Holding a tumbler of rye whisky, Mustafa stood before the bust of Gursel Agca in the trophy room at the horse race entrance.
He skimmed a thumb along the groove carved in his brother's hair.
Young.
So young when he died of congenital heart defects at only twenty-five, he was spared from ever learning the cruelty in the nonchalance of passing age, and the blissful ignorance rendered his youth immortal, frozen in time like the bust of granite.
Two things Gursel Agca had loved in his short life: violin and horse racing. He loved them for the glimpse of freedom they offered – as he once told Mustafa with such a breaking smile – a taste of what life could have been had he been healthy.
Mustafa had hired many sculptors to emulate the smile for the bust.
Nothing ever came close.
Raising the tumbler to his lips, he mused, his tongue brushing the back of his front teeth. He turned to the glass wall facing the race track, his own reflection overlaying the crowds on the grandstands outside. Moving his jaw sideways, he lifted the cleft chin shadowed by stubbles as he looked for the traces of his brother in him. Where Gursel's face had been round, his was square. But other than that, they had been identical, with the same nubian nose under the long brows, each with the curvature of a sword, and their hazel eyes. Except that Gursel's had more shades of brown, warm like honey swirling in hot tea, whereas his were a tinge of jade that grew colder with each passing year. He took another sip. It had been twenty-two years since Gursel passed away. Twenty-two years. Mustafa contemplated how much his brother could have accomplished with his flairs in so long a time passed in the blink of an eye. And yet he had perished while the much less capable lingered, wasting away all the time on the meaningless. Mustafa snorted at his reflection. Tall and well-muscled, he had kept himself in shape over the years. His ebony hair, now grizzled but still thick, was combed back into a fade, with considerable effort put into making it look effortless. He wondered what Gursel would say about the hours he spent on cultivating his image to win over the cretinous crowds now buzzing and gasping with their necks craned at the tracks, and their hands clutching the betting slips.
A man cleared his throat from behind. Mustafa angled his head. All the thoughts that strained his face dispersed in a blink. Out of the corner of his eyes, he caught Arslan Qusbecq standing behind wearing a trilby, a fat cigar dangling on his lips. "You should be out for the last stretch," he said, his voice unhurried. "You need to be seen by the press."
Mustafa chuckled, tucking his chin to his chest. "Shouldn't the same also apply to you?"
"The race is held in honor of your brother, not mine," Arslan said matter-of-factly. "Besides, have I not mentioned it's the last stretch? If they aren't looking for you, their eyes are on the jockeys and stallions. Beautiful creatures, I must say." He blew on the cigar, tendrils of smoke rambling about his face.
"You know you're welcome to my ranch and choose a steed anytime."
"If you want to break my neck, you can just say so, old chap."
Mustafa rasped with a short laugh and glanced at the other sidelong. "You sure about tonight? About Serhat?"
"He wishes to offer you his allegiance," The man shrugged. "I'll be the fairy stepfather who grants him the wish."
A longer laugh, Mustafa tilted back his head while the hand he used to skim the bust of his brother delved into the pocket of his suit pants. Despite his cunning, his ruthlessness, and his hypocrisy – which really were just common traits among those who got what they wanted, Mustafa thought – the deadpan humor of Arslan Qusbecq was an irresistible charm that made him not unpleasant to work with. Mustafa sized up his accomplice by his shoulder while keeping his eyes up front at the track.
"How's Chiara? She approves?"
"She initiated it." Arslan puffed on the cigar and blew a smoke ring. "I leave his son alone and she mine, that was our deal, and her idiot son broke it," he continued while the cobweb of that smoke ring boomed and stretched quietly into the disappearance, leaving nothing but the musky scent in its wake, not much unlike the wax and wane of an empire. "Granted, he didn't know you and I are working together. But the moment I demanded a tiny sacrifice from him after all the benefits he had reaped by simply being a Qusbecq, he turned on me. He has a lot to make amends to, and I still won't trust him again. An allegiance seems apropos."
Mustafa pursed his lips. He had theories why Arslan had kept their action a secret from his stepson and the half-bred, the latter whom he treated more like his bastard than firstborn. Now he knew for a fact that it was indeed a test of loyalty, and quite an effective one, too. Amber liquor swashed the glass as he gave it a swirl and took another nip. While he was looking at the race outside, his eyes surveyed the reflection of the man standing by his shoulder. Despite the unhurried voice and the diplomatic mien, in the shade by the narrow brim of his trilby, Arslan's sullen gaze betrayed a mixture of discomfiture and disdain. The idiot of a stepson has caused him more than he'd admit. First, it had confirmed that the man behind the Phantom mask was indeed the half-bred. Long had Mustafa suspected Warshon Qusbecq to be the genius chemist and the Republic's most wanted man. His suspicion was left unwarranted until now. And two, that Arslan needed to punish Serhat with the allegiance showed he cared about his half-bred more than he let on.
The less the other knows the better, enemy or accomplice alike, since you never know when the two may swap places. Thanks to Serhat Qusbecq, Mustafa had just unearthed two hidden gems from his accomplice's trove. A smirk tugged at a corner of his lips.
Outside under the sun, spectators boomed, pumping their arms as they rose to their feet like the grass rippling in striations across a steppe.
On the track, Winter Ghost, the most anticipated sleek gray, took off for the jump, his hooves skimming the air yet only a heartbeat too late. With a heart-stopping slip, his back legs failed to clear the fence entirely, hurling his jockey forward in a helpless arc.
Gasps chorused from the grandstands while the race thundered on.
"Well, guess we have a winner," Mustafa chirped, patting the other on his shoulder. "I should go and congratulate dear old Taylan. See you at the villa later tonight?"
Arslan Qusbecq raised his head as he looked along his straight nose. It pointed to the cusp between the light of the sun slanting through the glass wall and the shadow on his heels. He chewed on his cigar and shrugged, those hawk eyes aloof.
***
Nestled in the folds of the forested Mount McKay, on the outskirt south of Konstinbul, the villa seemed carved out of the landscape itself with its stone walls blending seamlessly into the rocky terrain, its terracotta roof barely visible through thick foliage.
Ivy crept over the facade, its tendrils framing the arched windows where the fading twilight glanced off. Along a cobblestone path winding away from it, Mustafa sauntered with a bouquet of lilies in one hand, the scattered pine needles crunching softly under his soft leather loafers. He inhaled the mountain air rich with the scent of moss and damp earth, his brows lifting. His feet brought him to a halt before a grave.
Gursel Adnan Agca
The man who looked upon the stars
He propped the bouquet against the headstone and crouched, dusting the engraved epitaph with the heel of his palm. As he read the words in a trance, his mind drifted back to a time when Gursel had taken him to a lecture by Professor Alec de Armas. He closed his eyes.
At the center stage of the amphitheater, a handsome man with bright green eyes paced around the podium with a hand in the pocket of his suit pants. His other arm whisked about as he raised the question, "Does humanity always need more inventions?"
"Of course," someone shouted from the front-row seat. "As a civilization develops, it's bound to expand, and the bigger it grows, the larger the population and demands, which means the need for more infrastructures. But to keep building, we need to glean more resources, and better technologies to support it all."
"Good," the professor threw a forefinger in the direction where the voice came from. "But does a civilization always need to keep expanding? Is expansion the only measure of going forward? Is progress always necessary?"
In the ensuing silence, Mustafa turned to his brother. "Isn't it obvious?" he whispered. "What's the point of living if we just stay the same? I can't believe you drag me out for this."
"Did I hear obvious?" the professor chuckled, bracing his elbow on the podium as he leaned sidelong.
Mustafa clammed up, compressing his lips to a seam.
"Well, yes, I can see how the questions may come off somewhat pretentious," Alec de Armas continued, his head low; a smile flickered in those almond-shaped eyes emerald green. "But what if we take a different angle? Let's look at us. I know you're all still very young, so, think about your fathers. What do they look like now? Old? Fat? Thinning on the top? No offense to any one of your dads, I was really thinking about mine when I offered the description." An outburst of laugh put a lull between the man's words, and he chuckled along. "That said," he went on. "He used to be a hell of a dashing swagger, as were your fathers once upon a time, I'm sure. And back then, back when they were your age, it was all about addition. Have more experiences, make more money, drink more wine, and sleep with more beautiful women." Another laugh. "Life is an addition when you're still growing. But here is my question, can we keep growing until the day we die? Do you think it'd still be a good idea for your father to go on seeing more women after they had you for the sake of expanding his experience?"
This time, he took a deliberate pause for his questions to register, and his words sink in.
"Science finds that our frontal cortex matures when we're twenty-five. That's the year when everything stops growing physically, and when our functionality peaks. But what happens after that?"
"You go downhill," Gursel said, his voice quiet against the silence.
"Exactly!" the professor whisked his hand. "Like it or not, once you peak, the rest is downhill, and to continue the addition can only aggravate and accelerate the process of decline. Imagine eating and cavorting like an eighteen-year-old at fifty, for example. So the wise ones always practice subtraction once they reach a certain age instead of addition, to focus their energy on only what matters and leave out the excess, because less is more. But, but, but," He flexed his hand as if a composer. "We're seldom that wise, and it's nearly impossible to tell when is enough and differentiate need from greed. The same also applies to civilizations."
He tilted to the side, clicking the remote at the slides projected on the front screen.
"From what we found about the world of antiquity, one that had flourished ten thousand years before ours was even conceived, we learn how humanity had once destroyed itself with its own inventions, believed to be their salvation, their means to conquer and do better, their hope to call themselves their own gods. Driven by the survival instinct that had built their civilizations, they found it impossible to stop or slow down, no less. In fear that some other race may replace them, or their resources may become depleted, they kept going at full throttle. Each generation must be different than the one before, they mistook movement for progress. The same instinct that builds civilization destroys it, too. Such is the irony, or paradox, if you will."
Sagging in his chair, Mustafa stared up at the man at the podium. Still, he didn't agree with what he said, not exactly, but he found himself completely in awe.
"Fascinating, isn't it?" Gursel smirked, nudging him on the arm.
He bobbed his head in denial, his brows arching, as were his lips. "How did you come to know an archeology professor? Aren't you in physics?"
"Philosophy is the provenance and fate of all sciences, and Professor de Armas is one of the few who keeps a philosophical hand," Gursel replied with stars in his eyes. "We met at a violin concert."
Mustafa opened his eyes. The forest had darkened as the sun dived into the west. Through Gursel, he befriended Alec de Armas. His respect to the man notwithstanding, he withheld his agreement. If it was by fate that everything must always come to an end, the meaning of life was to look fate in the eye and say the solemn no.
He got to his feet. Padding along the cobblestone path, he turned back to the villa. Before the grand wooden doors, he drew a long breath, his hand gliding along the iron handles etched with intricate patterns reminiscent of the mountain's flora. The doors groaned on hinges.
Three men stood waiting by the rear of their cars with their arms akimbo. Their mutterings were slashed into an abrupt silence punctured by the rustle of leaves.
"Sorry to have kept you waiting, gentlemen," said Mustafa with a warm smile that took years of practice to gather its heat. "You know how religiously I take my walk." He led the three through a pergola trained with wisteria to the garden terrace behind the villa. At the end of a lacquered oak table under a gazebo, Serhat Qusbecq sat facing a natural spring that burbled into a small cascade lit by solar pathway lights. Meticulously clothed in his usual suit of cashmere, he looked off, his face drawn, his beard desperate for a trim. Without a fleck of luster, those russet brown eyes were bloodshot and drooping, as if he had not been able to close them for days. He turned to the sound of the approaching steps.
"Serhat Qusbecq, gentlemen," Mustafa introduced. "You have probably met each other before, but I suppose it doesn't hurt playing a good host." He motioned the other to their seats, his eyes monitoring the nuances their faces betrayed.
Of course they had all met before. Anyone with somewhat of a station had met Serhat Qusbecq, the Pimp of Konstinbul. Mustafa had to strangle his laugh as he caught the panic in Taylan Dinc's honey-colored eyes. Among all three, Zahid Abid seemed the least affected by Serhat's presence.
"Mr. Qusbecq," The sturdy commander stalked up to Serhat, his thick arm extending past the round of his midriff. "We finally meet in person."
Serhat squinted as if refraining those russet brown eyes from rolling. He loosed a quiet snort and shook the other's hand, his reluctance palpable. "Commander," he clipped.
Mustafa savored Serhat's fury, more flavorful than the wine he took up from the tray the servant brought forth. Most men in Konstinbul feared Serhat Qusbecq because he kept receipts of their dirty business behind the bedroom door. Not Zahid Abid. A devoted husband despite his wife's sorry state, Zahid looked but never touched. The Pimp of Konstinbul, who had never run short of allures or traps to bring another man to his leash, had nothing on Zahid. God knows how Serhat longed to punish him for letting the Phantom Lord get away, but he couldn't, and hell had no fury like a man thrown in the face of his own ineptitude.
Mustafa set down the wine and clapped his hands, signaling the servants to bring up the first course. Leaning against the armrest, he caught Zahid glancing his way, his pewter-colored eyes filled with anxiety, pleading silently. Mustafa had promised the DEA commander a liver transplant for his wife should he capture the Phantom Lord using the leads Serhat had provided – a promise that would cost him nothing.
Should Zahid capture the Phantom Lord, Arslan Qusbecq wouldn't let him walk out of it alive; thus anything he had been promised shall die with him. And should he fail, his wife wouldn't get the transplant as promised.
No surprise there how Zahid is behaving now given how easy it is to bring a man who cares to his knees. Mustafa permitted a hint of a smile as he leaned for his wine. What he didn't anticipate, however, was his own denial, how he had seethed at Arslan Qusbecqu for keeping the identity of the Phantom Lord from him. He admitted that he didn't give it much thought. A general who wins wars can't possibly have the time or heart to learn about every sellsword, except when the sellsword took out all the Republican cartels in seven short years and now threatened to claim a seat at the table. To little avail, Mustafa had probed for the drug lord's identity. But all he had was suspicion confirmed by the recent happenstance. Taken by a whim, he wanted to play. While victory might be the endgame for most, Mustafa wouldn't have stepped into politics had he not enjoyed the game where no one lived with the principles they staunchly supported.
He swung his eyes to Kovács Dolma perching on the chair next to the DEA commander with even more disquiet, and whose chevron mustache bobbled as if trying to communicate that which he had yet find the courage to voice.
Mustafa sneered. "Gentlemen," he said, raising his glass, his voice measured, his tone uninflected. "I gathered you here tonight to say thank you. Thank you for your loyalty and your hard work." Then, turning to Taylan Dinc, he cranked up the volume of his smile. "And to congratulate my old friend, Taylan. That's no small sum."
Dinc got to his feet, bending forward as he clinked his glass with Mustafa, his head bowing. "Every penny will go to the health fund. You have nothing to worry about, Mustafa."
"Oh, it's your money, old sport," He tipped the glass at his lips. "Spend it however you like."
The simpering fool mumbled a few flattery words Mustafa didn't care to catch. "I know we haven't caught the Phantom Lord," he went on, swirling the wine glass. "But we've gained a valuable member." His eyes turned to Serhat, who acknowledged with a nod while he kept his eyes on the beetroot salade doused in a thick sauce the color of wine.
"Dig in, gentlemen," Mustafa motioned for them to eat.
Cutlery clinked on the porcelain plates while the thick sauce reddened their teeth.
Mustafa watched, a smirk twisting his lips.
"You aren't gonna eat?" asked Kovács Dolma, always speaking when he should have kept quiet.
Mustafa entertained the likelihood for the man to realize in his final breaths how his tongue had cost him his life. "You'll have to excuse me, Kovács," he intoned. "But as I get older, I find my head much clearer when I eat less. And with so many eyes watching, I couldn't afford to commit a gaffe when I speak to the press, could I?"
Dolma gulped. The fork in his hand halted midway between the plate and his mouth. He put it down. "What would you have me do to make up for it, Mustafa?" He looked up across the table, his voice tensed.
"Relax." Mustafa shook his wrist. "I wasn't implying anything, and you're being too touchy! I know you alleged Warshon Qusbecq with a good intention." Brooding over how often victory was lost to good intentions, he hissed with a quiet laugh short and wry.
Dolma hesitated, his chevron mustache quivering, his eyes unconvinced. He didn't resume eating until the servants brought up the entree – a fine cut of steak cooked medium-rare, with charred edges and a blood-red center. The men ate in silence while the spring murmured on, feeding into the cascade.
"Well, I hope you'll all excuse me for skipping dessert," Mustafa broke the silence once they were about halfway through the steak. "I have qualms about sweets. That said," he took a loaded pause, his hands clapping again. "I have prepared a different entertainment."
The same servants who brought them the steaks carried a large salvor together and placed it in the center of the lacquered table. Mustafa signaled the servant to his left. The young man came forth and lifted the silver lid, releasing a pungent stench of gore and flesh. All the guests blanched, their mouths agape. The cutlery slipped off Taylan Dinc's pudgy soft hands and clanked on the cobblestones next to his feet.
Unable to rest, the bulging eyes of Winter Ghost stared desperately at everyone in his presence, and the fleshy tongue lulling through those large, parted teeth, still reminiscent of the hay he had chewed before the fateful morning.
Mustafa snatched up the steak knife next to the plate he had yet touched and stabbed it into the lacquered table; its shaft quivered with a boing. He splayed his hand and clenched; his eyes narrowed, roaming over each man at the table. "What a shame," he mused, his voice languid and soft. "Winter Ghost was the most promising stallion. It broke my heart to see him fail." He snapped his fingers for the servant to bring him the decanter. Wine gurgled, refilling his glass. He nipped, his brows drawing close while he sucked on the inside of his cheeks and smacked his lips. "But a rule is a rule, and I must stay consistent even when it comes to our most beloved sleek gray. This is what happens when you fail me, gentlemen."
Silence fell thick, amplified by the running stream and the forest frolicking with the wind.
"And just so you know," Mustafa went on in a drawl. "As a pragmatist, I always claim my due payback one way or another. Winter Ghost lost the race. But he made up a good menu. I hope you've all enjoyed him."
Serhat gagged, turning to his shoulder with the napkin over his mouth.
Checking his watch, Mustafa ignored him entirely. He turned to Dolma, folding out a smirk on his lips. "I trust that you'll do exactly what I told you this time?"
The chair screeched on four legs while Kovács Dolma lurched to his feet, his head bobbing. "Yes, Mustafa," he mumbled, then, regarding others in turn, "Enjoy the rest of your evening, gentlemen."
Without any more instruction, Taylan Dinc followed suit.
When both men disappeared through the pergola, and the engines of his cars rumbled only to fade into the distance, Mustafa flicked his eyes to Zahid. "I'm sorry it didn't go as smoothly as hoped." He sounded so genuine he almost believed himself. "How's Sommer?"
"She's, she erm, she…" Zahid stammered, his eyes flickering shut like kitchen light glancing off plates of pewter.
Mustafa refrained from smiling at the cut of his seemingly innocuous words, and the whiff of invisible blood seeping out of the man's pumping heart. "She'll hang on, and you won't disappoint her," he answered for Zahid. "You will help Serhat finish what he must complete tonight." Then, he took a long, slow look at Serhat, who had his hands braced on the armrests, his face ashen under the moonlit sky.
"Welcome aboard, Mr. Qusbecq."