Реймонд Хаури: Empire of Lies

It didn’t relieve his discomfort.

As he caught up with Taymoor, he glanced up at the upper-level arcade and saw Mumtaz Sikander Pasha, the beylerbey of the Paris eyalet, a province that included not just the great metropolis itself but the entire ancient kingdom of France. Dressed in his ceremonial robe, his head wrapped in a bulbous turban that was only dwarfed by the girth of his waist, the governor was making his way to his box, which was already crowded with senior officials, including, Kamal now saw, the overall commander of the Paris division of the Hafiye, Huseyin Celaleddin Pasha.

Celaleddin was tall and, given his position in Ottoman society, unusually slim. His jutting chin, always tilted slightly upward, and his sloped-back brow made it hard to tell what was going on behind the discerning eyes that now caught sight of Kamal. The commander surprised Kamal by acknowledging him with a subtle congratulatory nod. Kamal responded with a slight bow before his superior turned away to greet the beylerbey.

Taymoor led him to their seats. After pausing to bask in the attention a bit longer, he took his seat and, with beaming satisfaction, patted the one next to him. “Front row, brother. It’s our day.”

“ Mashallah, ” Kamal replied half-heartedly as he did another quick scan of the female tribune before sitting down.

His distant attitude wasn’t lost on Taymoor. “Why the sour face?” he asked. Then his face cracked with a bawdy grin. “You got somewhere else you’d rather be?”

Kamal shrugged. “Of course not.”

Taymoor let out a small snort, then studied him for a moment. “You know something? We’re partners. We face danger, death maybe, on a daily basis—together. We’re supposed to share. I tell you everything—”

“Yeah, too much maybe,” Kamal griped.

“Protest all you want. I know you love it.” He dropped his voice. “You’re as much of a depraved luti as I am. You just don’t like talking about it. So go on, tell me, who is she? Who’s turning your balls blue?”

Kamal had to play the game. He knew they were both lying to each other, but it suited him fine. He didn’t want Taymoor to know what strings were tugging at his heart. It was enough of a burden to keep it locked away deep inside of him; he’d never live it down if his licentious partner found out.

So he chose to keep up the act and not answer while an ominous silence descended on the courtyard. All attention turned to its far end, where five men appeared from a portal in the arcade. They were dressed in ceremonial uniforms. The middle man, though, stood out because of his black robes and turban and his hulking, heavyset frame. Even under the robes, it was clearly more muscle than fat.

He was also striking because of the long sword he carried.

Kamal and Taymoor watched as the procession made its way solemnly to the center of the courtyard.

“To be continued,” Taymoor warned jokingly, wagging a finger at his partner. “You know better than to mess with my bloodhound nose, right, brother?”

Kamal forced an enigmatic smile—the fact was, Taymoor did have great investigative instincts. In terms of their work, this was an undeniable asset. But in terms of Kamal’s personal life, he could have done without it.

He turned his attention to the center of the far portal, where four officers now appeared, two on either side of a fifth man, who was dressed in a simple white robe. He was blindfolded, and his hands were tied behind his back.

The arena went quiet as the officers escorted the man to the center of the courtyard and handed him over to the first group before marching back the way they came.

The large man with the sword stepped forward and, facing the prisoner, took hold of the man’s shoulder, guiding him to the ground until he was kneeling. Then the large man stepped back, took a sheet of paper from one of his assistants, and began to read out the execution order in a loud voice that echoed across the stillness of the enclosed space.

Kamal had heard those same charges read out many times before—“enemy of the state,” “high treason”—as well as the verdict. He had heard them most recently a week earlier, in that same spot, proclaimed by the same executioner, the state’s executioner corps being a small, exclusive club. But this time, the words carried far more resonance for him. This time, the condemned man kneeling on the parched cobblestones of the cour d’honneur was put there by Kamal and Taymoor.

It should have been an untainted day of great pride for him. When it came to terrorists, to barbarians who were plotting to murder innocent citizens, he never questioned whether the punishment fitted the crime. Case in point: the condemned man presently before them in the courtyard, an Algerian extremist who, along with his brother and a few others, had made his way to Paris with the intention of attacking the festival celebrating the impending marriage of the beylerbey’s youngest daughter to one of the sultan’s favorite sons. A lot of dignitaries would have been in attendance, including the bey himself. A major catastrophe had been averted, and Kamal and Taymoor had become heroes overnight.

The executioner finished reading out the order, then started to recite some verses from the Koran. Kamal’s scowl was fixated on the condemned man, who remained impassive and wasn’t pulling against his restraints or pleading for his life. Kamal knew that by the time the day of execution arrived, any strength the man had left would have been sapped away by the terror of what awaited him. He also knew that the rumors about sedatives being slipped into the final meals of the condemned were true.

The executioner finished his recitation. Then he straightened up and looked to the governor’s box.

Kamal, and everyone else in the courtyard, followed his gaze.

The beylerbey stared down in silence, then gave him a small, impassive nod.

The executioner bowed his head in acknowledgment, and then he turned to the condemned man. He bent down and used his free hand to adjust the position of the man’s head, exposing his bare neck more fully. Then he bent down further and spoke some words to him, instructing the man to recite the shahada, the declaration of absolute faith.

The executioner then took a step back, planted his feet firmly, and, holding the sword in both hands, swung it around slowly to the prisoner’s neck, which he nicked with its blade. The prisoner, surprised, flinched instinctively, tensing up and straightening his neck—exactly what his executioner wanted; he had already raised the sword high above the prisoner’s head, and, in a fluid, lightning-quick move, he brought it down full force.

The blade went right through the prisoner’s neck in one clean cut. One single, brutally efficient, fatal blow. The man’s head didn’t just drop: it sprang off, hit the ground, and rolled through a full turn before coming to a stop. The executioner took a swift step back to avoid getting his robes soiled as blood instantly squirted out of the headless body, which remained immobile in its kneeling position.

Across the courtyard, shouts of “Allahu Akbar” —God is the greatest—rang out. Taymoor hissed it, too, as he pumped the air with his fist before glancing over at Kamal with a fierce glow in his eyes and clenched teeth.

“That’ll teach those sons of whores,” he rasped.

Kamal nodded, even though he knew it wouldn’t. Death, after all, was no deterrent to those fanatics. If anything, it was the opposite.

As the blood flow slowed, the executioner surveyed his handiwork with no visible emotion. One of his assistants handed him a small bottle of water and a cloth, which he casually took without looking away from his victim. He poured water over his blade and wiped it with the cloth, which he then discarded onto the rigid corpse.