The Byzantine tunnel felt like the intestines of an ancient, forgotten beast—narrow, damp, and thousands of years old. The sound of water dripping from the walls echoed in the deep silence like the ticking of a clock, counting down their dwindling time. They had no idea how long they had been walking. Time itself seemed to have lost its meaning in that underground darkness.
"I do not like spiders," Jerome whispered, as a large, sticky cobweb brushed against his face. He wiped it away with disgust. "And I do not like tight spaces. And I certainly do not like tight spaces that have spiders and smell like thousand-year-old dead people."
"Be quiet, Jerome," Sara said from behind him, though her own voice had a slight tremor. "That is not a smell. That is history. Just think about where we are walking. These tunnels might have been used by the warriors who defended Constantinople, or the spies who plotted against the Sultan."
"Yes, and they probably died right here and their ghosts are now staring at us," Jerome muttered in response. "That thought is not very comforting."
Mayra was leading the way, holding a small, powerful flashlight. Her mind was still replaying the events at the archive like a film—Jerome's unexpected gambit, their escape amidst smoke and chaos, and the look of defeat on the faces of the Syndicate's agents. A new, dangerous confidence was taking root inside them. We are not just running anymore, she thought, a grim resolve hardening inside her. We are fighting back.
"There is light ahead!" she suddenly said, and her voice echoed in the tunnel.
The darkness of the tunnel was ending, and a dim, grey light was visible ahead, looking like a beacon of hope. They moved forward quickly. The mouth of the tunnel was blocked by an old, rusted iron grille, which Jerome broke with a single, sharp blow from his shoulder.
They stepped out and took deep breaths of the fresh, salty air.
They were standing on a deserted, old, and dilapidated pier on the shores of the Bosphorus. The morning fog was floating over the water like a mysterious blanket, and the heavy, sad sound of a cargo ship's horn came from a distance. As they had hoped, a small, high-speed motorboat was tied to the pier, its engine running silently, as if it were waiting just for them. It was another gift from their invisible guardian.
On the boat's dashboard, a small, waterproof GPS was placed, with a single location set on it—a small, anonymous island in the Aegean Sea in Greece, a name they had never heard before.
"So this is our next puzzle," Sara said. "He is not sending us directly to Berlin."
"No," Mayra said, looking at the GPS. "He is hiding us from the world. Eleanor will be searching for us like a madwoman in Istanbul right now. She would never imagine that we have escaped by sea. She thinks in a straight line; we will walk on crooked paths."
They untied the boat and took it out into the open water. As the city of Istanbul, with its magnificent minarets and palaces, began to fade behind them in the fog, Mayra looked back for just a moment. The city of whispers. They were carrying away some of its deepest secrets.
On that anonymous Greek island, they were met by an old, silent fisherman, whose sun-scorched skin and sea-deep eyes seemed to reflect Attar himself. Without asking any questions, he handed them a sealed package. Inside were three new passports from different European countries, a few thousand Euros in cash, and three airplane tickets. The tickets were for Berlin, but on different airlines, on different flights, and under different names.
"He does not want to leave any trail," Jerome noted, looking at his new German passport, which had his name as 'Peter Schmidt' and a picture in which he was unsuccessfully trying to smile. [With nervousness] "He is sending us not as a team, but as three strangers. Into the heart of their territory."
Berlin.
The city was a world away from Istanbul. If Istanbul was a warm, chaotic river of history, Berlin was a cold, precise lake. Wide, clean streets, modern glass and steel buildings, and an order that was almost intimidating. They took an apartment in Friedrichshain, an artistic area where old, Soviet-era buildings were covered in colorful modern graffiti and trendy cafes, reflecting the city's contradictory character.
For two days, they planned, the apartment becoming their war room. "The security here is on another level," Jerome reported, his voice tense as he pointed to a digital map on his screen. "It is a digital spiderweb. One wrong move, and we will be caught."
It was in this tense atmosphere that Mayra finally laid out her audacious plan.
"This time," she announced, "we will go through the front door."
Jerome jumped up. [Nervously] "Have you gone mad! As soon as you use your real name, the Syndicate will know! They will be waiting for us!"
"Yes," Mayra said calmly. "They will. And that is exactly what we want. In Istanbul, we were the mice. In Berlin, we will become the hunters. We will be the bait."
Sara was worried. "I do not understand, Mayra. This is like handing ourselves over to them."
"No," Mayra explained, her eyes burning with a fierce intelligence. "It is like setting a trap. Eleanor is arrogant. The one thing she will not expect is for us to walk right into the light. When her entire team is focused on us, then Jerome, you will do your work."
A slow glint appeared in Jerome's eyes. "You want me to get into their network?"
"Yes," Mayra confirmed. "We have to use their greatest weapon against them—information."
The plan was set. Mayra sent a perfectly crafted email to the curator of the Pergamon Museum, Doctor Klaus Richter. The reply came the next morning. An invitation. The trap was set.
Dressed as professional researchers, Mayra and Sara walked into the lion's den. The museum hall was grand and quiet. Just breathe, Sara, Sara told herself, trying to calm the frantic beating of her heart. You are a scholar in a library, that is all.
Doctor Klaus Richter greeted them with a cultured German accent. "Doctor Nassar, Doctor Haddad. Welcome to Berlin. Your research proposal is… most intriguing."
"Thank you for your generosity, Doctor Richter," Mayra replied, her voice perfectly calm.
The conversation was a delicate dance of academic pleasantries. All the while, in their hidden apartment, Jerome listened in, hunting for a single, weak, encrypted signal.
Finally, Doctor Richter led them down into the archive, a massive, temperature-controlled vault. The air smelled of dry, sacred history. Sara's voice was a hushed, awestruck whisper. "This is… incredible."
"It is," Richter said with a proud smile. "The pride of German archaeology."
He showed them the section containing the tablets from Babylon. As Mayra and Sara pretended to research, they felt Richter's demeanor change. The scholarly warmth was gone, replaced by a cold, watchful intensity. He was no longer a curator; he was a warden.
"Doctor Nassar," he said suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence. "You are not just here to research German-Mesopotamian relations, are you?"
Mayra's heart skipped a beat. He knows. How does he know? We cannot fail now. We are too close. [Firmly] "I… I do not understand."
Richter took a step closer. "You are looking for the tablets. The ones from eighteen ninety-nine. Robert Koldewey's discovery."
It was a direct accusation. The trap was closing.
Richter chuckled, a cold, humorless sound that echoed slightly in the vault. "Oh, I think you do."
He leaned towards the cuff of his shirt and pressed a small, hidden button on his watch. He spoke into it, his voice low and clear. "Eleanor. They are here. The trap is set."
A loud, heavy, metallic clang echoed powerfully through the large room as the vault door slammed shut. [Pause]
The vault locked.
A heavy silence descended, broken only by the low, ominous hum of the vault's environmental controls. They were trapped.
Then came the soft, almost silent click of the safety being taken off a silenced pistol.