by Tyler, P. K.
Fahri turned to the street, instinctively checking for listeners-in.
"Who are you?" Fahri turned back, only to find the man gone. Fahri looked around but he was alone, no one there save the stars.
"I seek refuge in Allah, from the outcast Satan," he whispered.
Do it, Darya typed. She had just given final word on the order which would bring down Ali Kalkan's investigation. She'd been monitoring his emails for some time now, knowing that if anyone would notice her activities it would be the man in charge of the Osman Corporation's finances. That's what it's always about, it all comes down to who has control of the money.
The sudden interest in the Osman Corporation's accounting department had caused an unexpected halt in her uncle's incoming funds. She had always assumed her alias, "Dayar Yildirim," would allow her to conduct business without anyone knowing her gender or relation to the Yilmaz family, but interest in Osman Corp. meant interest in its Board of Directors, which could lead to someone finding out about her. Since Darya had discovered the origins of her uncle's wealth, she was confident Kalkan would do the same.
I couldn't have planned it better myself.
Darya sipped her spiced tea and once again read her half-brother's email. Who would have guessed that Ali Kalkan, the man who could bring down her entire network of finances and power, would be so exposed? All it took was one call to the bank manager in Nigeria to make sure she knew the instant he began to question the transactions she had made from the Osman's accounts into her own.
Yes, this was the beginning of something exciting. Today she would re-route all of the lines of power directly to her, reducing her uncle to nothing but a figurehead, a mouthpiece. One day, when the city was ready, she would remove him from power completely and reveal herself as the King Whisperer she really was.
Smiling, she set down her cup and reached for her hijab. No matter how high the temperature climbed, today she wanted to go out. There was a pair of Jimmy Choos with her name on them.
Fahri Kaya's assignment was to patrol the streets. Over the six weeks since Sabiha's attack seven more women from high-profile families were targeted. The problem was the RTK did not seem overly concerned about the welfare of the victims.
No more than two months ago, Fahri had been a proud member of the RTK. He had believed the mayor's Reformation of Turkish Kurdistan was a noble endeavor and that he was blessed to be a part of it. Plus, he enjoyed the perks that came along with being a member of the leading class. Now, however, he was not so sure. How many women had been seduced or threatened into submitting their honor? How many men had betrayed their morality for another dollar or a favor? What was the RTK reforming?
The names of the attacked women ran through his mind as he tried to find a link.
Habibeh Warda
Noor Azizi
Aasera Najafi
Baia Jaf
Fatma Serhati
Leyla Khan
Gálay Sahin
The only one who got away without dishonor was his sister: Sabiha Kaya.
Of the other victims, two committed suicide, one ran away, one had been married off to a distant family member overseas and two were missing. Fahri suspected those two were victims of honor killings, but he couldn't find any proof. His questioning of the families was met with severe reprimand from his superiors.
Up until Sabiha's attack she'd been nothing but a burden to Fahri. He had to house her because their parents were dead and it became his duty. He paid for her education because no one would want to marry her if she wasn't educated. His sister had been forced upon him, which he resented. He'd been selfish, holding her responsible for all the problems in his life.
In the end it was the Qu'ran that showed him the error of his ways. The Prophet Muhammad's, allallahu'alaihi wa sallam, said, "Only an honorable man treats women with honor and integrity. And only a mean, deceitful, and dishonest man humiliates and insults women."
When had he strayed so far?
One Saturday since her attack he had offered to take her to the bazaar in Hasankeyf. He offered to buy her some of the colorful fabric she always pined after to make new hijabs, and suggested they could have tea at one of the outdoor stands. Simple things he'd denied her in the past. The ancient fortress of Artuklu Seljucks was only a bus ride from their home but he had never taken her inside or to visit the Ulu Mosque. His new appreciation for Sabiha made him want to do more for her, to understand what it was she longed for instead of focusing on getting her out of his life.
Yet Sabiha had declined, choosing to spend her days doing the school work Aisha brought home for her and her evenings staring out the window, hoping to spot her attacker on the street.
Fahri was frustrated. He had tried to help her but she just sat in the same spot every evening, distance in her eyes. He wanted a simple life where he didn't have to take care of anyone, where he could go to work and enjoy his friends and the liberties being a member of the RTK afforded him. But now when he was invited out to one of the few bars left he couldn't help but think of his sister, alone.
Fahri turned a corner and headed into the commercial section of the city with his thoughts.. Very little activity was to be expected in this area at night. He walked quickly, looking down alleys and listening for anything out of the ordinary. His assignment was to keep the city safe from religious indiscretion, but finding The SandStorm was a higher priority for the RTK.
His visitor from the other night shook him. He didn't want to know about some vigilante in the city. He didn't want to know there were others helping him. At the same time, he hadn't reported the incident. He should have contacted his superior immediately and made a full disclosure of the conversation, but instead Fahri had gone home, leaving his duty mid-shift, to join Sabiha in her Isha prayer, the last of the day. It was the first time in five years that he had prayed outside of mandated RTK prayers.
Tonight his mind was everywhere except where it should have been—on his patrol. Instead he tried to piece together what connected the victims beyond the status of their families. Beyond his frustration at not being able to fix things, he didn't understand why he cared so much.
Fahri passed the closed, gated shops: clothiers, banks, groceries. Unlike the area of the city he lived in, where nothing was open at night, downtown was strictly for those who worked in the vicinity during the day. Even the few bars permitted to operate in Elih were closed; no one around to fill them.
Sudden screams crashed over him, like a typhoon upon the shore. Fahri ran, fear racing through his veins. He pushed himself to go faster.
Up ahead… Off to the right…
A woman's voice tore through the atmosphere in the abandoned city street. Her sobs beat against him with the impact of a fist as he turned the corner and found her sitting in the alley next to a trash bin, alone and unclothed.
"Who did this?" he asked, scanning the alley for the monster hunting his city.
At the sound of his voice her wails increased, and she pulled herself closer against the wall, trying to hide between the concrete and the metal of the dumpster. Fahri ran to the other end of the alley but didn't see anyone down the street. Whoever had been here was either very fast or very good at hiding.
Fahri returned to the woman, walking slowly so as not to frighten her. He put his hands out so if she looked up she would see they were empty and intentionless. Fahri crouched slightly, hoping to make himself appear smaller or less threatening. His instincts told him to hunt, to fight. Everything in him wanted to protect this woman by doing something. Instead he slowed his breathing and focused his eyes on what he could see of her face.
"Sister?" he asked, the word bringing visions of his own sister to mind. It was only by the grace of Allah that this hadn't happened to her.
"He… I don't know… He dragged me here and… and… and then ran off," the woman stammered.
She pulled her knees up against her chest as her shoulders shook with sobs. She wrapped her hands around her legs and pulled hersel
f into a tight ball, as if she could create a black hole to consume everything that had happened to her.
"Sister, I am Fahri Kaya, and I am not going to hurt you."
"I need help back here!" Maryam called out as she stepped into the next triage room to find her patient, Bey Qureshi, a local handyman, holding a bloody rag over his hand. She dropped the chart she'd been carrying onto a table and rushed to his side.
"What did you do?"
She pulled the rag off of his hand and inspected the almost severed digit. Quickly she reached for gauze from the drawer next to the bed, wrapped the wound tightly, and held his hand up over her head.
"I'm not feeling right," the man replied as his flesh grew pale and clammy.
"I need help!" She held his hand tightly, keeping the pressure on the wound. "Bey Qureshi, can you tell me who brought you in? Is someone here with you?"
"I drove here my…" the man slurred, slumping back against the hospital bed.
"Come on!" she called.
Doctor Basara opened the door.
"What are you going on about in here?"
"He's nearly cut off his left index finger and has been bleeding for a while. He passed out just now and seems to be—"
Maryam was cut off mid-sentence by the young doctor's bark.
"Ai'sha!" he called to the nurse rushing in behind him, always ready to fall into step behind Doctor Basara. Her hijab was loose and a wisp of chocolate-brown hair hung in her face. She met Maryam's eyes and mouthed sorry with a shrug, a little too easily.
Doctor Basara strode into the room and took the injured man's arm from where Maryam held it elevated. He was one of the younger residents at Dunya Hastanesi, and he resented Maryam's position among the staff. He saw her as only a nurse, and yet she managed to command more respect than he did.
"Did you get his vitals?"
"I called for help as soon as I saw the extent of his injury."
"So you didn't get his vitals. You have done nothing that would help me evaluate his condition."
"The chart's on the table," Maryam stated before walking out of the room and heading toward the nurse's station to wash her hands. Although she sent up a silent prayer that Bey Qureshi didn't lose his finger completely, she was glad to be away from Basara.
"Dorri, I'm taking my break," she said to the charge nurse.
"Basara?" the woman asked without pause in the click-click-click of her fingers against the computer's keyboard.
"Who else?"
"I'll be glad when he marries Fatma and they both go away," another of the nurses chimed in with a wicked twinkle in her eye.
"You think?"
Dorri stopped typing, eager for new gossip.
"Her hijab has been looser."
"I smelled bleach on her the other day; I think she's been dying her hair blonde."
"He does always ask for her help if she's on staff."
"He just likes a sycophant; he's not interested in her," Maryam contributed.
"Sisters, gossip is a sin," a short, heavy set muslimah scolded, stopping their chatter. The nurses bowed their heads to ask Allah's forgiveness for their loose tongues.
Maryam smiled and stepped away, not in the mood for the gossip or the lesson. She walked outside into the thick heat of the city. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, wishing she was basking in the sun on the beach near her childhood home, or that an oasis breeze was wafting over her. Her shift was almost over and she had to shower and change before returning to Osman Estates. She wasn't sure yet what she had gotten herself into by agreeing to meet with Hasad and Recai, but she knew there was no time for second-guessing; something in the city had to change and if anyone could do it, it was Recai.
Once a thing is set into motion, it must be seen through.
"Maryam!" Dorri's voice broke through Maryam's introspection. "Maryam, we need you!"
The frantic sound of Dorri's voice sent a wave of panic down her spine. Her stomach knotted up as she began to run. She knew what that voice meant.
Not another one…
Fahri had called in the attack, but no one ever came to investigate. None of the RTK patrol cars arrived to take the poor woman to the hospital, and soon the central office told him to stop calling. This attack was not going to be investigated.
After countless attempts to reason with the woman, explaining that he would not hurt her, Fahri covered her with his uniform jacket and forcibly picked her up, enduring her flailing arms and scratching nails. He carried her the entire two miles to the hospital. Eventually she gave up her fight and wept against his neck.
Stepping into the hospital was like returning to a waking nightmare. This was the same waiting room where he had sat while his sister was examined; the same florescent lights blinded his eyes as he called out for someone to help him with his burden. But he would have walked another two miles before abandoning this woman in the street. If The SandStorm hadn't helped Sabiha she'd have been raped or worse. Now he had a turn to pay his due.
As soon as they saw him, the nurses swarmed and ushered him into a small room away from the main treatment rooms. A heavyset muslimah with a puckered mouth was the first to speak.
"Did you do this?" she accused as soon as the woman was out of his arms.
The other nurses ignored his scratched face and bustled about the room, getting an IV into the girl's arm and checking her vitals.
"No!" Fahri exclaimed, guilt flooding his features because he knew it wasn't unreasonable to think an RTK officer had done such a thing. "I was patrolling downtown and I found her. She was screaming. I carried her here."
The woman took a moment to evaluate his words and manner before further puckering her mouth, nodding, and walking out.
Fahri moved awkwardly out from under the remaining nurses' feet. They went about their business as the violated woman cried softly. Finally, out of options of places to stand, he sat in one of a pair of stiff plastic chairs pushed against the wall and studied the tile on the floor. His presence in the room with the injured woman in this state of undress was improper, but he couldn't leave her. He wouldn't leave her alone. She may be a stranger, but until her family arrived he was all she had.
Soon the heavyset woman and another nurse rushed in.
"Assalaamu alum, Sister," the new nurse said, standing at the end of the bed. Fahri risked a look up and noticed that the other nurses were leaving the three of them alone. When the crying victim did not speak, the only sound she was capable of making a soft whimpering, the nurse turned her attention to Fahri.
"Assalaamu alum."
"Walaikum as salaam," he replied, his eyes on the foot of the bed of the crying woman.
"My name is Maryam Al-Gamdi," she began. "I'm going to need to examine this woman. The more you can tell me about what happened the easier it's going to be for me to help her."
Fahri nodded, bringing his eyes to Maryam's.
"What is your name?" she asked.
"Fahri Kaya, lieutenant in the RTK, Third Division, Lion Team."
"Fahri?"
"Yes," he confirmed, confusion knitting his brow together as she studied him.
"Do you know this woman?"
"No, I found her while I was on patrol."
"What is her name?" Maryam continued, keeping all inflection and assumption out of her voice.
"I don't know. She . . . she was already like this when I found her."
"Has she spoken to you at all?"
"No, she screamed a lot and scratched me."
Fahri turned his face so Maryam could see where the woman had lashed out when he'd picked her up to take her to the hospital.
"She hasn't said anything about who she is or what happened," he continued.
"Lieutenant Kaya, did you hurt this woman?" Maryam tilted her head to the side as she asked the question, an expectant look on her face.
"Allahu Akbar, no!"
Fahri stood up to pace, but finding the room too small, he sat down again, his legs bouncing in t
heir need for movement.
"I didn't think so."
Maryam sat down next to him before whispering, barely loud enough for him to hear: "I believe we have a mutual friend. The man who rescued your sister—you spoke to him, did you not?"
Pouring over the lines of an accounts-payable audit trail report, Ali Kalkan sipped his tea. He had printed everything out; thousands of pages sat in piles around him. Osman Enterprises was supposed to be a "paperless" corporation, but Ali preferred doing things the old fashioned way. He could write in the margins and mark pages to revisit and investigate further.
Ali was making progress. Seven of the thirteen unaccounted-for ledger entries could be tracked back to foreign accounts: one in the United States, three in Iraq, two in Britain, and one in Pakistan. The accounts were set up on different days in different names, but they all siphoned the same percentage off of the interest-bearing annuity.
Four billion dollars had been drawn off of the main accounts through complex channels. Small amounts transferred between internal accounts, replenishing balances, offsetting expenses. All with justified account details. But each time it happened, the amount deposited was slightly less than the amount transferred. Unremarkable discrepancies occurring over the past four years throughout all of the company's accounts: checking, operational, investment, savings.
Eventually he had found it. Each transfer included an automatic internal wire to an account in Nigeria. When Ali compared the wire history to the transaction detail, he found the pattern. Now all he had to do was find who owned the foreign account.
Ali enjoyed the hunt, the cat-and-mouse of forensic accounting Now that he was making headway his own arrogance fueled him on. Two plus two equaled four, except when it didn't. The possible reasons for the shortfall were infinite, and tracking down the missing data invigorated Ali in a way he hadn't felt in years.
