The man nodded like a robot and escorted them to an elevator. The inspector-general noticed the surveillance cameras following them as they walked. He felt like making a discreet obscene gesture, but he wasn’t a kid any more and he had an important mission to fulfill.
Fifty Nine.
“Come in.”
Sekmet’s office was even larger than Bassam had imagined and he suddenly wondered what his actual rank was in the Bureau’s hierarchy. He quickly kissed his cousin on both cheeks, in the traditional fashion and the smell of his expensive Western cologne tickled his nostrils. Sekmet was dressed in an impeccable pigeon-gray suit, that fell perfectly in place whatever gesture he made.
He also shook Thomas’s hand, but told Saran she had to wait in the antechamber, where two security officers were sitting, at opposite sides of the room.
Bassam noticed the look of distress in Thomas’s eyes as the door closed behind her, but Sekmet flashed a reassuring smile, as he motioned him to a seat in front of his desk. Bassam sat next to him, crossing his legs to look more imposing.
“Thank you, dear cousin, for contacting me about Mr. Wesenberg. I appreciate this very much.”
To Bassam’s surprise, Sekmet sounded genuinely grateful. He must have taken acting lessons, he thought. Or he has a hidden agenda. Strangely, both possibilities seemed equally credible.
“Before we get to the paperwork, Mr. Wesenberg,” Sekmet said as he sat down himself, “I have to tell you that it is a great honor to meet you. As you know, the Potemkin Crew is quite a legend in our parts. Not to mention South-East China, of course.”
He smiled, but it was impossible to read his thoughts. Bassam suddenly hoped he had done the right thing by contacting him.
“We have a problem, however.”
There we go, Bassam thought.
Sekmet stood up again, and walked towards a window overlooking the modern city.
“As you know, our diplomatic relations with the Western Alliance are strained, to say the least. We are desperately trying to buy some time, even peace—at any cost, it seems.”
The inspector-general glanced quickly at Thomas, who understandably seemed ill at ease.
“I am sure,” Sekmet resumed, not looking at them, “that some of us would even think that handing you to the Viborg City authorities would do wonders for our reputation with the Western alliance . . .”
The inspector-general felt his heart gallop in his chest. He had brought this young man, this hero, Tazar’s best friend, directly into the mouth of the crocodile. Sekmet turned his glance towards Thomas and smiled again.
“Let me reassure you immediately, Mr. Wesenberg. I am not one of them. But I have to hide you from them too. So I cannot make a public announcement of your defection. All I can do, is to give you a new identity, working papers and a monthly sum of money, until you can fend for yourself. Does that sound reasonable to you?”
No medal, no TV interview, no meeting with the king, Bassam thought. Fuck them.
Thomas nodded.
“You also will have to sign a paper stating that you will not partake in hostile actions that can endanger this city’s security.”
The Eleni nodded again.
“That means no hacking,” Sekmet added, letting his eyes linger on the Eleni’s face.
Sekmet took a pile of papers on his desk and pushed them towards Thomas, who began to leaf through them. Handing him a pen, the Secret Service officer lifted a finger, as if he had forgotten something. He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a small red box.
“It is my duty and my honor,” he said, slowly opening the box, “to give you this medal on behalf of the king and the city of Samarqand.”
Bassam looked at the Golden Crescent and gaped. The highest military distinction. It wasn’t so bad after all. They had recognized his actions. He wondered if Tazar also had had one. He would ask Faiza about it, if they ever met again.
Thomas accepted the medal with a weak thank you and began signing the papers. Sekmet leaned back in his chair and winked at Bassam. The inspector-general winked back. He couldn’t wait to get out of here.
Sixty.
Saran stood up as Thomas walked through the door. He opened his arms and hugged her for a long time. Inspector-General Ali Shakr Bassam was almost moved to tears. He wondered what kind of poem Tazar would have written about that. Sekmet grabbed him gently by the arm, preventing him from leaving the room.
“We have to talk, cousin,” he said, “but not here.”
Bassam felt his blood freeze inside his veins.
Sixty One.
In the unmarked car taking them back to Saran’s apartment, Thomas explained what had happened. She patted his hand, and said nothing. Her eyes were as deep as a starry night under her silky fringe and he realized that he loved her. That girl. It was as simple as that. He had only come to Samarqand to meet her. All the rest was literature, as a French poet had once said.
Sixty Two.
They had driven for more than an hour, until they reached the edge of the desert. The mountains in the distance were bluer than the sky.
What now? Inspector-General Bassam thought as he exited the unmarked car. A bullet in the back of my head, like in the good old times?
Sekmet got out in his turn, putting on very dark sunglasses. He took his jacket off and his white shirt almost blinded the policeman.
“Ali,” Sekmet began, leaning against the car and lighting a cigarette without offering one to his cousin. “We have to talk. Seriously. That’s why we’re here, where no one can hear us.”
Bassam nodded, looking for his own Navis in the pocket of his shirt.
“You have to drop your investigation into the Samsara Freedom Fighters.”
“What?”
How did he know? Bassam felt his knees grow weak. The end of his career. The disgrace. How could he ever face Rezida again? And Amir?
“We know you’re onto them. Konchev contacted us and he’s working for us now. It was too big for him to handle. I understand.”
A blinding white rage flashed in Bassam’s eyes. The bastard!
“It’s a trap, Ali. A beautifully designed booby-trap. We knew it was them all along. We also know that they are funded by the Western Alliance’s secret service, through various cover organizations. They’re linked with the Democratic Front—not officially, of course. But they are. You know what that means, don’t you?”
The inspector-general reluctantly shook his head. He hated to be mistaken for an imbecile. Especially by his own cousin.
“If we hit on the Samsara assholes, the Democratic Front will say we’re attacking democracy and what not. Perfect excuse for the Western Alliance to tighten its grip on us, and provoke a war or worse, a civil war. You understand now?”
Bassam nodded slowly.
“So what are you going to do? Let them kill more people?”
Sekmet looked away, puffing on his cigarette.
“Some people will die, yes. It’s the sad truth. But we’re trying to prove that the Democratic Front is linked with the Samsara assholes. Your man is helping us with that. He’s either extremely courageous, or completely stupid, I’m not sure which.”
Bassam had no doubt. The second adjective was the right one.
“But what if they unmask him?”
“It’s a risk. We have other options too, don’t worry.”
“So they will never be punished?”
Sekmet threw his cigarette way.
“Who knows? Maybe there is justice in this world. Or in the next.”
His smile was sardonic and, for a fraction of a second, Bassam saw him as a human being.
“And what about me?” Bassam finally said, after a long pause. “Am I under arrest for disobeying a direct order? Or demoted? Fired?”
He laughed nervously. Sekmet opened the door of the car and looked for something in the inner pocket of his jacket.
“Here,” he said, handing Bassam a white, unmarked envelope.
My death sentence, the policeman thought, but he didn’t care any more. He had heard too much already and the few illusions he still had had been blown away farther in the desert.
He took the letter out and unfolded it. He frowned and read it again.
“Promoted? To inspector-general first class? But why?”
He didn’t know if he should feel proud or insulted.
“You know why, Ali,” Sekmet said, patting him on the shoulder and opening the passenger door for him. “You’re anything but an imbecile.”
As he bent over to take his seat, Bassam had to admit, to his great despair, that his cousin was right. On both counts.
Sixty Three.
“Now that you are officially a hero,” Saran said as they sat on her sofa to relax after the day’s emotional turmoil, “we have to treat your drug problem.”
The Dreaming Chambers of Samarqand
Sixty Four.
She had explained everything to him and yet he was scared. It had been two weeks of morning visits to the university hospital, a modern white building that was surprisingly beautiful. He actually felt comfortable there, but then again, dating one of the lead researchers probably helped too.
They had taken blood samples, DNA samples, whatnot samples—always smiling, always talking, explaining to him what they were going to do with them. The weirdest thing was when they had asked him to write down the fifty songs he loved the most.
In the evening, coming back after work to meet Saran at her apartment, they would discuss what was going on. The tests had shown that Synth was indeed a DNA drug—probably manufactured by the military. So Dr. Sojo had been right all along. Normally, there would be no cure and the most likely prognosis was a permanent psychosis. The mysterious woman’s voice was a good example of that. Fortunately, Saran and her team had been researching new types of therapy. It was lucky he had met her, and yet what was luck? As the woman inside him would have said.
And here he was today, lying on a stretcher in a circular white room, feet and ankles bound by thick leather straps as a drip slowly seeped its miraculous cure into his veins. Saran walked in, coming into his field of vision. She was wearing her doctor’s uniform and held a large pair of earphones, which she put over his head.
“You OK, darling?”
Thomas nodded as best he could.
“This is still experimental,” she said, caressing his forehead and kissing his mouth with closed lips. “I really hope it’ll work.”
She kissed him again, harder this time. Thomas tried to relax as the lights dimmed in the room and a strange music began to fill his ears. He didn’t know if it was the drip, the music or a combination of the two, but he began to feel wonderfully relaxed and deeply, deeply, happy.
It seemed that the music revealed his inner joy, a joy he had forgotten, if he had ever felt it before. The sun appeared in the corner of an open window, a small bird flew like an arrow across the garden and the smell of cherries filled his nose.
He felt exhilarated and couldn’t stop smiling, it was as if he had smoked the biggest joint on earth. But he wasn’t feeling groggy, not at all. Quite the contrary, as a matter of fact. He felt one hundred percent lucid and totally in control. Rhythms and melodies he had never heard before, but that were still familiar enough for him to feel safe and relaxed intertwined in his brain. Saran’s smile and the curve of her armpit. Ole’s laughter. Nick’s bad jokes. A walk on Viborg City’s main street in the summer. Saran’s smile and the curve of her hip. He closed his eyes in the reddish half-light. Something like gold and honey was running through his veins—he could almost picture its luminous path.
Suddenly, he felt a presence next to him. He opened his eyes again. It was a woman. Saran? He tried to focus, but her face was blurred, like an object moving too fast for a camera.
So you came back to the Chamber, loved one.
He recognized the voice, but he wasn’t frightened any more.
They are playing your music, I hear. Soon, you will be cured and we will have to part.
“Are you Synth?” Thomas asked, surprised. His mouth felt like he had eaten too much chocolate, heavy and sweet.
The woman’s laughter had a crystalline quality that blended with the music, like ice cubes in water.
No, not-Markus, not-Mathias, not at all. I am part of this music. I am your calling, your melody. And soon, I’ll have to blend to let you free, just like I did before.
“I don’t understand. Who do you think I am? I have never seen you before.”
Ah, but Iskander, you have. In your dreams, you have. That’s why you came back to me, Iskander. To fulfill your dream once again.
“I am not Iskander.”
Oh, you are, not-Thomas. Here, you are. You are in my Dreaming Chambers. You are back. And I can prove it. What is your deepest dream, not-Thomas?
Thomas tried to concentrate, but his mind kept following the uninterrupted melodies chasing each other behind his eyes, like smoke from different cigarettes.
“I want . . . I want to topple empires.”
The woman laughed again. It was the most beautiful laughter he had ever heard.
See? What did I tell you? Goodbye, not-Thomas. Goodbye.
“Wait!”
He tried to raise his head as the figure seemed to be absorbed into its surroundings.
“Who are you?”
Laughter again. This time, far away.
I have many, many names, not-Markus. But you can call me Samarqand.
The last word sounded like a tiny flute note, exploding like a soap bubble as it ebbed and died. The room suddenly morphed into a cave and he was standing naked and free at its center.
He realized, without ever having been there, that he was on the other side of the red door that Richard and his team had discovered in the last cave. The cave was dimly lit, like the room in the hospital, but there was no distinguishable source of light. He recognized the familiar red rectangle and another painting of the Buddha, in much better shape than the one outside the door. Nearby there was what looked like a marble altar. Walking closer to it, Thomas saw that it was an empty sculpted bed. He touched the stone with one hand. It was surprisingly warm. Lifting his head, he noticed a silhouette and he knew it was Synth.
It had the shape of a man. Thomas took a careful step towards the ghostly apparition, and saw that it had his features. The ghost looked at him and smiled. Then sneered. Then disappeared with a terrifying howl. Without knowing why, Thomas howled with it.
Sixty Five.
When he woke up, he felt completely disoriented and it took him a few minutes to realize that he was lying in a hospital bed, in a small white room, with a monitor attached to his arm by a couple of electrodes.
He felt drained, and yet curiously, whole. He wondered if Synth had left him for good and tried some mental associations, with no effect at all. And then he realized that sanity scared him. He tried to laugh it off, but his mouth twisted in painful grimace.
The door opened and Saran’s head appeared, She smiled at him and he smiled back. Looking at the monitor, she lifted his arm and took his pulse. She then took a pen-like flashlight and examined both his eyes.
“Panic is normal after treatment,” she said matter-of-factly. “We haven’t found a way to stop it yet. Sorry. But it’ll pass, don’t worry.”
Thomas saw dust dancing in the sunlight and he tried to sit up. He thought it would be difficult, but he managed without any problem.
“You are still in shock,” Saran explained to him. “Otherwise your body is fine. Actually, we’re going to walk out of here together in a few minutes. That’s the big advantage with our therapy—it’s not invasive in any way.”
Thomas looked at his clothes folded on the chair. Life. Waiting for him.
“That music . . . It was beautiful. What was it?” he asked, actually feeling better by the minute.
Saran had a little laughter.
“You.”
Thomas looked at her, perplexed.
“The list of your favorite songs . . . I have . . . Well, we’ve discovered that people like music that corresponds to their biorhythms . . . If you want, moods, feelings, thoughts are all algorithms in some ways . . . So we track the patterns and come up with melodies that should fit the psyche perfectly . . . And help or trigger the curing process . . . So, you were cured by yourself . . .”
Thomas shook his head.
“I’m not sure I understand, but I’ll accept that.”
“I’m not sure I really understand either,” Saran said, stroking his cheek, “but it seems to be working. No more Mr. Freeze, I hope.”
He pulled her to him and they kissed. This time no image, no metaphor, no cinema scene interfered with the feeling of her tongue wrapping around his. That wonderful, incredible feeling of pure, untouched, untainted reality.
Wind on Wind
Sixty Six.
Inspector-General First Class Ali Shakr Bassam sat looking at the various open folders spread across his new desk. His new office was much larger than the previous one, and he could see the dome of the Biby-Khanim mosque, if he leaned through the open window and let his eyes follow the avenue. Someone knocked on the door, and he told him to come in.
Nobal appeared, a file under his arm.
“What is it, sergeant?”
“The suspect has confessed, sir. I need your signature.”
Bassam took the documents, skimmed through them and walked to his desk to get a pen. He initialed the papers and gave them back to Nobal, who slammed the door behind him. Routine, Bassam thought. Routine. Routine. Routine. It was a wonderful feeling.
The Song of Synth Page 16