The first rays of the sun were spreading across the vast plateau like liquid gold, but for Mayra, Sara, and Jerome, that morning brought no warmth. Their bodies ached from the night's desperate flight, their clothes were torn, and the chilling memory of Eleanor Vance's cold smile was still fresh in their minds.
And now, in their very first moment of freedom, they were confronted by the man who was, directly or indirectly, responsible for their ordeal.
Attar.
He was leaning casually against his Land Cruiser, holding a small glass cup of tea from which a fragrant steam of cardamom and saffron was rising. He waved at them with a carefree, broad smile, as if he were meeting friends at a picnic spot who had lost their way.
"Welcome!" he called out, his voice echoing unnaturally loudly in the morning silence. "Excellent! You have arrived just in time. I thought you might make it for breakfast. I have made some eggs, just the way your grandmother used to make them, Jerome. With a few onions and a lot of chili."
For a moment, no one spoke. The three of them just stared at him, their eyes a complex mixture of exhaustion, anger, and profound disbelief. How did Attar know how Jerome's grandmother made eggs?
Then, Jerome moved forward. His frustration and fear had now transformed into a boiling rage. His hands were clenched into tight fists. "You!" he almost roared. "This is all because of you! Because of your foolish riddle! You sent us into that trap! We could have been killed!"
Attar calmly took a sip of his tea, his eyes showing no surprise or fear. He watched Jerome's anger as if he were observing a child's tantrum. "Could have been killed," he repeated the words slowly, tasting them. "Yes, that was a possibility. It always is. But you were not killed. And in my opinion, that is the most important part, is it not?"
"Is this a game to you?" This time it was Mayra who spoke, her voice filled with a measured, controlled anger. "You sent us directly into the hands of the Syndicate. If it were not for our wits, we would be Eleanor's prisoners right now."
Attar laughed. A genuine, hearty laugh that sounded incredibly strange in the tense atmosphere. "And if… if Eleanor's agents had captured you, what would have happened? Do you know what your future would have been?"
"Yes, I know," Mayra said with bitterness. "She would have…"
"No, you do not know," Attar interrupted her, his laughter suddenly vanishing. For a fleeting moment, a deep, cold glint appeared in his eyes, colder than a desert night. "Let me tell you your future."
He placed his teacup on a rock and walked towards them, a strange rhythm in his walk.
He stopped in front of Mayra. "I can read your face, Doctor Nassar. If they had captured you, you would not have broken. You would have led them on for months, giving them false clues. And in the end, you would have pushed them into an abyss from which they could never return."
Then he turned to Sara. "And you, Sara Haddad. You would have gone silent. You would have locked that knowledge away in a dark corner of your mind forever. They could have broken your body, but never the lock of your mind."
Finally, he turned to Jerome. "And you, my friend. You would have given them what they wanted. But you would have left a small virus, a time bomb, inside it. A digital worm that years later would have eaten their entire system from the inside out."
A moment of silence fell. What Attar had said was not just a guess. It was a precise analysis of their very souls. It was terrifying.
"How… how do you know all this?" Jerome stammered.
The playful glint returned to Attar's eyes. "I told you, I read faces." He shrugged. "And let us just say… I have friends in high places who keep an eye out for me. They told me the view… was magnificent."
This answer was even more infuriating than before.
"So this was another test?" Mayra asked, her voice still filled with anger, but now mixed with a new confusion.
"Life is a test, Doctor," Attar said. "I just raised the difficulty level. Now you are ready for any exam… either you will pass, or you will be erased."
He reached into his pocket, took out a small, palm-sized satellite phone, and tossed it to Jerome. "Take this. It is completely secure and untraceable. It only has one number on it, which connects directly to me. Use it when you need me, when you think the game is about to end." He paused. "But remember, every time you ask for help, there is a price. And that price is your self confidence."
"The quest is yours," he continued, his voice now holding a stern warning. "If you want the prize, you will also have to endure the pain."
With that, he turned back towards his car.
"Wait!" Sara said. "That riddle… the stone door… what is beyond it?"
Attar paused as he was opening his car door. "What I promised," he said. "A ship. It is waiting for you. It will take you not to your destination, but to your next puzzle." He looked at Mayra. "The next stop is Istanbul. The city of whispers. There, you will find the next chapter in the story of Pierre Joseph's death. But be careful. Eleanor will not play a raw game now. She will try to get there before you."
"And what will we find in Istanbul?" Mayra asked.
Attar smiled again, that same mysterious, almost taunting, smile. "Sometimes, the biggest secrets are not hidden in any document, but in the whispers of a building's walls. Find the secret of the Sultan who trusted his shadows more than his subjects."
And with that, he got into his car and started it. A few moments later, his Land Cruiser was gone, leaving a cloud of dust behind it as it disappeared over the plateau.
They were alone again. But this time, the atmosphere was different. In place of frustration, there was a strange sense of strength. They had survived. They had won.
They ate the eggs Attar had made. They were indeed delicious.
Then, with a renewed vigor and a deep resolve, they walked towards the stone door. It was far more massive and impressive up close. Passing under it felt like they were entering a forgotten world.
And on the other side of the door, in a small, hidden bay, an old, medium-sized cargo ship was anchored. Its color was a deep blue, and it bore no name or flag. It was waiting for them silently, like a ghost ship. A rope ladder was hanging down from its side.
"This is madness," Jerome whispered. "We are about to board an unknown ship, that will take us to an unknown place, to solve an unknown puzzle."
"No," Mayra said, her gaze fixed on the ship. "We are going to the next part of a puzzle. And this time, we are ready for it."
They looked at each other, an unspoken agreement shining in their eyes. Then, one by one, they began to climb aboard the ship that was going to take them towards another, deeper and more dangerous chapter of history.
As Mayra set foot on the ship's deck, Attar's words echoed in her ears—"the city of whispers."
Istanbul. The heart of the Ottoman Empire. And the place of Pierre Joseph's death.
What were they going to find? What was the meaning of the "Sultan's shadows"? And would they be able to reach that secret, which had been whispering in the walls of an old building for centuries, before Eleanor Vance did?