by Leo Gher
Tired of the puffery, Rufet drifted off to sleep.
An hour later, Ali entered the lobby of Katherina’s Mansion. He was in his mid-twenties, short and stocky, sported a military buzz-cut, and was somewhat pigeon-chested. As he approached the concierge, his smile was as broad as his shoulders. “I’m looking for Rufet Qurb.”
“The man on the couch.”
“The fellow with the mustache?” Tabak assumed the clerk was referring to the younger man, who was sitting on another couch in the lobby.
“No. The man sleeping,” he interrupted to point out Rufet, “there.”
“Thanks.” He walked over to Qurb. “Mr. Rufet?” He tapped him on the shoulder, “I’m Ali, the guide you requested.”
It took a moment for Rufet to regain alertness, “Oh, sorry, it’s been a long day. Thanks for coming.”
“You’ll be hunting for Ibex?”
“Yes, but I have only a few days,” replied Rufet.
“If we can get you to base camp tomorrow, I’m sure I will be able to find you a nice set of horns.”
“I want to hunt alone,” said Qurb, “but I need you to set me up with a base camp and show me the good Ibex territory.”
“I don’t recommend going alone. It’s very demanding out there. The terrain is rugged and steep. Elevations can be more than a kilometer high; a test of physical and mental fitness even for a man my age.”
“I’ve hunted in the Caucasus many times,” Rufet said. “If you will provide the horses, sleeping bag, and supplies for a camp, I can do the rest.”
Even though he sensed that Qurb knew what he was doing, Ali was reluctant. But he agreed. The outfitter would return in the morning with everything needed for a three-day hunt.
Ali asked, “Do you have a rifle?”
“A Weatherby, bolt-action, with a Swarovski scope.”
“And ammunition? The shooting distance will average 200 to 300 meters.”
“180-grain Nosler AccuBond bullets.”
“You’ll be shooting up and down steep angles,” Ali said. “I’ll bring a rangefinder, so you can calculate the compensation angle.” They shook hands, and then the guide left to round up the equipment and provisions. Rufet waved goodbye, then headed upstairs to finish his nap. After they were gone, the man on the other couch – the man with the red mustache, who had been listening to their conversation – closed his book, tossed it to the bellman at the door, and followed Ali outside.
The next day, after three hours of horse-backing onto the Kars plateau, Ali found an ideal location for Rufet’s base camp. On a rising slope just below the high range, he came across some level ground that was slightly higher than the surrounding terrain. If it rained, water would drain away without creating a problem. That’s where Ali spiked out the tent. Knowing it would be cold at night, he dug a circular pit in case Qurb wanted to start a fire. Then the guide offloaded a supply of ready-to-eat goods. When he finished, there were still several hours before sunset, enough time to get back home. Rufet thanked his new friend, shook his hand, and then asked Ali to return mid-morning in three days.
Still keyed up from the backcountry ride, Rufet decided to explore a hilltop nearby. His best guess told him it was about a one hour’s hike. Once he reached the crest, he sat down, retrieved his binoculars, and began searching the mountainside hills. He was looking for mid-elevation switchbacks, north-facing outcrops, and grassy locales. Twenty minutes later, he found a well-worn Ibex trail angling up toward the north range, and there he spied four bucks. Rufet felt adrenalin surging through his chest, a sensation he had not experienced in many years.
He remembered the last time clearly. That was over a bet with his cousin. They were near the mud volcanoes and had spotted a menacing clutter of wolf spiders, which was unusual because they are usually solitary hunters. Hormones surging, the young Rufet bragged, “I can catch one, and pull off its head before it bites.”
His cousin warned, “Wolf spiders are poisonous, and you can die if you’re not quick enough.” Rufet was not deterred, but he lost the bet. He was decidedly not quick enough. The poison put him in the hospital for a week.
This Ibex hunt would be different – he would not have to be agile or quick to avoid angry spiders. Through his binoculars, Rufet noticed one of the bucks had an intriguingly large head. Brashness returning, Rufet had already claimed the prize. I’ll take that one tomorrow. Satisfied, he packed up his gear and headed back to base camp.
That October evening on the Eastern Anatolian Plateau, there was a sudden drop in temperature. As Rufet neared his campsite, the sunset was finishing, and a few stars were just now appearing in the cloudless sapphire sky. He hurried to get inside his tent, but he left the flap unzipped so he could admire the rapidly changing nighttime display. He was alone with his thoughts when he noticed a meteor zipping high above in the brilliance. Then there was another and then another. One glowing trail seemed to linger unusually long and extended across the expanse of the heavens. Shortly after that, he noticed a blinking red light and realized it was not a meteor at all, just the contrail of a passing jet airliner. It was racing towards the western horizon… away from Baku, away from home.
After the sky-trekkers had disappeared, Rufet felt hungry. He hadn’t eaten since morning, so he began devouring chunks of beef jerky, a power bar, and lots of water. Then he zipped up the tent and climbed into his sleeping bag. It was a grand feeling. He was free from Azerbaijan’s warring madness, so he closed his eyes and fell asleep.
The next morning, Rufet slept in. It wasn’t his habit, but age has a way of making demands. “Damn!” he cursed out loud. “I’ve missed the dawn graze.” It would be more than an hour before he could return to the spot where he had seen the four bucks. Mad at himself, Rufet grabbed up his gear and charged out of camp.
Once he reached his spot, he began searching the range. Two hours went by without a sighting. After lunch, he moved further up the slope. There, he checked a hidden box canyon and finally caught a glimpse of two bucks, one with half curl horns and the other full curl. They moved behind a large rock outcropping and nipped out of sight. The horns were not exceptional. Disappointed, he set the binoculars down, opened his backpack, and rifled through it for water.
Out of the blue, an intense spark of light from above surprised him. He raised one hand to cover his eyes, and immediately thought of the Ibex bucks. He realized that was not likely. Another hunter – sunlight reflecting off the lens of his scope – damn! He explored the surrounding ridge, but there were no subsequent flashes of light. Am I being followed? Maybe it was Ali signaling. That made no sense. Ali wasn’t scheduled to return for two days. No, just a glint of sunlight, bouncing off a flat rock. It was now 3:30, and time to get back to his search for a trophy. There were only a few hours of daylight left before he had to return to base camp.
At 4 o’clock, Qurb spotted a small herd of nannies in the distance. Following them dutifully were yesterday’s bucks. There was a fifth with them today, and he was a Goliath. Rufet identified their well-worn trail angling up to the pasture where the herd had gathered and were now grazing. He headed that way, eager to avoid any kind of noise. At the top of the ridge, slippery shale forced him to turn off the path and onto a sharp cliff edge. The climb was steep, but the rocks there were dry and stable at the moment. Rufet was able to hide from the Ibex coming down the slope toward him. This is it, he thought and settled into a shooting position. He was lying next to a deep-cut cliff with a 10 to 15-meter crevasse just below. The wind was picking up, and he worried that he couldn’t hold his position or the Weatherby steady enough for a clear shot. So, he braced the rifle against his backpack for a good look at the five Ibex billies now in range. He considered each carefully, but the fifth one, the one with the blackest horn curl, took his breath away. This was why Rufet had made the trip – a trophy head for sure.
Like the day before, there was an abrup
t drop in temperature, and dark clouds were coming in from the north. The four younger bucks sensed danger and broke downhill towards a covering ravine. But the stately one was unfazed. Rufet realized it was time for him to take a chance, so he made the angle compensations. The shooting light was perfect as he scoped in his trophy at 180 meters, now just slightly below his position. Rufet centered the crosshairs on the buck’s shoulders and held his breath.
A single rifle shot echoed shrilly against the stony hills and valleys.
The prize Ibex was startled and bolted downhill to where the others had sought sanctuary only a few minutes earlier.
Rufet Qurb’s head had dropped slightly forward against his rifle. Since the First Deputy of House Kedar was already in a prone position, it was the only movement the man with the red mustache could observe. A moment later, he could see that Qurb was bleeding out through a small thorax wound. Whether his quarry was dead or just in a state of shock was unknowable, so the man fired a second time. He hit Qurb again, this time slightly lower, near the abdomen. He methodically checked for any indicators of life once more – nothing.
By now all the animals had fled. The assassin had one more thing to do: somehow hide the body. The killer was positioned on what the locals of Kars Province called the Korluk Ridge, more than 300 meters and at least an hour’s trek away from Qurb’s body. He could do nothing before darkness fell. Then he noticed a large rock just below the victim’s leg. If he took one more shot and shattered that rock, the loose shale would surely send the body off the cliff edge and into the ravine. He aimed carefully, then fired. Instantaneously a small avalanche carried Rufet’s body and his backpack tumbling off the precipice. The man stroked his mustache, satisfied. Next, the assassin checked the surrounding hills for witnesses. The sun had set, and a gathering mist had dimmed the panorama, but there was no unusual movement, no out of the ordinary sound. One fewer Kedar to deal with, the man thought. Then he picked up his gear and walked to the motorcycle he had hidden below the ridge.
The figure of Qurb dying on the rocky hillside was gone. Only one item was left behind – Rufet’s cherished Weatherby. It had fallen forward and out of the assassin’s line of sight. For now, that didn’t matter. It was the end of a flawed but honorable man.
7
Holiday
When Tali received Conor’s text, she was instantly excited. Holiday! She cheered and then began checking flights to Istanbul. Because there were four daily departures from Baku, Tali had no trouble booking a seat on the Turkish Air 2:15 pm flight. The next morning, she packed lightly – her personal items in a carry-on, and a large, empty suitcase for the shopping she would do at the Arasta Bazaar and the Palladium Mall. Once onboard, she sent a text message to Conor: “Will arrive Ataturk International @ 6:05.”
Conor replied: “I’ll send car for u.”
Tali: “Let’s dine at Turga’s. Love lamb medallions there. You can have your coconut kadayıf.”
“Will make the reservation, Conor.” The Turga Restaurant was located on the first floor of the historical Cıragan Palace and had a breathtaking view of the Bosporus Strait, the famous waterway that formed the boundary between Europe and Asia.
Tali: “Short meeting w/RG. why?”
Conor: “About that later.” Tali understood, and then signed off. TA 3011 left Baku promptly at 2:15 pm; the three-hour flight was uneventful.
It was chilly that late October evening when Tali arrived in Istanbul. The Four Seasons limo picked her up a few minutes after six; it was another 50 minutes to the hotel, where Conor was waiting. As she emerged from the car, Conor smiled, and his eyes sparkled. Then he kissed her. “We’ve got reservations at eight.”
“Great. I’ll shower and be ready in a half hour.” Then she added, “Let’s walk to the Cıragan. I need to stretch out… been sitting since this morning.” The Cıragan Palace was only a few blocks from the Four Seasons, and a nighttime stroll along the Bosporus, she thought, would be relaxing. More than anything, Tali wanted a little quiet time with Conor.
The walking path between the hotel and the palace, however, was poorly lit and the shadows and gloominess along the route had a disorienting effect on young Tali Nadirov. The familiar became the bizarre: secluded courtyards, burnt out street lamps, darkened storefronts, and the general absence of other strollers contributed to a growing unease that this way harbored some nameless malevolence. Unexpectedly, Tali conjured up the aura of Vladimir Kos. I’m just stressed out and all this travel has added more worry. She took Conor’s arm and brought him in closer.
Once they were seated among the great marble columns of the palace, she felt better. Tali knew that a good meal and the spirit of Istanbul would refresh her soul. As expected, dining at the Turga was first-rate. Tali had the medallions, and Conor had his lamb kebabs. They were finishing a glass of wine when Tali leaned over to Conor, and asked, “Do you know that woman at the next table?”
“Where?” Conor twisted to his right.
“No, the other way,” Tali replied, “I don’t want to point, Conor. She’s seated by herself, in the blue tweed jacket.” A woman dining by herself in Islamic Turkey was unusual.
“Okay.” He thought he’d found the woman, but there was a candelabra between them, and it partially blocked his view.
“Sitting next to… there,” she said, “at the moment, she’s having tea.”
Conor casually glanced her way. He noted that she had an unmistakable manner of discipline and determination: rigid posture, stern smile, hair pulled into a tight bun, cheekbones high on her face. He thought, Russian, maybe a liaison officer I once knew. But it wasn’t coming to him. A business associate? “Why do you ask?”
“She’s been watching us, on and off, all evening.”
“No. Don’t recognize her.”
As the waiter was about to interrupt with the Kedar Bey’s favorite dessert, Tali changed the subject, “So, tell me why your hunting trip with Guliyev was cut short.”
His eyebrows instantly scrunched together, and he put his napkin to his mouth; Conor knew something that Tali did not. He considered the nearby tables fretfully. Should I be concerned about strangers in a restaurant? Yes! The Kedar Bey decided to act prudently. After all, the meeting with Rolan Guliyev was about real-life conflict; it was not a Nintendo game. People were going to die. Conor called the waiter to the table, and said, “We’ll have the kadayıf on the terrace.” Tali understood.
Because of the cool night air, none were eating outdoors. The waiter said, “It’s quite frosty this evening, Kedar Bey.”
“You can bring some space heaters, right?” he asked. The waiter nodded.
Tali added, “And coffee. American, please… decaf.”
It took only a few minutes for the staff to set up, and the headwaiter brought Tali a shawl. From the veranda, the splendor of the Istanbul night was unfolding. The waters of the Bosporus glittered spectacularly from the lights on the opposite shore, and Tali noticed a cruise ship docked across the Strait, ablaze with nightlife.
“The hunting invitation was just a ruse,” Conor began. “Guliyev was meeting with Turkey’s defense minister to finalize plans for an invasion of Armenia.”
She sighed deeply. “So, it begins.”
“Indeed.” For the next hour, Conor explained what was expected of him and House Kedar in the coming conflict.
“Does Mira know?”
“She has had suspicions for a long time. When the oil payments to the families declined year after year, it was obvious that misfortune would soon follow. Guliyev decided he had to do something.”
“War is his solution?” Tali scowled.
“Scapegoat is his solution. People like a good scapegoat and Azerbaijan has always relied on the Armenians when it needs to play the victim card.”
“So you’re going to London as the fixer?”
“Yes. As long as House Kedar c
an provide a money flow, Guliyev and the families will survive. We will survive.”
“Can you do it? Get the money, I mean?”
“I have no idea,” Conor replied, anxious to bring the discussion to some kind of end. He waved to the waiter to bring the check. “Let’s get out of here.”
As they were leaving, Tali stopped to admire the beautiful waters of the Bosporus once again. That’s when she heard a band playing. She pointed toward the ocean liner docked across the Strait. “We’ve got some time before you have to leave. Let’s go on holiday before all hell breaks loose.”
Conor asked, “Do you think we might get a last-minute booking?”
“I’m sure the new Azerbaijani emissary to London could do it.”
Upon entering the Golden Horne Suite, the first thing a guest perceives is a faint yet ubiquitous scent of lavender. After that, one notices the décor: the walls in shades of pale blues, whites, and purples, giving a surreal effect to the spacious rooms; the floors of Adoni Black Slate; the furnishings velvety onyx, metallic silver, and leathers, and the eye-catching oils of the ancient adventures of Odysseus in the land of Troy are everywhere. Truly, an upscale hotel.
For the past five years, the Four Seasons-Istanbul had been Conor’s haven from the helter-skelter existence of Baku. And for the past six months, it had been Conor and Tali’s escape – a place where they could explore the nature of kinship, dependency, and love, away from prying eyes of judgmental mullahs. The evening at Turga’s had been perfect. The long conversation about fate and finality, and the anticipated cruise to the warmer climes filled the heart and mind of both Conor and Tali.
