Chương 2: Chapter no.2 The Boy of Baghdad
[ Author's Note:
Hello dear readers,
I know many of you are eager to dive into the tale of Alexander's adventures after his universe was ravaged by the outer Gods. I feel your anticipation! However, as the story unfolds, you'll notice that Alexander isn't our main hero. Instead, our protagonist hails from a different universe altogether. You might wonder, "Why introduce Alexander in the very first chapter if he isn't the central character?" Simply put, he holds a pivotal role in the story, which is why he graces our first chapter.
Furthermore, I'd like to highlight that in this parallel universe I've created, there are no Abrahamic faiths. This means that regions where Islam, Christianity, and Judaism were dominant are now painted with unique cultures, traditions, and customs. The absence of these religions has shaped this universe in a fascinatingly different way.
I sincerely hope you enjoy this journey as much as I enjoyed crafting it. Happy reading!]
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[The Human Realm]
[The Ottoman Empire - 1821]
[Baghdad]
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the sky over Baghdad was painted with strokes of orange and purple, heralding the close of day. The clamor of the daytime souk ebbed away, replaced by the soothing rhythm of the Tigris flowing past the city's edge. Lanterns flickered to life in the winding streets, casting a warm glow over the faces of those heading home or to evening prayers.
The air, heavy with the scent of spices and the distant aroma of cooking fires, carried the promise of nightfall. Merchants began to pack away their vibrant wares, the silks, and the spices, while storytellers found their corners, eager to weave tales for those seeking the comfort of stories under the canopy of stars.
.....
In the heart of Baghdad, amidst the hum of the evening's newfound calm, stood the renowned Bank of Mesopotamia, a testament to the empire's grudging nod to modernity. Its architecture was a curious blend of the old and the new—Byzantine domes atop imposing, neoclassical walls. The facade was an alabaster marvel, columns carved with a precision that spoke of a European hand, yet the intricate arabesques that framed the grand entrance whispered the skills of the local artisans.
As dusk settled, within the marbled halls of the bank, Director Mustafa Al-Bayati paced with a scowl that would make lesser men quiver. His figure cast a long shadow in the flickering light of oil lamps, his normally impeccable fez sitting askew upon his furrowed brow.
"You call this a ledger?" he thundered, slamming the hefty book onto the solid oak desk. "The numbers dance more wildly than the dervishes!"
The clerks stiffened, their quills pausing mid-script. Murmurs of discontent had been brewing like a tempest among them, their grievances as numerous as the ledger's pages.
It's the abacus, thought young man, his fingers stained with ink. We tally and tally, but one wrong bead and the accounts are in disarray.
It's not the tools but the endless hours, mused a young woman, her headscarf tight around her flushed face. We are not machines of the west, wound and left to run without pause.
"And you!" Mustafa's finger jabbed towards the assistant manager whose dreams of innovation had been dulled by the director's iron grip. "Your calculations are slower than a caravan crossing the Empty Quarter!"
Amir bowed his head, biting back his retort. If only he would listen. My methods could save us time, prevent these very mistakes.
The employees exchanged weary glances, their minds a chorus of unsung reforms. They shared a vision of a bank not chained to outdated methods, a place where efficiency wasn't sacrificed at the altar of tradition.
Mustafa continued his tirade, oblivious to the silent rebellion brewing in the hearts of his staff. "I expect perfection! This bank, a beacon of the empire's might, shall not falter under my watch!"
As the director's words echoed off the marble, each clerk retreated within their minds, their thoughts a shared lament. They knew the potential of the Bank of Mesopotamia, how it could thrive with just a few changes. They imagined ledgers that balanced with ease, transactions as smooth as the Tigris, and a future where their suggestions might be heard.
The silence that followed Mustafa's outburst was shattered by a single, ill-timed giggle. His head whipped around, eyes narrowing to find the culprit.
There, at the far end of the grand banking hall, with the sunset casting a fiery sheen on his crimson hair, stood the young janitor. His frame was sturdy, belying his youth, and his eyes—a striking shade of purple—gleamed with a mirth that seemed out of place in the stern world of finance.
"Boy! Here, now!" Mustafa's voice cracked like a whip.
The young cleaner, offered a rueful smile and sauntered over, his mind racing with mischief.
Old Mustafa couldn't find humor in a court jester's act, he mused internally, a plan already hatching in his shrewd mind. But then again, jesters often wear the truest crowns.
I weighed my approach, a chess player envisioning moves ahead. Bow too low, and he'll see subservience. Stand too proud, and he'll see defiance.
My thoughts raced, blending cunning with an almost playful malice.
Dance on the knife's edge—that's the way. Let him feel the cut of control, but never the satisfaction of the bleed.
As I drew closer to the fuming director, a sharp barb about Mustafa's own incompetence danced on the tip of my tongue, hidden safely behind a half-cocked smile.
If you chased profits as hard as you chase perfection, we might actually afford those newfangled calculators.
"Sorry, sir," I began, my voice betraying none of my inner critique. "I didn't mean to interrupt—just admiring the passion you put into educating us all."
Mustafa's anger simmered at the edges, unsure how to tackle my apparent earnestness. I returned to my sweeping, the corners of my mouth twitching with the remnants of a suppressed smirk.
Mustafa towered over me, his shadow enveloping my own. "You find something amusing in the way I run my bank, young man?"
My broom swept a steady rhythm across the marble floor as I met his glare with a playful glint in my eye. "On the contrary, sir. I was merely reflecting on how the sound of your voice carries the weight of gold. Quite valuable in these halls."
His brow furrowed, a sign I'd struck a chord, but my face remained a mask of feigned admiration. A voice of gold, indeed, I mused inwardly.
If only we could trade it for actual gold, we'd rival the sultans.
"You mock me?" Mustafa's voice raised an octave, his fingers curling into a fist.
"Mockery? Never, sir. Merely observing that if we could bank laughter, you'd make us all rich men with your methods," I replied, the edge of sarcasm thinly veiled as flattery.
Mustafa snorted, his own self-importance buffering him against the full jab of my words. "Keep your observations to yourself. Your job is to clean, not to think."
I nodded, brushing away invisible dust. As if any thought here escapes the prison of these walls.
"Of course, sir. I shall let my broom do all the clever work. It seems to have a knack for brushing away the unnecessary."
His eyes narrowed, attempting to decipher my jest, but I offered him nothing more than a dutiful nod. As Mustafa huffed and turned away, I couldn't help but think how his temperament made the perfect fuel for my amusement. It was a dance, this game of words—and I was a dancer at heart.
He puffs up like a peacock, yet struts like a rooster, I thought, watching him retreat.
All the show, but no idea that the farm's being run by the foxes...
And with a playful flick of my broom, I sent a small cloud of dust to settle upon his departing feet.
...
As the dusk turned to darkness, a stillness settled over the Bank of Mesopotamia. The heavy front doors groaned as Director Mustafa prepared to seal the day's troubles within its stone walls. Just as he stepped onto the cobbled street, his shoulder collided with a solid figure emerging from the shadows. He stumbled, his curse cut short as he recognized the mop of crimson hair.
"What are you still doing here?" Mustafa barked, his voice slicing through the night's calm.
"I could ask you the same," I replied with a half-grin, dusting off his coat as if doing him a service. "But then, who'd tuck the bank in for the night?"
His eyes flared with anger. "Insolence! It's high time I rid my bank of your jests. Consider yourself—"
"Unemployed?" I interjected smoothly. "But who would you find to dance with your temper each evening?" My tone was light, but my gaze steady, as if holding the reins to his fury.
Mustafa's mouth opened, then closed, his threats dissipating like smoke. "One more chance," he growled, "but mark my words, it will be your last if I have any more of your nonsense."
As he turned to leave, I inspected my closed fist. My heart hummed a lively tune, the thrill of the night's true conquest pulsing through me. There, pressed into my skin, were the keys—both to the bank and the inner sanctum that was the vault. The keys to a treasure trove, resting innocuously in the palm of the bank's humble janitor.
Oh, the stories they'll tell of this night, I thought with a chuckle, my mind already racing with possibilities as chaotic and varied as the market stalls. The night when Mustafa's fury met its match, and the keys chose a jester as their keeper.
Standing before the bank, its stones bathed in moonlight, I felt a familiar heat rising within, as if the very fire from the stars above was coursing through my veins. It began as a flicker in my stomach, a spark that raced down to my legs with the urgency of a whispered secret.
With a deep breath, I embraced the sensation, and as easily as stepping over a sleeping cat, I leapt. The wind was a companion, carrying me to the rooftop in a graceful arc that would have made the most skilled of Baghdad's acrobats envious. Settling down upon the tiles, my legs dangling carelessly over the edge, I surveyed the city of a thousand and one nights.
"Ah, to be higher than the Sultan's ego," I mused aloud, the stars twinkling as if in on the joke. "I hope he doesn't take offense. I'm simply overseeing his realm while he sleeps."
Baghdad lay spread out before me like a tapestry of life and light. The Euphrates whispered in the distance, a silver ribbon tying the narrative of the night together. The bazaars were silent, the storytellers' voices had faded, but the tales were still there, written in the winding streets and the quiet glow of the lanterns.
"Stars above, bear witness," I continued, "for the tales I could tell would turn night into day and fill our vaults with nothing but awe." The irony of holding the bank's keys was not lost on me. "Though I fear the only deposit tonight will be of a janitor atop a roof, pondering the riches of the sky."
My eyes lingered on the constellation of Orion, the hunter forever chasing the celestial game across the sky. "Perhaps you need a new strategy, old hunter," I quipped. "Maybe try serenading the stars instead of spearing them. They say the brightest ones have a soft spot for a verse or two."
I chuckled, the sound lost to the vastness of the night. "And here I sit, master of keys, lord of dust bunnies, the sultan of sweepers. What kingdom have I conquered? The dominion of dirt, the empire of echoes?"
I waited for the chime of midnight, the hour when even shadows tucked themselves in. With a twirl of my duster, more for flair than function, I waltzed into the Bank of Mesopotamia, a grin my silent partner.
Striding through the hall of affluence, I murmured a jingle of my own creation, "Strolling down the hall, money, money, money."
The vault stood before me, an iron behemoth, cold and unyielding. Yet, it was no match for the small piece of metal I wielded—Mustafa's key, an unwitting accomplice to the night's escapade. The lock clicked, a sound as satisfying as the last piece of a puzzle. Inside, the glint of gold beckoned, stacks of wealth standing like soldiers on parade.
"Just as I thought," I whispered, stepping forward. "They take their security as seriously as a cat guards a creamery—though, these fellows also get to hoard the heavenly tribute."
The air shifted slightly, a whisper of movement. An arrow cut through the silence, aiming to kiss my temple with deadly affection. But I wasn't one for such pointed advances. My hand flickered, snatching the arrow from its flight.
"Quite the welcoming committee," I quipped, examining the arrow. "I suppose RSVPs are a thing of the past."
The trap sprung was a clear indication of more surprises to come. "One does not simply walk into a vault," I mused, echoing tales of old. "This is a dance, and every step must be measured."
I surveyed the room with eyes sharp as the traps that lurked within. The patterned tiles on the floor, the innocuous wall sconces, even the ceiling—anything could be a hidden trigger, a potential end to my midnight masquerade.
"Elementary, my dear vault," I murmured, tossing the arrow back into the darkness.
The click of the mechanism was followed by a blade that swung with the grace of an executioner's axe. I could appreciate the craftsmanship, even as I sought to avoid its kiss of death.
Steam rose from my form, an ethereal waltz as I sidestepped destiny. The blade met only air as I, with a movement that bordered the supernatural, caught it. "You'll have to try harder if you want to split hairs—or heads—with me," I said.
With a deft hand, I produced a sack, its mouth open like a yawning cat. "Time to withdraw from the bank of Mustafa. A withdrawal of the most literal kind," I chuckled. "Let's hope the morning ledger doesn't miss these 'insignificant' figures."
....
As I melted into the shadowy embrace of Baghdad's night, the city's pulse led me to a district alight with a different kind of vibrancy—the red light district, a patchwork neighborhood of the downcast and daring, the sanctuary of the dispossessed, and my own corner of controlled chaos.
I stepped into an antique shop that served as a front for more lucrative dealings. The old shopkeeper, a fixture as enduring as the antiques he peddled, peered at me over spectacles perched precariously on his nose.
"What brings you this time?" he croaked.
"Offloading some junk," I replied, the corner of my mouth quirking up. The same dance, the same question—his theatrics were as tired as the cliché that 'one man's trash is another man's treasure', but in our case, it was quite literally true.
With a nod as ancient as his wares, he gestured towards the back. I rolled my eyes, my thoughts spinning a jest.
One of these days, he'll pull the wrong book, and we'll be buried in a treasure trove of the garbage he calls antiques.
He retrieved a book from the shelf, as he had countless times before, and the familiar scrape of the moving shelf whispered of secrets and profits. I followed him into the hidden room—a snug space marked by the understated opulence of two velvet sofas that seemed to absorb the soft glow of the room, their rich maroon hue a silent nod to the district itself.
The sack thudded onto the floor, the sound a chorus of promises. I lowered myself onto one sofa, facing a man whose skin was the rich color of brewed tea. This was Karim, the fence with eyes like a hawk and a mind as sharp as the daggers some of his clients favored.
"So, what has the night gifted us?" Karim's voice was smooth, a polished stone skimming across the surface of a still pond.
The room was perfumed with the scent of old books and the musk of intrigue as the old man shuffled in, bearing a tray with three cups and a pot of steaming tea.
"Ah, the usual brew," I noted, my voice laced with mock appreciation. "Aged dust and a hint of mothball—vintage."
Karim's laugh was a low rumble. "Rumor has it that Egypt's undercurrents are frothing, friend. Might be changes to the heavenly tribute," he said, pouring the tea with deliberate care.
"Egypt?" I mused, swirling the tea in my cup. "You think the Sultan's trying to increase the Heavenly Tribute Tax or is it just the desert winds stirring tales?"
"Unclear," Karim replied, his eyes fixed on mine, gauging my reaction. "But tell me, any whispers caught your ears in our own humble quarters?"
I sighed, setting the cup down. "It's the same old song and dance. Ever since I declared myself the district's protector—"
"Boss," Karim interjected with a knowing smirk. "You mean boss."
"Protector sounds less pretentious," I countered. "But go on, enlighten me on what I've missed during my... sabbatical."
Karim leaned back, the ghost of a smile on his lips. "A new gang. They've been trying to collect a 'safety fee' from the locals."
I raised an eyebrow. "And they didn't ask for my blessing? How thoughtless." I reclined, feigning indifference. "Their location, Karim. I'll pay them a visit."
He nodded, eyes dropping to the sack at my feet. "And business?"
I grinned, my hand delving into the sack, pulling out its contents—a glittering array of stolen wealth. "The night's harvest."
Karim's eyes widened, a flicker of respect—or was it envy?—passing through them. "What in the world did you do?"
"Let's just say the bank's security was... less than effective," I replied with a nonchalant shrug.
"And this?" Karim gestured to the bounty of gold, silver and bronze "This is hot."
"Which is why it needs to cool off—in your hands," I said smoothly. "Make it less ... incriminating."
Karim chuckled, the sound rich with mirth. "You're not an easy man to work with, you know. You always bring trouble to my doorstep."
"And yet, here you are, always opening the door," I quipped, my smirk widening.
The old man hovered, watching the exchange with rheumy eyes. "Will there be anything else?" he croaked.
"Yes, next time, bring tea that doesn't taste like depression," I said.
Karim's laughter filled the room again. "What is it with you and this place, eh? It's just a brothel, a den of vice. Why put yourself in the line of fire for it?"
The air between us grew charged, and I locked eyes with him, the jovial façade melting away. "Karim, I deal in chaos, not cruelty. That district is mine to protect, not exploit. You stick to your lane—merchandise and money. I'll handle mine."
Karim held my gaze, a silent understanding passing between us. "Of course," he said finally. "You'll have your money's worth. The gold will flow where it needs to. No heat will come your way."
"I trust it won't," I said, standing up, the weight of the gold now Karim's to bear. "Keep your ears open, friend. If the winds shift, I'll want to know."
As I stepped out, Karim called out, "Oh, and next time—bring your own tea."
I didn't need to look back to know he was smiling.
....
The bar, named "The Golden Peacock," was bathed in the warm glow of lanterns, casting elaborate shadows that danced on the Persian carpets strewn across the floor. The air was thick with the scent of spiced meats and the tang of fermentation, as patrons laughed and argued over cups of arak, a potent Persian spirit.
In the corner, the bar owner, a stout man with a bushy beard peppered with gray, was polishing glasses with a cloth that had seen better days. His eyes, dark and weary, glanced up as the door creaked open, and for a moment, his heart stuttered to a halt.
Striding in was "The Boss," a bulky figure with a scowl that could curdle milk. His eyes, bloodshot and roaming, landed on the owner. "A round of arak for me and my men," he barked, slamming a heavy hand on the bar.
The owner nodded, fumbling with the bottles, his gaze flitting to the doorway, where I now stood, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth.
The Boss followed his gaze and burst into a cacophony of laughter. "Well, if it isn't the shadow rat himself. Come to squeak at us?"
"Oh, I thought this was a bar, not a nursery," I said, stepping forward. "But seeing you lot in a stupor, I must be mistaken."
The Boss's laughter died as quickly as it had erupted. His cronies, a motley crew of grimaces and sneers, turned to me, their hands inching towards hidden blades.
"You have a death wish, rat?" The Boss growled, his hand groping for an empty arak bottle.
"More of a life annoyance, actually," I quipped. "And let's be honest, death wishes are more your expertise, given your management style."
The bar's jovial atmosphere had evaporated, replaced by a tension so thick, you could spread it on bread. The Boss, with a snarl of rage, hurled the empty bottle towards me. I caught it effortlessly, tipping it towards my lips.
"A toast," I said, mockingly. "To short tempers and even shorter—"
Before I could finish, I flung the bottle back, its arc perfect, striking The Boss square in the face. He dropped like a sack of flour, a chorus of gasps echoing through the bar.
The gang surged to their feet, their threats as original as their leader's tactics. "You're dead meat!" one spat. "We'll string you up for this!"
I glanced at the bar owner, who was now crouched behind the counter. "Put it on my tab?" I asked, my voice calm.
The owner, eyes wide, gave a single, fervent nod.
"Well, gentlemen," I began, rolling up my sleeves. "Seems we're about to have an impromptu lesson in conflict resolution. Spoiler: it doesn't end well for you."
And with that, the dance began.
•••••••••••••••••••
Two women, both draped in the vibrant silks of Persian dancers, moved with a grace that belied their toughened spirits. Their eyes, one a piercing blue, the other a deep hazel, held the wisdom of their harsh lives in the Red Light District. As they pushed through the crowd, the murmurings of awe and fear grew louder.
They weaved through the crowd, their steps synchronous, drawn to the epicenter of the event. There, amidst the unconscious bodies of the White Tiger gang, was a young man, no more than sixteen, nonchalantly using the Boss's body as an improvised seat. He held a glass of arak in one hand, its contents swirling as he took a leisurely sip.
"Boss," the blue-eyed prostitute, Parisa, spoke with a feigned pout, "we missed you."
"Yeah, where have you been?" added the hazel-eyed one, her tone more playful, who was known as Zahra.
I grinned, my arms looping around their waists, drawing them close. "I've been around, just stirring the pot to keep things interesting. And now," I gestured to the unconscious gang members, "I'm feeling a bit cold. Fancy warming me up?"
Laughter and whispers swept through the crowd as the trio made their way out.
"Who is that kid?" someone asked, a newcomer to the district's nightly theater.
"That," an older man replied, "is the boy who tamed the White Tiger gang without breaking a sweat."
"More like the devil's own," another cut in, her voice trembling. "The hundred killer demon, they call him. Took down the old boss and his lackeys in one night."
"A demon? Nah," a vendor chimed in, her tone casual as she wrapped up a trinket. "Just a boy with too much fire and not enough things to burn."
The whispers continued, a mix of fear, respect, and disbelief swirling in the cool night air.
.....
As I strolled through the streets, Parisa and Zahra flanked me, their presence a mix of concern and relief. The ambient sounds of the city filled the night, creating a gentle hum that underscored our conversation.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Parisa, the raven-haired beauty asked, a hint of genuine concern in her voice. Her blue eyes searched mine for any sign of distress.
I chuckled. "Those guys? More like kittens than tigers. They couldn't lay a finger on me."
Zahra, the golden-haired one with the captivating green-brown eyes smirked, "Speaking of laying fingers, how much longer are you planning to keep yours on my waist?"
"I thought you were cold too," I retorted with a sly smile, "Wasn't I going to help warm things up?"
With an exaggerated roll of her eyes, she playfully smacked my forehead. "Always the charmer, aren't you?"
"You remember the winter two years ago?" I teased, looking between them. "We were huddled around that tiny heater in Soraya's parlor, and who was the one complaining about the cold then?"
Parisa chuckled, "Oh, I remember. You kept hogging the heater, claiming you had 'delicate sensibilities'."
"And," Zahra chimed in with a grin, "then you proceeded to eat all the baklava, claiming it was 'for warmth'."
I feigned shock. "Are you suggesting I'd use the cold as an excuse for my sweet tooth? I'm hurt!"
They both laughed, the sound like tinkling bells in the night air. It was moments like these, amidst the chaos of life in the Red Light District, that I cherished the most. It was a bond forged from years of shared experiences, challenges, and countless misadventures.
As we continued walking, Parisa's expression turned somber. "Soraya's been worried, you know. Ever since you... left."
I sighed. Madam Soraya, the head of the most renowned brothel in the district, had been like a mother to me. "I'll visit her tomorrow," I said, "and I'm bringing a ton of gifts."
Zahra nudged me, "Trying to buy your way out of the doghouse?"
I grinned, "Is it that obvious?"
"Well, considering the last gift you gave her was a snake in a box... I'd say you have some making up to do," Parisa said with a chuckle.
"That was a joke!" I protested, laughing. "And it was only a tiny snake."
The two women exchanged glances, their shared amusement evident. It was moments like these that reminded me of the life we had built amidst the chaos and uncertainty.
"You better make it up to her," Zahra said, a teasing tone in her voice, "or else you'll find more than a snake in your bed next time."
I smirked, "Duly noted."
As the buildings around us began to thin out, indicating the edge of the district, I stopped. "I've got to go," I said, reluctance evident in my voice.
The two women nodded, understanding my need for discretion and solitude. "Just remember," Parisa said, "we're always here for you."
I smiled, "I know. And I'm always here for you two as well."
With that, I stepped back, melding into the shadows, leaving behind Parisa and Zahra, who meant more to me than they'd ever know.
•••••••••••••••••••
Morning light bathed the Bank of Mesopotamia in an ironic glow, casting long shadows across the faces of the gathered crowd. Policemen, flanked by stern army officers, cordoned off the entrance, their eyes sharp as scimitars. Inside, the tension was a thick tapestry woven with whispers and stifled gasps.
Director Mustafa was a statue of distress, his usual commanding presence diminished by the chaos of the situation. The employees, a flock of nervous finches, huddled in small groups, casting glances at the authorities who interrogated them one by one.
I leaned against a cool, marble pillar, a casual observer in the eye of the storm. My broom, now an afterthought, lay forgotten beside me as I watched the drama unfold.
"Quite the performance," I mused silently, my eyes flicking to Mustafa's increasingly red face. "A play in which the lead actor knows not of the plot twist."
"Explain yourself!" a policeman barked at one of the tellers, his notebook a testament to the confusion of the morning.
The director caught my eye, and for a moment, his rage was directed solely at me. The corners of my mouth twitched, unwillingly curving into the slightest of smirks.
"That one!" Mustafa jabbed a finger in my direction, his voice trembling with accusation. "He knows something, I'm sure of it. Always smirking, always lurking!"
All eyes turned to me. A ripple of murmurs washed over the room. I straightened up, stepping forward with a calm I hardly felt.
"Sir, you wound me with your suspicion," I said, my voice a mixture of mock hurt and amusement. "To think I would bite the hand that feeds, even if the meals are less than satisfactory."
The investigating officer, a man with eyes like steel traps, stepped in front of me. "Where were you last night after closing hours?"
"Right beneath your nose," I thought but instead, I offered a placid smile. "Helping Director Mustafa lock up, sir. Last to leave, first to arrive. And yet, poor as a temple mouse."
My reply seemed to inflate Mustafa further, his face now matching the imperial red carpets.
"He's lying!" Mustafa spluttered. "He must be involved!"
The officer's demeanor was calm, methodical, as he questioned me. "State your name and your role here at the bank," he demanded.
With a feigned look of humble servitude, I replied, "I'm just the janitor, sir. I clean up the messes."
From the side, Mustafa interjected with a scowl, "He's lying. I saw him here last night, after hours. He's involved!"
The officer eyed me skeptically. "Do you have anything to say about that?"
Shrugging, I answered with crafted ignorance, "Sir, if I had been here, wouldn't the director himself be the one to question it? After all, he left after me."
The officer paused, jotting down notes before asking, "Do you have any idea who could've taken the keys, then?"
Turning the narrative subtly, I suggested, "Well, if we're speaking frankly, our esteemed director would be the most likely suspect. Who else has access to all areas of the bank, knows the workings of the vault, and the schedule of the gold transports? And as you said, sir, gold is heavy. It would require quite the planning to remove it."
Mustafa's outrage was instant and loud. "Absurd! I am a man of reputation and honor!"
One of the soldiers spoke up, his voice cutting through the cacophony, "Then you won't mind if we take a look at your home, will you, sir? To clear any doubts."
With a forced confidence, Mustafa nodded. "Go ahead. You will find nothing."
The tension was palpable as all eyes in the room turned to the director. The officer gave a curt nod and we were all directed to proceed to the police station for further questioning. Orders were dispatched for a team to search Mustafa's residence.
I walked among them, the façade of innocence never slipping. Inside, however, I couldn't help but relish the sight of Mustafa's confidence waning. It was a dangerous game, shifting suspicion, but as the janitor, I was used to cleaning up messes—even those of my own making.
.....
The director's residence stood like a proud testament to Persian heritage amidst the narrow, bustling streets of Baghdad. Blue and turquoise tiles glistened under the high sun, their intricate Islamic patterns telling tales as old as the city itself. The domed roof rose with a regal slope, punctuated by the elegant minaret-style corners that seemed to pierce the sky.
Outside this lavish spectacle, a scene of tense drama unfolded. Mustafa's threats came in rapid succession, each more venomous than the last, aimed squarely at me.
"You think you've outsmarted me, you street rat?" he barked, his voice laced with a desperation he couldn't conceal.
I leaned against the wall, feigning a nonchalance I hardly felt. "Director, your own paranoia is your undoing, not my wits."
The director's rage flared as the gathered crowd of employees looked on. They clutched at their work aprons, their faces a canvas of dread and confusion, dreading that they might be sacrificed to protect the vault's true thief.
Amidst this, the investigative team plowed through the director's possessions. The sound of drawers being opened and shut, of furniture being moved – the invasive rhythm of justice seeking its due.
Then, from the threshold of the ornate door, a sergeant emerged, his hands gripping the smoking gun – the keys and unmarked gold bars.
"This is what we found, sir," he announced to the commanding officer. The evidence seemed to scream the director's guilt for all to hear.
Mustafa's earlier confidence faltered as he saw the physical manifestation of his betrayal displayed before the crowd. "This is a setup! These aren't mine," he protested, but his voice cracked, the lie as clear as the sunlight above.
The officer approached, his face stern, unforgiving. "Mustafa al-Din, you are under arrest for the theft of the heavenly tribute. Anything you say—"
The director cut him off, shouting wildly, pointing his cuffed hands at me. "He did it! The janitor! He's the only one who could've slipped those into my home!"
My response was swift, tinged with a rehearsed surprise. "But Director, when would I have the time? I'm but a humble cleaner, sweeping your floors, remember?"
The officers weren't interested in his accusations; they had their man, and the evidence was too damning to ignore. As they began to lead him away, Mustafa's eyes seared into mine, his face twisted with the realisation of betrayal.
"Curse you! You think you've won?!"
I met his gaze, my eyes glinting with the satisfaction of a plan come to fruition. "Winning and losing are just perspectives, Director. And from where I stand, the view is quite clear. Farewell."
His curses faded into the din of the city as they took him away. The employees dispersed, their whispers of fear now replaced with those of relief.
It was a dangerous game of thrones and pawns, and I was playing the long con.
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