The Ottoman Secret, page 10
He had something else in mind.
He watched as the man’s vitals ticked up, and then he saw the first stirrings of awakening. There was movement behind the tattooed man’s eyelids before they fluttered, barely at first, then more noticeably. Patients are groggy and disoriented when they awaken after surgery. For some, it doesn’t take too long to become clear-headed, but for others it can take hours. That was what Ramazan was after: he intended to keep his patient in a bleary state as long as possible. A state where he would be unguarded about what he said.
Making sure the nurse was focused elsewhere, Ramazan tweaked the setting on the tattooed man’s IV line so it would keep delivering a mild dose of sedative, along with some of the anaesthetic. How much he’d need to achieve the state he was after, though, was a guess. He’d never attempted to prolong a patient’s delirium. It went against everything he stood for as a doctor and clearly violated the rules and practices of his profession. Despite the trepidation pulsating inside him, despite the crippling tightness spreading across his body, he kept going.
He wasn’t sure why he was doing this, but he didn’t stop to think about it too much. He was doing it, regardless of the consequences, driven by a curiosity he couldn’t suppress, the excitement of it egging him on, feeding on itself. It wasn’t like him. In fact, he’d never done something like this before. It wasn’t his style. He could picture his brother Kamal doing it. Kamal was the one with an appetite for risk and a disdain for rules. Ramazan had always been the sensible one. The safe, reasonable, measured one. The boring, methodical anaesthetist. And maybe that was why he was doing it. Maybe he needed to be more adventurous.
Maybe that was what Nisreen also needed him to be.
Less than a minute later, the tattooed man was slowly emerging from unconsciousness.
‘How are you doing, sir?’ Ramazan asked him. He gave him a moment, then tapped his left arm gently. ‘Can you raise this arm?’
The man was clearly groggy. He also couldn’t talk, given the breathing tube that was down his throat. Ramazan felt the man move his arm slightly. He checked his breathing, took his hand and squeezed it, looking for a reaction to make sure there was no residual paralysis. Once he was satisfied that all the signs were good, he had the nurse assist him in removing the man’s breathing tube and replacing it with a nasal cannula.
‘You see,’ Ramazan told him after it was all done, ‘you’re as good as new. We didn’t screw up, just as you ordered. How could we, with someone as important as you, right?’
He gave the nurse a wry little wink as he said it, but he was more focused on his patient, looking for a reaction. The man’s eyes were roaming the ceiling, still fighting his drooping eyelids, but then their eyes connected, and he detected something: a hint of a grin and the smallest, slowest of nods.
Ramazan had got through.
He turned to nurse. ‘I’ve got this. You can finish up with the rest of your roster.’
The nurse seemed surprised. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. You’ve had a long night. I can take care of this. You should finish up and head home.’
The nurse hesitated, then nodded. ‘Okay. Thank you, that’s very kind.’ She smiled, threw a last passing glance at the patient, then walked out.
A pregnant silence smothered the room, punctuated by the low beeps from the monitors.
Ramazan checked the tattooed man’s drugs, then leaned across so he could see him.
‘You were right,’ he told him. ‘We owe you. All of us. We’re all grateful to you.’
The man looked at him, his features shuttered with confusion and tiredness. But then it appeared again. The small, self-congratulatory nod.
Anticipation rushed through Ramazan.
‘But I’m sure you’d also like me to convey your thanks to the staff,’ he said, coaxing him softly. ‘They’d be most honoured. What can I tell them, on your behalf?’
Ramazan watched with a tingle of anticipation as the man’s expression clouded. The patient seemed to be mired with confusion and was clearly having trouble ordering his thoughts. Then he seemed to reach some inner peace and spoke, his voice coarse and weak, his words still in that formal, classical dialect. ‘Tell them that it is not only I, your governor, but our esteemed padishah, the sultan muhteşem Mehmed himself, nay the entire people of the empire, who are thankful for all your efforts in bringing your governor back to good health.’
Ramazan felt the air rush out of his lungs in a flight of dejection.
The governor?
Ramazan scoffed inwardly, trying to suppress his derision while scolding himself for letting things get this far. The governor, every citizen of the Paris eyalet, if not of the empire, knew who that was at the time of muhteşem Mehmed—Mehmed the Magnificent, the illustrious Mehmed IV, the sultan whose army had conquered Paris and much of Europe. The governor’s name was Ayman Rasheed Pasha. He had been the sultan’s philosopher-royal and special counsellor, and he was a titan of Ottoman history. He was in all the history books, and the monuments to his legacy could be seen all over the city, testaments to his glory.
So this delusional joker thinks he’s Ayman Rasheed Pasha, he thought. He felt deflated with disappointment. This had been a huge waste of time, but then what did he expect? He had allowed his imagination to run away with him, spurred by a deep-seated need for something unexpected, some magic that might inject some vigour into his life—and his marriage.
He needed to bring the man off the drugs and hope his little excursion outside the bounds of hospital regulations would pass unnoticed. Then he’d leave the man in the nurses’ care and try to forget any of it had happened.
He was reaching for the IV line when the man said, ‘It would please me to take you back with me. You would be my hekimbaşı,’ he added—his chief physician.
Ramazan paused. Playing along, he said, ‘It would be an honour. But back where?’
The man looked at him curiously, as if he were surprised that Ramazan didn’t know. ‘To Paris, of course.’
More nonsense. ‘But we are in Paris, Your Excellency.’
The man shook his head slowly, a sly twinkle in his eyes. ‘Not your Paris. Mine.’
‘Your Paris?’
‘Yes,’ the man said. ‘You could make sure I remain in good health, and it would save me from having to make the journey back here again, if there were complications. It’s quite tiring, you know. And there’s always a risk.’
Ramazan studied his patient warily, now wondering how quickly he could shut down this absurd conversation and get back to reality. ‘A risk?’ he asked, deciding he might as well bring the man back to full consciousness now and be done with this mockery. ‘How so?’
‘It’s not so easy to travel three hundred years across time. You have to be careful.’
Ramazan suppressed a snort. ‘So you’ve done this before?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘When did this all start?’
And then Rasheed began to explain.
Slowly, at first. Then, with Ramazan realizing he needed to hear more and managing the drugs to keep him on the edge of delirium while maintaining a coherence to his words, he spoke more, with Ramazan coaxing him on with carefully worded questions and prompts.
Keeping the nurses at bay, Ramazan kept the man talking for a long time. And the story that he heard didn’t seem to him to be that of delusional nutcase or an enemy of the state.
Far from it.
In his own wishful delusion, Ramazan had come to the hospital hoping for a revelation that might change his life.
What he got instead was a story that went beyond anything he could have ever imagined.
13
Ayman Rasheed’s story began in the small town of Qayyarah, in the Nineveh Governorate of Iraq. The youngest of three boys, he grew up in a modest home on the west bank of the Tigris River, a home in which tradition, rather than religion, exerted the strongest pull.
Rasheed’s father was a conservative, stern, moderately devout man who prayed daily but only took one wife and didn’t spurn the occasional cigarette or glass of arak. He owned a small workshop where he made cinder blocks and sold decorative and paving stones to local builders. He put food on the table and a roof over his family’s head, and though he never missed a day’s work, he still managed the occasional idle evening of fishing or swimming in the river with his sons.
Outside school hours, the boys worked alongside their father from a young age. School was a mixed blessing for Rasheed. He loved reading and excelled in class, his brain compensating for his lack of brawn, but he also got ribbed a lot for it, by his classmates as well as by his more thuggish brothers. Working in his father’s small factory was less interesting to him, but it was physically demanding, even more so after the boys’ father came back from fighting in the Iraq–Iran War with a leg and three fingers missing along with a bitterness that manifested itself in vicious belt whippings.
As sanctions against Iraq bit and work dried out in the years following Saddam’s invasion of Kuwait in 1990, Rasheed’s elder brothers were drafted into the dictator’s military machine. Rasheed soon followed in their steps. Once there, he quickly outperformed them, even though he lacked their brutal instincts and machismo. His intellect was spotted early, and his work ethic served him well. He was promoted to the rank of major in the Directorate of General Military Intelligence just weeks before the planes hit the Twin Towers.
In the months after 9/11, Rasheed could see the writing on the wall. He knew an invasion was coming, but he was still too junior and his influence inside the DGMI was stifled by Saddam’s cocky and arrogant inner circle. The warnings he managed to air were ignored. He lost both brothers to cruise missiles that first week. The onslaught that followed destroyed everything else about his life. The regime was scattered to the wind, the army disbanded, and Rasheed soon found himself back in Qayyarah, unemployed and demeaned in his own land.
Like many other young officers, rudderless and angry following the invasion, he was galvanized into militancy. The death and destruction all around him and the sight of American soldiers strutting around in their wrap-around sunglasses and high-tech weaponry infuriated him. Worse still, and like many of his Sunni brethren, Rasheed was convinced that the invaders were trying to impose a power shift in his country, favouring the country’s Shia majority at the Sunnis’ expense.
The thinker turned into a soldier. Despite his father’s objections, Rasheed soon joined the burgeoning militancy around Mosul, not far from his home town. He and his brigade of insurgents tasted some early success with IED attacks on American military convoys and hit-and-run assaults against private contractors and Kurdish units, but it wasn’t long before he was taken prisoner. After a vicious firefight with a marines unit near Kirkuk in the summer of 2004, he was shackled and chained and then quickly escorted to Camp Bucca in southern Iraq.
It was in Bucca’s sprawling compounds, safe from the bloody mayhem outside its walls, that ISIS would first take root.
Day in, day out, with his brothers dead and his country destroyed, everything Rasheed saw and heard around him fuelled his rage. Mistreatment, humiliation and abuse were rampant. Husbands, fathers, and sons were rounded up in neighbourhood raids and locked up, even though many of them were not even combatants. Others imprisoned there, however, were not as benign, and it was towards them that Rasheed gravitated, especially after receiving news that his parents had died in a Shi’ite militia attack on his home town.
Rasheed changed. He was trapped in a painful spiral of grief, anger and hopelessness. At first, he plodded through the long, solitary hours by pumping iron, channelling his rage to sharpen his physical prowess. More crucially, he also began conversing with people he’d always vilified: the radical Islamists.
Most of those who would become the leaders of ISIS spent time in US prisons during the American occupation of Iraq, whether at Bucca, Camp Cropper, or, more infamously, Abu Ghraib—time that had a radicalizing and incendiary effect on them. But it was Bucca that became the main incubator for the movement. It was there that Saddam Baathists like Rasheed, who were for the most part only mildly devout, and fundamentalist Islamists, two groups who were previously enemies, found themselves thrown together for the first time. Incarceration gave them the opportunity to talk, air their grievances and discover a common cause: they were both Sunni, and they both hated the Americans and the Shi’ites, their ancient sectarian foes. In those prisons, they plotted what they would do once freed, and freed they were—either by their captors, as in Rasheed’s case during autumn 2007, or in armed prison breaks after the Americans had handed the prisons over to their new Shi’ite allies.
For Rasheed, going home was no longer an option. It had been superseded by a burning desire for retribution and war.
Not just any war. A holy war. Jihad.
There would be no shortage of foot soldiers to wage it, not after the Americans disbanded the Iraqi army and left its four hundred thousand men stripped of their jobs and their pensions—but not their guns.
In Baghdad, Rasheed sought out the men he’d met at Bucca and rejoined the fight—a fight that began in Iraq and soon spread to Syria. Thousands of local fighters were joined by hordes of foreign jihadists, fanatics who dreamed of establishing an Islamic caliphate where the rules of the seventh century still applied or of finding martyrdom while trying. And while the gruesome public face of the growing uprising featured a garish collection of religious extremists, its hidden leadership was almost entirely composed of highly trained former Iraqi officers like Rasheed who had served under Saddam and for whom the Islamists were no more than useful idiots—convenient, if expendable, allies.
Rasheed’s expertise in military intelligence, his strategic guile and his tactical ruthlessness rapidly pushed him up the ladder of ISIS’s command structure. With each passing week, more bodies piled up and more land fell under their control. Huge swathes of Iraq and Syria—an area the size of Britain—were in its dishevelled fighters’ hands, and over twelve million people lived under their tyranny. But it didn’t last long, and Rasheed was clever enough to see what was coming.
It wasn’t going to end well. Not for the struggle against the Syrian regime and their Shi’ite rivals, and not for him. Attacking Europe and cheerleading other attacks as far away as Boston and San Bernardino had created a tidal wave of enmity against ISIS. Russia and America were now fully engaged, and while they had conflicting agendas, their objective was the same: to wipe ISIS out, even at the cost of keeping the Syrian regime, its butchers and its chemical weapons, in power.
Aerial raids on Raqqa and other ISIS strongholds killed hundreds of its fighters and destroyed many of its oil refineries and tanker convoys. American warplanes destroyed one of its vaults in Mosul, turning hundreds of millions of dollar bills into ash. The world’s richest terrorist group was on the ropes. Fighters were abandoning the sinking ship in droves, shaving off their beards and melting into the chaos.
Their caliphate wasn’t going to happen.
Long before the tide of battle had turned, Rasheed had been out of step with the obscurantist dystopia the jihadists were trying to forge. Closing down schools, making all shops close at prayer times, outlawing cigarettes and music. Forcing women to cover up from head to toe in black, whippings for even showing an eyebrow. Sadistic public stonings and executions, including crucifixions. This was as bad as life under the Taliban, if not worse. No one in their right mind would want to live that way.
Rasheed certainly didn’t.
He considered himself a good Muslim, but this wasn’t the world he aspired to create. With each passing week, he watched with increased irritation as the movement’s cretinous leaders made new blunders and announced even more asinine edicts. He’d hitched his wagon to them out of anger and desperation, but the whole caliphate train had derailed and it was about to go hurtling over a cliff.
It was time to bail.
Capturing the museum director and getting his hands on the man’s phenomenal discovery couldn’t have happened at a more opportune time. And Rasheed knew enough about history to know how radically different the great caliphates were from the crass version these barbarians were aiming for.
A thousand years before ISIS, Arab intellectual achievement and culture led the world while Christendom languished in the gloom of the Dark Ages. Back then, Muslim societies were open and curious, while Christian Europe was insular and fearful of blasphemy. Education was valued and scientific knowledge was prized. Aristotle’s writings were translated and studied in Baghdad and Cordoba, but they were banned in Rome and Paris.
Rasheed knew all about those heady days, when his ancestors were propelled by a self-confident openness to new ideas and a desire to appropriate, learn, and expand. A world view that was based on a unique mix of theology and rational thinking had produced groundbreaking advances in medicine, astronomy, cartography and mathematics. Art, poetry and music flourished. Muslim thinkers were also at the vanguard of developing sophisticated arguments in philosophy, theology, law and literature. Ancient Greek, Indian and Persian texts were translated into Arabic, studied by Muslim scholars working alongside Christian and Jewish colleagues, and used to inspire further discovery by the likes of Thomas Aquinas. For seven hundred years, the international language of science was Arabic. Baghdad, home to Bayt al-Hikma, the House of Wisdom founded by the caliph Harun al-Rashid in the late eighth century, was the epicentre of the intellectual world.
Rasheed also knew all about the glorious era when Islamic empires stretched from Spain to China. The Moors had ruled as far as the Iberian Peninsula and the South of France; the Ottomans overran the Balkans and Hungary and were at the gates of Vienna. These were truly the days of empire and caliphate. The Christian world had trembled before the armies of Islam, armies Rasheed would have been proud to serve in, armies led by men who were driven by a thirst for conquest and glory but who were also animated by an expansive spirit, a hunger for knowledge, art, wisdom and conversation. But those exalted days were long gone. It had been centuries, Rasheed felt, since his people had achieved anything they could be proud of.
