The next three days passed in a strange sort of limbo, a state suspended between academic discovery and quiet captivity. During the day, they were like scholars working on a university research project on Captain Saad's quiet island. Their laptop batteries were charged by solar power, and Jerome had managed to establish a slow, but functional, internet connection via a portable satellite dish. They debated the ambitious dreams of the German Kaiser, analyzing every possible route of the Berlin-Baghdad railway line. It all felt very intellectual, almost safe.
But as soon as the sun set and darkness enveloped the island, reality would descend upon them like a cold, wet blanket. Their slow internet connection could bring them news of the outside world, but it could not get them off the island. They were physically trapped. They knew that the Syndicate, whose face was still unknown to them, was likely searching for them like a pack of hungry wolves. Every search, every plan, ended with the same frustrating question—'How do we get out of here?' Their desperation grew with each passing night.
"This is useless," Jerome finally announced on the morning of the fourth day. He slapped his finger on a map spread across the breakfast table, where he had marked the potential railway routes in red. "This is not just one route. It is dozens of smaller ones. Most of the line has either been dismantled or is buried under the desert sand. What little remains is controlled by local tribes, warlords, or smugglers. We cannot just walk onto any of these tracks. It would be suicide."
He looked at Mayra, his expression grim. "We need a plan, Mayra. A real, practical plan. We cannot risk our lives based on a hundred year old riddle."
"So what do you suggest?" Mayra asked quietly, though she was feeling the same frustration herself.
"Maybe we should try to convince Captain Saad," Jerome suggested. "He could take us by boat to the border of Kuwait or some other Gulf country. From there, we could try to contact an embassy, or perhaps…"
His sentence was cut short as the old, battery-operated radio sitting in the corner of the table, which they had almost forgotten about, suddenly crackled to life.
A harsh static sound was followed by a clear, steady, and terrifyingly familiar voice, speaking directly to them.
It was Attar.
His voice carried its usual calm, amused, and almost taunting tone, as if he were part of a grand joke that only he understood.
"Good morning, my lost and stubborn explorers," the voice echoed from the small speaker. "I trust your unscheduled vacation on the banks of the Tigris has been comfortable. I hear the fish here is quite delicious these days, especially when it is cooked slowly… very slowly."
Jerome's face turned red with anger. He stood up to say something, but Mayra stopped him with a gesture of her hand.
Be quiet, Jerome, she mouthed. He is talking to us.
"I hear you are planning a trip," Attar's voice continued. "A European tour. How lovely! The coffee in Paris, the fog in London… very romantic. But I am afraid you are trying to catch the wrong train. The iron serpents are old, my friends. They are tired now, and their venom is gone."
A moment of silence followed, filled only by the soft hum of the radio. It was a dramatic pause. He knew they were listening to his every word.
"If a wise traveler wishes to go from the east to the west, they do not look at the land or the sky. They look to the water."
Sara looked at Mayra in surprise. Water? But they were already surrounded by water on the island.
"But not all water is for drinking," Attar's voice now took on the clear cadence of a riddle. "And not every path leads to a destination. If you wish to reach the city of the Sultan who ruled two continents, then you must walk the path where the camels do not drink, but the iron horses rest. You must cross the bridge that no longer exists, and pass through the door that is not part of any wall. There, you will find a ship that will take you not to your destination, but to your next puzzle."
With that, a soft click was heard, and the radio fell silent again. The broadcast was over.
For a full minute, there was complete silence in the room, except for Jerome's heavy breathing.
"This man is insane!" Jerome finally shouted. "He is going to drive us insane! He is mocking our plan, and then he gives us the same old riddle from Conroy's diary! And what does any of this have to do with water?"
"Because he has changed our plan," Mayra said softly. Her mind was working rapidly, trying to deconstruct and reassemble every word Attar had spoken. She was trying to anticipate his move like a chess player. "He said, 'You are trying to catch the wrong train.' That means our idea about the railway line was wrong, or at least, incomplete."
"But the riddle is about the land," Sara argued. "'Iron horses,' 'bridge,' 'door'…"
"Yes," Mayra agreed. "Because the destination is on land. But that destination is not a city or a country. That destination is a ship." She repeated Attar's final words: "'There, you will find a ship'."
The puzzle had suddenly become even more complex and unbelievable. They were looking for a path on land, that would lead them to a ship on the water, that was supposed to take them to Turkey. It sounded like something out of a fairytale.
"Alright," Jerome said, taking a deep breath, as if he had accepted the madness. "Let's try to solve this riddle one more time. Piece by piece."
They spread the maps of Iraq out again. This time, they were not just looking at railway lines. They were looking at rivers, lakes, ancient canals, and all the places where a ship could be anchored.
"'Walk the path where the camels do not drink, but the iron horses rest'," Mayra read the first part of the riddle.
"An old, abandoned railway station or a rail yard," Jerome answered immediately. He opened a detailed map of the defunct Ottoman and British railway lines in Iraq on his laptop. "There are several. Most of them are just names now. There is one near Baghdad, one near Mosul…"
"Wait," Sara said. "The next part of the riddle is, 'cross the bridge that no longer exists'."
Jerome zoomed in on the map. "Okay, this will narrow our search. Let's see which of these lines used to cross a major bridge that has been destroyed."
It was like looking for a needle in a haystack. But after several hours of intense searching, they found a potential location. In the western desert of Iraq, near the Syrian border, an old railway line crossed over a deep, dry river canyon. Records and old photographs showed that a massive iron bridge on it had been completely destroyed in the bombing during the nineteen ninety one Gulf War.
"This could be it," Jerome said, a hint of excitement in his voice for the first time. "This place is very remote. The line also had a small station, named Al-Qa'im. It is a complete ruin now. The perfect place for 'iron horses to rest'."
"And the final part," Mayra said, adrenaline beginning to course through her veins. "'Pass through the door that is not part of any wall'."
They began to look at the latest satellite images of the area. All around, there was only sand, rocks, and dry shrubs. There was no door.
"Perhaps it is a metaphor," Sara suggested. "Like, entering the territory of a certain tribe."
"No," Mayra said. "With Attar, everything has a literal meaning as well. We are overlooking something. Zoom out, Jerome. We need to see the bigger picture."
Jerome zoomed out the image. And then, they saw it.
About five miles north of the ruined station, between two massive, vertical cliffs, was a natural arch. It had been formed by thousands of years of wind and sand erosion, and it looked like a giant, ancient doorway, opening into nowhere in the middle of the desert.
"Found it," Mayra whispered.
They looked at each other. They had a path. A crazy, unbelievable, and extremely dangerous path.
"This could also be a trap," Jerome voiced his final, logical doubt. "Maybe Attar is sending us straight into the hands of the Syndicate."
Mayra's eyes were fixed on the image of the stone door, as if it held a deep secret. "Every discovery is a trap of some kind, Jerome," she replied, her voice quiet but firm. "It traps you into a new reality, a new danger. But it is a risk we have to take. It is the only chance we have."
That night, after much debate and deep thought, Captain Saad agreed to provide them with his old Land Cruiser.
"It can get you to that stone door, if you are lucky," he said as they were preparing to leave. "But I give you one final warning. That area is not controlled by any army or government. Only tribes and ghosts rule there. If you get lost there, no one will find you. And remember, the greatest mirage in the desert is not of water, but of hope."
It was a warning they could not ignore.
Were they trusting the riddle of a madman who was a riddle himself?
Or were they falling into a trap set by a trickster who could also be their greatest enemy?