the Zümrә companies?”
Conor laughed, “Yes, she said, ‘You can’t fight off the Kos by yourself.’ I was glad to have Mira’s company and her advice.”
“Did you go to the cottage, then?”
“We both did. Grandpa Georghe kept everything in good shape. The two trees we planted next to the garden have grown, probably 40 feet tall by now.”
“Wow.” Tali took his arm, “I remember the day when we buried Tom Moynihan next to your mother. You had no one.”
“I had you,” he said. “I have always had you.”
“There was another.”
He thought for a moment. “You mean Jake?”
“Do you ever talk to your brother?” Tali asked. “How old is he?”
“Two years the younger… 23, I believe. Jake lives in Chicago, but no, we never talk.” Suddenly, the ship-to-shore com-light began blinking again.
“Probably Mother telling us to come home.” Tali had had enough of sea and sun. She got up and went to the cabin to change into her street clothes. Conor headed for the helm to check the message.
It wasn’t from Mira but from one of the household staff on shore. It read: “Rufet Qurb has arrived at Estates – reports pressing developments – Dark Triad on the move.”
4
Ghost Dancers
The week that followed saw crises emerge on several fronts. President Guliyev had gotten word of the opposition forces
gathering to compel a vote of no confidence. Authoritarian that he was, Guliyev didn’t take the threat lightly. Additionally, oil prices plunged, causing panic among world economists. Azeri social media picked up the story and followed with numerous editorials, creating alarm among local bankers and commercial interests. Last but not least, Armenian troops attacked the village of Agdam, killing dozens of villagers along the western frontier. The old conflict was rearing its ugly head and raising fear throughout the region.
Shrewd populist that he was, Guliyev prepared his alt-reality messages to reassure his fellow countrymen that he had anticipated the situation and that Azerbaijan was prepared. For years, Guliyev had been purging independent media outlets, and those that remained free owed their viability to the President and his cronies. The word went out, and all media were required to play the President’s communiqué for three days: 1) there was no government crisis necessitating special elections, 2) Azeri cash reserves were plentiful because the President had ordered a sell-off of ten million barrels of oil months ago, and 3) the national militia had been called up 60 days earlier, had completed their training, and they were being deployed to the front immediately. Everything was under control, so much so that Guliyev would be going on vacation as scheduled – for a weeklong hunting trip with family and friends.
Of course, not one thing within the missives was true, except the vacation. It was an old political trick. The opposition screamed that he was a liar, but Guliyev held all the cards in the game. On Wednesday, Conor had received his invitation to join the President. It was a last-minute affair and caused much confusion for everyone involved.
