Nutesh wasn’t there, though. He didn’t see that warped, scarred baby made whole again.
Delia would be proud of that, I’m sure.
Xavier insists that he’s well enough to sit in the main cabin, freeing up space to help Sevda. She’s in rough shape. I try to offer assistance, but Nutesh calls for Henry, who then drags me to a seat and hands me a cup of Hélène’s restorative tea. I do manage to help Montague prepare a healing wrap soaked with some of Delia’s herbal concoctions they’ve brought along before Henry coaxes me back to a seat.
He sits next to me but leans close and kisses my undamaged cheek. “You were incredible today.”
I smile and nod at him—I can’t talk. The adrenaline is wearing off, and the faces of the dead are floating through my head.
Doria. Jakub. La Vérité soldiers. Countless other civilians just out for a day at the circus.
I almost lost Xavier too.
“Thank you, Henry,” I squeak. My mended tongue won’t leave the rough edge of my broken tooth alone. Nutesh wasn’t able to fix it.
“Is that . . .” Henry touches a finger to his own cheek, questioning the slice on mine.
“The Etemmu. In the tent, right as everything fell apart.” And just like that, I’m consumed with sobs, the loud, hiccupping, embarrassing kind.
Henry scoops me onto his lap, rocking and shushing against my head as I cry about our dead friends, about missing home, about Violet and the horrible things Ash said, about how much I miss my elephants and that big fluffy house cat, about how scared I am that we won’t make it out of this alive.
“I’m trying so hard to be brave and strong, like my mother would want. But I just want to go home. Please, please tell me we can go home soon, that everything will be okay, Henry. Promise me,” I say into his shoulder.
“I promise, Genevieve. I promise.” Tears track down Henry’s face too. I don’t even care that he can’t promise me we’ll live through this. It has to be enough just to hear him say it, to give me a moment where we’re not heirs or warriors or the last two children in a long line of magical people.
For a single moment, I’m just a seventeen-year-old girl who misses her pets and her family and is in love with a really great guy. That’s it.
Xavier sits across the aisle from us, and when I meet his ice-blue gaze, the look on his face isn’t one of caution or disapproval—it’s one of gratitude.
I’m plugged into the plane’s audio system—Nutesh thought I’d calm better with classical music in my ears. It sort of works. But a low chatter behind me interrupts my half-assed attempts at meditation.
I slide my headphones off one ear. Seems they’re trying to keep their conversation quiet—Henry’s out across from me, reclined as far as the plane’s seats allow. He looks so young when he’s asleep. Sevda must still be in the stateroom; I don’t see her or Lucas.
I kneel on my seat toward the conversation. The lights in the main cabin have been dimmed, other than a soft electric-blue glow coming from the cluster of seats where Xavier and Nutesh are huddled. They’re the ones speaking, except it’s in French so again I’m unable to understand what they’re saying.
Until a single word passes between them: Violet.
“What did you say?” Nutesh and Xavier look toward me. “Did you say something about Violet?” Neither responds.
And then I see the tablet on the table between them—an American news channel streaming, and Violet’s face on the screen.
“What—” I throw my headphones aside and rush over, crouching on the floor in front of the table, the tablet in my hands so I can read the scroll at the bottom. I fumble for the volume button but Xavier takes the tablet from me and closes it.
“No! What is that? That was my Violet on the screen. What’s going on?”
“Geneviève, please sit down for a moment.” Nutesh offers his hand. I take it and slide into the seat opposite him. “First, I want you to know that we’ve gotten word to Ted and Cecelia Cinzio that you are safe. They’re angry and skeptical, but relieved that the news reports, and Lucian, have painted a false picture of your current situation.”
“Okay—but why is Vi on the news? Is this about Aveline killing her? Is Aveline a suspect? She goes by the name Mara Dunn at the circus—”
“I am so very sorry about your friend’s death. According to the American news reports, it seems it is still under investigation,” Nutesh says. My heart bangs against my chest. I hear Aveline’s words in the bathroom at the apartment in Izmir: Nothing says tea party like French cookies and ricin. The police will find your prints all over that tea set.
I’m already shaking my head, the burn behind my chest igniting, hands clenching, unclenching, the fresh skin threatening to tear itself apart once again.
“It was Aveline. She told me in the attack at the apartment—she told me! When I called Ash, he screamed at me for poisoning her. I didn’t know who he meant until Aveline attacked me. She did it, Nutesh, not me! Violet was my best friend—”
“Geneviève, of course it wasn’t you, but you must control your hands. They are sparking, and we are on an aircraft thirty thousand feet in the air,” Nutesh says, his voice calm but firm. “It will take some time to untangle what Aveline has done. She laid a trap for you. The tea set has been identified as yours. When I spoke to Ted Cinzio, he said that Violet’s parents and brother have sworn statements that the two of you often played with the tea set as children, that you left it for Violet before you disappeared—that you were jealous of the new girl in the circus, Mara Dunn, so you took it out on the Jónás family by coating the tea set with the poison. Under warrant, they stripped the trailer you shared with your mother and found castor beans and evidence of plant components that can be used to manufacture ricin—”
“Delia had plants and seeds in there that could kill an army of men, but that doesn’t mean we were using them for bad. We only helped people. She helped people!”
“Of course she did. And this will get sorted out. But with that said, we’re not taking you back to the United States until the legalities can be handled and we can prove your innocence.”
“But I want to go home! You said that once this is all over, I can go home.”
“And you can eventually. But not until you are absolved of any wrongdoing.”
“I have to go back, Nutesh. The elephants—what if she hurts them too?” I’m so tired of crying.
“Your animals are safe.”
“How do you know for sure? Look what she did to Violet!”
“Your circus vet, Dr. Philips, is caring for them. And he works for me,” Nutesh says. I’d say I’m shocked that Philips is one of Nutesh’s people, but not much is shocking anymore. Not even the news that I’m a suspect in Violet’s death.
“Further, the circus is still under the purview of the Triad Partners Group. Any harm to those animals would reflect very poorly on Lucian Dmitri, and despite everything, he is still a vain man who seeks to protect his public reputation. The animals will be protected.”
“That’s what Sevda said about Izmir, about a public spectacle, and yet they were destroying people. God, it’s the perfect setup.” I laugh bitterly. “The Airstream was there for Aveline to do whatever she needed. It’s so easy for her to frame me because we left it all there for her.”
“We will let the lawyers do their jobs,” Nutesh says.
“Not to mention that Delia’s psychiatric history will be paraded around for the whole world to see. Of course I’m guilty! I’m the daughter of a crazy woman, didn’t you hear?”
Nutesh opens a bottle of water and soaks a blue surgical towel; he then gives it to me and nods at my hands. The cool, wet fabric sizzles but tempers the burn.
“It is important to note that where we’re going, they watch the news too. It will be crucial, for both of you,” Nutesh says, looking between Henry and me—I don’t even know when he joined our little party—“that you maintain your identity story once we arrive: you are university student
s from Canada and the UK respectively, on an expedition with me to study the ruins of Babylon as part of a preservation project in conjunction with ongoing efforts of the Iraqi government.” He repeats the earlier false directive. “This story will apply to everyone you meet. We have absolutely no way of knowing who we can trust here, other than the contacts who have had direct interaction with me. Not even the La Vérité keys can be trusted. As you saw in Izmir, with the housekeeper—we cannot risk this again.”
“Aveline will find me. A new geography and made-up identities won’t protect me, or anyone else.”
Nutesh looks tired—for the first time since I’ve met him, he actually looks like this shit is wearing him down. “It seems that the closer we get to Babylon, the stronger you are. All of you. It is why you were able to heal so many people without collapsing.”
“And it’s why Aveline could take down so many people at one time. She’s still coming for me. You know that, right?”
Nutesh’s expression is grim as the overhead speaker bings to life. The captain announces that we’re thirty minutes from our destination. Nutesh stands and straightens his black cargo pants.
“Geneviève, let us focus on the mission still to come. We will see this matter resolved so you can go home again,” he says, patting my shoulder before disappearing into the stateroom.
Home.
I don’t even know where that is anymore.
39
BEFORE WE LAND IN SULAYMANIYAH—OR SULAY FOR SHORT—NUTESH reviews a few things about Iraqi Kurdistan. Despite the fact that this land is all technically Iraq according to the maps, Kurds call it the Kurdistan Region, and they don’t like to be associated with their southern Arab cousins. The country’s history is rich in violence, the lands soaked with the blood of millions of men, women, and children after centuries of political, civil, and international conflict. While started under different pretenses (and not sanctioned by the United Nations), the Iraq War of 2003 brought an end to Saddam Hussein’s brutal regime, which had systematically murdered hundreds of thousands of Kurds since the 1980s.
But it’s just one horrifying piece in a huge puzzle of carnage. The land along the Euphrates where the mystical AVRAKEDAVRA temple sits shares space with one of Saddam’s former palaces, as well as the 2,600-year-old black basalt Lion of Babylon, a statue that dates back to Nebuchadnezzar II and perhaps even farther back to the Hittites.
A lot of history has happened here. The United States is basically an embryo in comparison.
“I could spend a year lecturing you on the history of Ancient Mesopotamia to modern day, and it would take a hundred years more. My people—our people—have suffered greatly,” Nutesh says, his face melancholy for a beat. He clears his throat and stands tall. “Practical advice, however: You must keep your passports on you at all times. Checkpoints are common, so learn your identities. My contact will present you with visas as soon as we arrive—they are offered in the names on your passports, good for fifteen days in Kurdistan.
“However, when we travel across the border into Iraq proper, it will be by air rather than by land. While Kurdish lands are relatively safe, there is still tension with Baghdad to the south, and the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant, or ISIL, is still present in the country—we cannot leave any options open for kidnap or violence against us.”
Oh my god, this is really happening. We are really in the Middle East.
“As we cannot secure papers for you and stay off the radar, we will fly south covertly with the help of a private contractor. Former British Armed Forces man running a private, for-profit operation here,” he explains. “Xavier and I trust him—he knows we’re here on La Vérité business—but for everyone else, the façade must stand. No one can know your true identities. Do you understand?” Henry and I look to one another, and then nod at Nutesh.
“Geneviève, you will not be required to cover your hair in Sulay, only in Babylon, but modesty at all times. No bare shoulders, legs, or chest. No excessive skin, which should be reasonable as temperatures this time of year are moderate. The two of you shall not engage in any public displays of affection—not even holding hands—and do not talk to anyone unless you absolutely must. It’s best that they not hear your accents—your skin color will be enough to announce you’re foreigners.
“From the air base, we will proceed to the secure compound where we’re staying tonight. Our hosts are La Vérité, but their house staff is not. They have been told we are guests of the Kurdish Regional Government, the KRG. Our entire team will be based at the home of my friend and La Vérité member, Şivan Malkandi. He is an Iraqi Kurd who works for the KRG, so his influence here is great,” Nutesh explains. “However, Şivan’s elevated position also puts him at risk for helping us, which is why secrecy and discretion are imperative.
“Once we have arrived at his compound, we will eat and show our gratitude for the hospitality of the household. We will rest tonight, as it has been a trying day, and Sevda’s eyes will require additional, albeit discreet, treatment. First thing in the morning, we will review our mission plan so everyone is clear as to what their role is. Do you have any questions?”
Yes. Yes, I have a million questions, but the FASTEN SEAT BELT sign is on. We’re about to land.
As we descend into the city, the scant light from the moon shows sprawling hills, not unlike those found in California’s San Joaquin Valley, but these are covered in a soft layer of white, like powdered sugar. “It snows here? I thought this was a desert!” I ask, surprised.
“It is February,” Nutesh says. “You should see it during the day. A rare beauty! And in the spring, before the oppressive heat sets in, the hillsides explode with green.”
The city itself is snug in the valley of these hilly ranges. Blinking lights on construction cranes suggest that Sulay is open for business; cars move like ants below on paved streets illuminated by wide-set streetlamps. The city is awash in electric light, although occasional dark patches make it look like someone forgot to flip the switch, a black lake in the middle of it all.
“Rolling blackouts,” Nutesh says. “Their power grid lacks the oomph to keep the entire city on at once.” That doesn’t sound creepy at all. “Otherwise you will see that Sulay is very modern. Restaurants, coffee shops, public parks, the Grand Bazaar. Azadi Park even has a small lake and Ferris wheel! They have recovered well in the post-Saddam years. The soldiers you will see at the airport—they are Peshmerga, the Kurdish army. Friendlies. We’re safe here, as long as we don’t draw attention to ourselves.”
“That means no heroics, Genevieve,” Xavier says, hiking an eyebrow. “I mean it.”
Once our tires meet pavement, the same routine happens as has on prior landings: soldiers, then Montague, then Xavier line up at the plane’s door before it opens. Once it’s unsealed, the area has to be cleared. We’re then rushed down the stairs and into black Range Rovers. Faster, less bulky cars, but also smaller, which means we’re not all in the same vehicle. I don’t love this.
Xavier and Nutesh ride with Henry and me; Montague is with the still-ailing Sevda in a second Rover. The other two carry half of the security detail from the plane; apparently, Lucas, along with the remaining guards and our pilots, will stay at the air base—a decision Sevda is really not happy about—to ensure the jet isn’t tampered with.
That’s both reassuring and unnerving at the same time—someone might tamper with our plane?
The trip through Sulaymaniyah with a line of four black, fast-moving vehicles doesn’t seem to attract the attention it did in Izmir. At a stoplight in the city center, I’m so relieved when none of the citizens on the sidewalk or street stare into my soul through the darkly tinted glass. No Avelines here—at least not yet.
As we turn off from the busy commercial area, we’re suddenly in a quiet residential neighborhood with huge houses tucked behind high walls—Nutesh tells us that Kurdistan is undergoing a sort of renaissance. The architecture of some of these homes rivals what I’ve seen
in our daydream drives through Beverly Hills.
The convoy slows in front of one of these ginormous homes, a heavy steel gate sliding open to grant us entry. The front walkway is made of decorative interlocking bricks, lined with palm trees uplit by floodlights planted into beds of river rock and tall, decorative grasses that sway in the evening breeze. The house itself is all rounded edges and glass and concrete and lights, better suited to a movie star than politician.
Before our doors are even opened, a stout, dark-haired man with a well-trimmed black goatee, dressed in a white button-down and loose gray pants comes down the walk, his arms spread wide. “Nutesh! My brother! Hun be xér hatî ye! Welcome, welcome!”
Nutesh steps out and embraces the man. As usual, I can’t understand what they’re saying, but they seem genuinely happy to see one another, and I’m glad for it. Nutesh then signals for the rest of us to unload; Henry and I slide into our backpacks before exiting the vehicle.
“Şivan, thank you for granting us accommodation at your incredible estate. These are the members of our security and research team,” he says, gesturing to Xavier and Montague, and then a sweep of his arm toward Sevda (in sunglasses) and the others. “And these bright faces belong to my eager students, Gemma O’Connor of the University of British Columbia, and William Fraser of the University of Edinburgh. We are all very excited to be here with you. Thank you for your hospitality. Spas dikem.” Nutesh bows at the waist.
“So wonderful to meet you all! You must be tired from your journey. Come! Inside there is refreshment.” He leans closer to Nutesh, “And maybe some of that excellent French wine, oui ?”
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