Empire of Lies

by Raymond Khoury

  It was a Hafiye car, a big matte-black Kartal SUV. It had to be chasing after Ramazan and Nisreen.

  The realization lit an even bigger fuse inside Kamal as he pushed ahead more aggressively and muscled his way through the sea of cars until he was right on the Hafiye vehicle’s tail.

  Then he hit the redial button on his phone, scrolled back one number, and pressed it.

  * * *

  “How did they find us?” Ramazan burst out in a mad panic.

  The realization struck Nisreen instantly. “The phones. The damn phones. They must be tracking them.”

  Ramazan floored the gas pedal and sped on.

  “Ramazan, what are you doing?” Nisreen yelled. “Stop the car.”

  Ramazan didn’t reply. His attention was focused on staying ahead of the Zaptiye cruiser two car lengths behind them.

  “Ramazan,” Nisreen yelled.

  “Let me think,” he shot back, his eyes locked dead ahead, his face and forehead speckled with droplets of sweat.

  “Anneh?” Tarek asked meekly from the back.

  “Ramazan, please,” Nisreen insisted as she reached back and took hold of the outstretched hands of both children to comfort them—then her phone rang. It showed Kamal. She jabbed the screen to take the call.

  “Kamal—”

  “Where are you?”

  She looked around frantically. “I don’t know, but they’re after us. There’s a police car right behind us.”

  * * *

  Kamal could hear the siren wailing in the background, behind Nisreen’s breathless voice.

  It was a police car, not a Hafiye vehicle. Which was maybe better, although he didn’t think it would make much of a difference. There were undoubtedly some Hafiye cars converging on them, ones that would reach them before he did.

  “I’m almost there,” he told her. “But you need to stop the car before somebody gets hurt.”

  “He won’t listen.”

  “Tell him I’m saying he should pull over. Tell him,” Kamal insisted.

  “Ramazan, please—Kamal says we should stop. He’s coming,” he heard her say.

  He heard Ramazan rasp, “Can he guarantee our safety?”

  “What?” Kamal said.

  “Ask him, can he guarantee we’ll be safe?” Ramazan repeated, the visceral desperation in his voice coming through loud and clear.

  “What’s he talking about,” Kamal blurted as he floored the gas pedal to stay in the slipstream of the unmarked department car in front of him. “Nisreen. What’s he talking about? Of course I can keep you safe, but what is going on?”

  She didn’t answer—then he heard a Hafiye siren barge into earshot, heard her shout, “No,” heard a deafening metallic crunch, then another, in quick succession, heard muffled thuds that sounded like the phone bouncing around the car’s cabin, heard the kids shriek, heard a shrill, terrified scream of “Ramazan” from Nisreen, heard him yelling back “Hang on,” with equal terror, then the piercing screech of rubber biting into asphalt right before a crashing sound and all going quiet.

  “Nisreen? Nisreen!” he yelled into his phone.

  No answer.

  Then he heard frenzied, half-muffled sounds—of car doors opening, of movement, of “Nos” and pleas to be left alone. It all happened very quickly and with brutal intensity. Then all was silent.

  “Bok,” he barked as he hammered the steering wheel angrily with his hand.

  He darted a look at his screen, flipping it back to the map. The red dot wasn’t moving. They were stationary, six or seven blocks away. Not that far—only the traffic ahead of him was now getting heavier and slowing down, possibly because of whatever had happened to Nisreen and Ramazan’s car.

  Kamal’s pulse was thundering in his ears. Every neuron in his body was focused on moving him forward faster, desperate to get to them, desperate to know that they were okay, that a disaster hadn’t happened. But the traffic was definitely getting snarled up, the patchwork of cars getting more dense and filling up every available inch of road, a gradual strangulation of forward momentum until any movement died out altogether and the road turned into a frozen sea of cars, trucks, vans, and buses.

  Kamal couldn’t wait, couldn’t sit still, couldn’t remain a hostage to pressing down on his horn and shouting out his window. He swore aloud as he flung the car door open and charged ahead, zigzagging through the maze of vehicles, his legs propelling him as fast as they could, his lungs sucking in and burning every molecule of oxygen they could grab ahold of, his mind trying to ward off the frightening images being kicked up. Before long, he could see a carnival show of swirling lights up ahead: red and blue and white, flashing out of sync and lighting up the buildings around them. He kept moving as fast as he could until he reached the epicenter of the chaotic scene, which was Ramazan’s family car. It appeared to have been squeezed in, rammed, and forced to stop between an unmarked sedan to its left and a police cruiser to its right. Kamal could already make out a major dent in its left driver’s-side fender along with nasty scrapes down the sides of both doors. The car that had rammed it had extensive damage to its front right fender and its side. Ramazan’s car’s other flank and the police car alongside it had to be as badly damaged, but from where Kamal was standing, he couldn’t see how badly they’d come together.

  What he could see was that none of them was anywhere near the car: not Ramazan, not Nisreen, not the children. There was a small gaggle of cops at the scene, two of whom were directing traffic down a narrow corridor to the far left of the wide boulevard, away from the crashed cars. There were two Hafiye agents, too, along with two others from the car Kamal had been chasing, who had decided to follow him on foot and were now coming up behind him.

  Kamal zeroed in on the Hafiye agents, pulling out his badge as he caught up with them. “The people in that car,” he blurted as he pointed at Ramazan’s car. “The family that was in it. Where are they?”

  “They’re in custody,” one of them answered, calm and proud. “We’ve got them.”

  “Who’s got them? Where are they?” Kamal rasped.

  His fury seemed to take the agent aback. He gave Kamal a confused, dubious look. Then he said, “They just drove them away. Calm down, will you? We’ve got them.”

  “So they’re okay? No one got hurt?”

  “They’re fine, brother. They’re fine.”

  Kamal stared at him angrily, still processing it all. Then he nodded and walked away, deep in thought while instinctively drawn to the battered car.

  He peered in through the driver’s window. There was nothing to see—just the mundane interior of a reasonably tidy family car, one that had undoubtedly hosted many happy occasions but now lay battered and cowered. He glanced at the back seat, at the unbuckled car seats, then at the front passenger seat, where Nisreen would have been sitting, all the while reliving in his mind’s eye the scene he had heard: the fear, the desperation, the terror.

  Then something snagged his attention. Something small, the edge of something, poking out from under Nisreen’s seat. He walked around the car and pulled the passenger door open. It wasn’t damaged like the driver’s door and opened smoothly. Kamal bent down, reached in, and retrieved what he had seen. It was a mobile phone. Nisreen’s phone. He recognized the tan leather protective case she kept it in. Mentally replaying what he’d heard, he realized the phone had fallen out of Nisreen’s hand when the authorities had driven into the car.

  He glanced around to make sure that no one was looking, then slipped the phone into his pocket, his trained fingers pulling its battery out quickly before he walked away, his entire consciousness focused on one thing and one thing only.

  Finding them.

  36

  The small room was a nightmare in gray: covering the walls, doors, floors, and ceilings was the same austere, cruel hue in a shiny vinyl finish that seemed chosen as much for its grimness as for its ease in allowing compromising stains to be wiped away. Even the furniture was gray, only in a
dull hue—a large metal table bolted to the floor, a heavily scratched cuff bar running along its center, and four metal chairs. Apart from the door, the walls were bare, save for a wide mirrored partition that covered most of one wall.

  Nisreen and Ramazan were seated at the table. No words were exchanged. They just sat there, equally frightened, equally in shock from all that had happened. But mostly they were equally fearful of where their children were, for they weren’t in the room with them. They’d been brought in there almost an hour earlier, alone, and their insistent, desperate queries about their children went unanswered and then they’d been left to stew alone in the gray bunker.

  They weren’t alone anymore. A man was now facing them across the table. He was tall and slim, and had deep-set, vivid eyes and a jutting chin that seemed threatening in itself. He’d introduced himself as Huseyin Celaleddin Pasha, the bashafiye, even though he needed no introduction. His being there in person hadn’t instilled any comfort in Nisreen or in Ramazan. Quite the opposite.

  Another man stood by the door. He was squat and round and sported a distinctive, ink-black trapezoidal goatee. He wasn’t dressed in a guard’s uniform; instead, he also projected an air of seniority, although not as chillingly prepossessing as that of the bashafiye.

  “Where are our children?” Nisreen asked again. Her first attempt had been brushed off and replaced by the introduction.

  “They’re fine,” Celaleddin answered. “And I can assure you they’re being well looked after.”

  “Looked after?” Nisreen fired back angrily. “They’re children, for God’s sake. They must be absolutely terrified. You have to let us see them.”

  “Why not? Let’s have a look, shall we?”

  He turned to the man by the door and gave him a nod. The man pulled a small remote control from his pocket and pressed a button on it.

  The large mirror turned into a clear glass partition, revealing a similar room to the one Nisreen and Ramazan were in.

  The room was also morbidly gray and furnished similarly. Tarek and Noor were sitting at a table with ice cream bowls and a plate of honey and pistachio delicacies. The children seemed calm as they sipped from cups through white plastic straws, their attention spirited away by whatever they were playing or watching on the screens of the tablet computers they each held.

  Behind them stood a woman. She was dressed in civilian clothes and was watching over them in silence, her arms folded. Her expression was trying to be neutral, but Nisreen could see the menace simmering behind her eyes.

  Nisreen couldn’t help herself. She bolted out of her seat and rushed up to the glass partition, rapping it hard with the flat palms of her hands while failing to hold back a burst of tears.

  “Tarek, Noor,” she screamed, but there was no reaction from the other side of the glass. She was now right up against it, her hands stilled, her fingers spread out as she pressed against it in a desperate, futile attempt to get even nearer to them. “Tarek … Noor…” she moaned. “My babies.”

  No reaction.

  They evidently couldn’t hear or see her.

  “It’s one-way glass and totally soundproof,” Celaleddin informed them. “But as you can see, they’re fine. And they’ll stay fine as long as you answer my questions fully and truthfully.”

  “What questions?” Ramazan said, his voice quivering. “Why are we here?”

  “You know why you’re here. And I want to hear it all, every bit of it. Every detail, every word. Start from the beginning and don’t leave anything out. And I beg you to take extra care and make sure you tell me everything. Because if I feel you’re holding back, I’ll have to instruct my assistant in there to behave less pleasantly.”

  He stared at them for a moment, making sure his words implanted themselves firmly. Then he turned to the man by the door and gave him another small nod.

  The man raised a small radio to his mouth and mumbled something undecipherable into it.

  With Nisreen still standing at the edge of the glass partition, Ramazan turned to face it too, both of them overcome by a crippling dread.

  The woman standing behind the children unfolded her arms, reached behind her back and drew out a large knife. It had a smooth, wide blade that shone as it caught a glint of light when she tilted it slightly and held it up, out of view from the children who were still mesmerized by their screens. Not content with the debilitating effect it already had, she then ran two teasing fingers along the edge of its blade.

  A funereal silence suffocated the room.

  “She’s very skilled,” Celaleddin said. “Her particular talent is knowing how to make sure things last as long as necessary.”

  Nisreen’s shoulders hunched, then she turned to face their interrogator. A hatred like she’d never felt before swelled up inside her. “You’re a monster,” she said coldly, her voice trembling.

  “Perhaps,” he shrugged with chilling nonchalance. “But I have to do whatever is necessary to protect the realm, and I need you to believe it. But it doesn’t need to come to that. I just need to know what happened in that hospital ward. And the sooner you tell me, the sooner we can all get out of this dreadful place.”

  He sat back and spread out his hands. “Who wants to go first?”

  * * *

  Above ground at the Citadel, Kamal felt like a caged animal in his own way.

  Questioning the duty officer at the main reception had yielded nothing: there was no record of Ramazan’s or Nisreen’s arrest. Over in the operations room, the desk sergeant had claimed he had no record of the team that had been dispatched after them. Kamal had then gone down to the holding cells and interview-room area and asked the duty officer if he knew anything. Again, he got nothing. With no options left, he’d decided to escalate the matter to the Z Directorate boss, but he was told that Fehmi Kuzey had already left the building for the night. Kamal left a message saying he needed to speak with him urgently. After much debate, he decided to take the big step of going to see the bashafiye, but he was told in no uncertain terms that the head of the Hafiye wasn’t at the Citadel either.

  He was being stonewalled—of this he had no doubt. Celaleddin had been clear in his warning about Nisreen, but something else was at play here, clearly. Something bigger, something that involved Ramazan, too. Something big enough to warrant shutting him out, an act that, Kamal knew, meant his brother and sister-in-law were in serious trouble.

  Standing outside the entrance to the fortress, which was now engulfed by the shadows of nightfall, he felt hobbled by equal doses of fury, frustration, and worry, but he couldn’t give up. He needed to find a crack in the system, a way to find them.

  He was racking his brain when his phone rang. Hope sparked, then fizzled just as fast when he saw it was only Taymoor.

  “Where are you?” his partner asked. “What’s going on?”

  Kamal hesitated. “I’m—there’s something I need to take care of.”

  “What?”

  “A problem. Family business.”

  Taymoor went silent for a couple of seconds. “Anything I can do?”

  Kamal hesitated again. If he was going to ask for Taymoor’s help, now was the time to do it. Then again, until he knew what was happening, he thought it might be safer for everyone if he kept things to himself. “Better you don’t get involved,” he finally said.

  Taymoor sounded affronted. “I’m your partner, brother. We’re a team.”

  “I know. And I appreciate it. Look, it could be nothing.” He lied.

  “It doesn’t sound like nothing.”

  Kamal shrugged—then an idea elbowed its way out of the gloom that had enshrouded him. “I wish I could disagree with you. I’ve got to go.”

  Before Taymoor could object, he clicked off.

  He marched back to the operations room. The desk sergeant frowned as he spotted him, clearly not relishing another stubborn interrogation. Kamal read him and tried to adopt a less belligerent tone.

  “I was at the Hurrem Sulta
n earlier, after the shooting. I spoke to the two agents who were there when it happened, and I need to follow up on something with them, but in the whole mess I didn’t note down their names. Could you check on who they were?”

  The desk sergeant eyed him guardedly, then relented and tapped a few keys into his station. “Terrible thing that happened.”

  “A bad, bad day,” Kamal agreed, layering the empathy.

  “I’ve got Marwan Jamal and Omar Salamoun,” the sergeant said.

  “Do you know where I can find them? I imagine they’ve got a pretty monstrous debriefing to go through.”

  “I haven’t seen them all day.”

  This surprised Kamal. He feigned a different kind of frustration, a purely professional one. “Damn it. I really need to talk to them.”

  “I can send them an alert to contact you.”

  “Great. Would you let me know when they respond to it?”

  “Will do, but given the day they’ve had, I wouldn’t hold my breath”—said with a shrug that didn’t exactly fill Kamal with hope.

  He returned the shrug and walked off, heading for the exit.

  There was nothing more he could think of. All avenues of inquiry seemed barred. As much as it killed him to sit on his hands, there was no point sticking around the Citadel. He could only wait for Kuzey or one of the agents from the hospital to call—not that he held out much hope of that. He’d try to come up with some other way to find his brother and Nisreen, and if all else failed, he’d march up to Celaleddin’s office in the morning and demand to see his brother.