4. Warshon

Warshon Qusbecq withdrew the last treatment needle from the patient. 

"You're all set, Lady Cengiz." 

"It's Dila!" Sitting up from the leather-slung exam table, Dila Cengiz latched at his sleeve. "Say my name, I don't mind." 

Warshon disposed of the needles in a sharps container and flipped down the lid. Plastering a smile to his face, he swiveled back to the young lady. "I do, and so does your Lord father."

"Warshon!" She pouted those lips painted thick in the latest fashion, her lashes fanning. 

"Looks like you're in fine health, my lady. I see no point in booking you in for a follow-up."

"Then, will you come to my party?" she inquired, her voice coquettish. 

Miffed by her haywire train of thought, he let a chuckle drown out his sigh. "I'd love to. But you know how things are here. Something always turns up, and I can't give you my word."

"Do you know how much I've done for your sister so she'd agree to book the appointment with you? I…" Staccato tapping on the door cut her short. 

Warshon glanced at her grip on his sleeve. "My lady?"

She yielded with a grunt, shoving him as she let go. 

"Come in!" 

The doorknob turned. Erdem Aktas leaned in, his storm gray eyes blinking behind thick glasses. "Minister of Health is here to see you, boss." 

Warshon frowned at his apprentice. "I don't have an appointment with him today."

"He just dropped in." The young man shrugged, his hands facing up, a headful of tight curls rumpled like wheatears ripe in the autumn breeze. "Said it's urgent." 

Who knows – thought Warshon as he stifled a scoff – the unexpected might just work in my favor. He turned to Lady Dila Cengiz. "See what I mean? Something always turns up."

She snorted, her eyes probably rolling, but he couldn't care less. Turning on his heel, he glanced at Erdem. "See the lady out, will you?" He peeled off the vinyl gloves with a snap and cast them to a bin at the door. 

"Yes, Casanova," Erdem grumbled under his breath. 

Warshon threw a forefinger at his apprentice on his exit and thrust the other hand into the pocket of his white cloak. The clacking of leather soles caromed off the marbled floored corridor. His eyes narrowed, his mind going over the possible purposes of this visit. 

"Minister Dinc!" Miming a grin the second he turned into the reception hall, he extended a hand to a man clad in a suit of gray plaid. 

"Doctor Qusbecq!" Taylan Dinc reciprocated the grip with his baby soft hand. Small in stature, he glanced up, angling his head while he grinned, wrinkles spreading from the corners of his honey-colored eyes like tracery, his receding hairline flouting the effort of all the pomade. "Thank you for seeing me on such a short notice."

Warshon only smiled and swung an arm toward the door to his office. 

When the small man took his seat on the couch before a full-length window facing Phoenix Square, Warshon turned to the cabinet. "Straight or on the rock?"

"Oh, I wouldn't trouble you!"

"No trouble at all." Knowing that the man liked his rye whisky straight up, Warshon looked over his shoulder and waited to be told. The crystal tumbler clinked against the alabaster coffee table as he put it down before Dinc. 

"Smoky!" The Minister smacked his lips in approval. "And very good year, I take?" 

Warshon favored him with another diplomatic smile. Sitting across from the other, he leaned to the side, his cheek propping on the back of his hand. "So, what do I owe the pleasure, Minister?" 

"Well, I wouldn't have dropped in had I not come to my wit's end." Taylan Dinc cackled and opened a brown briefcase on his lap. "Lord Qusbecq would have me jailed should he find out that I want his son involved in the virus outbreak, which I won't! For the life of me, I'll never risk your health and trouble you with a trip to the Port, of course. But like I've said, I'm at my wit's end, and would really appreciate a chance to pick your brain on the matter. May I?" 

Warshon nodded and took the stack of files from Dinc. His eyes skimmed through the lines, the tip of a forefinger grazing his lips. "All the sailors have been inoculated." He stopped at the page of vaccine proof. "Except this boy, Evan Ginsberg?"

"And he's the only one without symptoms," Dinc crossed his hands, his brows drawing close. "Curious, eh?"

"Has he not been inoculated, or has the captain not included his vaccine proof? He's the only one on board traveling with a temporary document. Where's his passport? Why was he even on the ship?"

"I wish I could answer every query you have." Dinc shook his head, a long sigh hissing from his nose. "From what the Customs has gathered, the boy's home fell victim to an arson, and he lost his passport in the fire."

"And you believe that?" 

The Minister puckered his mouth and shrugged. "He's not really my problem, so I'll give him the benefit of the doubt." 

"You're a good man, Mr. Dinc," Warshon taunted, a smirk tilting his lips. 

"And good men always take the blame," Dinc whipped up a short laugh in resignation that, like a mayfly, ceased to exist before anyone could remember it had ever been there. "Could it be a new virus?" he asked, his voice strained.

Warshon raised his brows. His thumb twiddled the ring on his forefinger. Besides being a doctor, he had his secret. For eight years, he had been wholesaling Ice to the Commonwealth, crippling the minds of their people. Unable to control the problem, the new Commonwealth government after the Revolution called the narcotics people's rights to freedom instead, throwing their economy in tatters. And with little imagination to make up for the abysmal deficit in revenue, they levied their merchants and manufacturers over and again, coercing them into state-owned organizations if not bankruptcy. To survive, those merchants and manufacturers made deals, compromising the qualities of their products for the people to consume. From what he gathered, the vaccines were adulterated. And those vaccinated were prone to allergies, which could be fatal if not treated properly. 

He glanced down at Evan Ginsberg's mugshot. The only one without the vaccine proof was also spared of all symptoms. Warshon could almost conclude that other than a new virus unbeknownst to all, the sailors had been exposed to allergic agents. 

"It could be," he said instead, steepling his hands while he leaned back, his voice unhurried. 

"Shit," Dinc panted, leaning on his elbows propped on parted knees. 

"But it's too early to panic, Minister, so long as the men are quarantined," he paused, cocking a brow, his eyes lifting. "I can take a look at them."

"But your father…"

"He'd only be glad that I do my duty," Warshon snorted. 

"Thank you, Doctor! Will it be possible for you to make it there this week? Any day at your convenience!"

"My apprentice will hit you up later to confirm the date." Rising to his feet, he shook the files in his hand. "Mind if I keep them?" 

"Of course not!" Dinc, too, got up from the couch. "Anything else you need, please don't hesitate to call my office!" 

"I won't." Warshon swung the door open 

The moment he was left alone, his smile shattered like a flurry of snow. He tossed the files on his desk and stood astride next to the window overlooking the spectacle of Phoenix Square seethed with vehicles and pedestrians. Among a bank of digital billboards that lined the glass towers across from his office, news flashed on the largest LED screen about the Republican nominating caucus held in Enkera the day before. Lord Qusbecq was there, among the attendees somewhere behind the drapes, pulling the strings attached to the puppets on stage. 

Warshon nibbled his bottom lip, his head low, arms folding. Many floors below him, throngs moved like buzzing bees, convinced of their worth to the hive that only cared for them as a number, a vote, and they'd pass like waves, one generation after another, clapping the shores impervious to either their hope or rage. 

He turned away from the window. Harvey Gray and his Sealion Cargo wouldn't be behind it as there was nothing to gain from the chaos. His brooding gaze fell on the page of the sailors' mugshots, knuckles rapping at the one of Evan Ginsberg.

Sporting a wild headful of jagged short hair as if a dog had gnawed on it, the boy had a small round face with plump cheeks dusted with freckles. Too elegant for a boy, a pert nose was straddled by big almond eyes glittering like emerald. Brimming with spunk and lovely, the face whispered to him. 

Warshon narrowed his gaze. 

Could the boy be the one behind it? Did the Commonwealth send him to stir up a commotion? 

The phone rang. 

"Yes?"

"Line Zero, boss," said Erdem, his voice tense despite the dismissive tone as was his wont. 

Warshon picked up the receiver. Perching on the edge of his vast desk, he looked again at the news flashing on the expansive screen facing him. "Speaking."

"We have a problem at the Plant," Nikita Ozal's gruff voice came over the phone. A laconic man and reliable, Ozal ran a smooth operation on the distribution line. He wouldn't have called had it not been serious. "The phenyl," he continued. "It's been diluted with glycerin."

The more concentrated phenylacetone, the purer the Ice. But to dilute it with glycerin? That's cheap.  

Lord Qusbecq stipulated that the shipment must arrive in the Commonwealth at least a month before the election. He needed the narcotic problem to appear completely out of control under the current administration's watch, ensuring smooth sailing for Keiren Zaman, his running mate, when the time came to enter the final election for First World Premier.

"Is it just the phenyl at the Plant, or all our locations?" he asked. 

"Just the Plant."

His grip tightened around the receiver. If only all the phenylacetone had been diluted, the attack would have come from the outside, a new adversary perhaps, or remaining members from the cartels he had used the DEA to take out over the years. But no, this was only targeting the pharmaceutical plant, where he had built a new facility he had even kept from Lord Qusbecq. Someone had been tracking his logistics. Someone on the inside who knew about his upcoming deadline, and it couldn't be the lord himself. 

He sneered. 

"The chemists here can't purify the phenyl to the concentration that high. You need to come."

A trap, he thought. "Give me three hours." 

And the line was cut. Ozal never inquired about him so long as he got paid on time with the right number—a quality Warshon appreciated. He called Erdem into his office. 

"I need a trip to the Plant later."

The young man clucked his tongue, standing on one leg against a wall by the cabinet. "Guess you didn't ask me here to seek my counsel," he deadpanned. 

"Nope."

"What do you need?"

"Take my car for a drive, give it a wash, buy coffee. Whatever errands, I don't care. Just don't step out or show your face. I need a decoy." He tossed him the fob.

Erdem caught it with both hands. "How long do you need?"

"About an hour and a half, so I can finish the treatment for Mrs. Cevdet and coax a lift home from the old girl."

"That's why you gave patients our best underground parking hidden from all views." The young man snickered, those storm gray eyes rolling like marbles. 

"Call off your date and stand by for the night once you come back. Wait for me to call." 

"You don't want me to come with you?"

He shook his head. 

"Be careful," Erdem grunted when Warshon passed him through the door, a flippant look in those storm gray eyes belying his disquiet, his arms stiff around his chest. 

Warshon smiled, patting the young apprentice on his arm, and strode out across the reception hall. Before one of those many treatment rooms, he summoned his diplomatic mien and turned the knob. 

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Cevdet. You look beautiful! Are those new nails?"