8. Sacrifice

Politics requires sacrifice. 

Serhat understood that, except by sacrifice, never had he thought it should mean him!

Recalling Arslan Qubecq's assignment, he coiled a hand under his nose, his jaw clenched, glaring out of the window from his private suite at the rooftop bar a hundred floors above the ground. He banged the tumbler on the rosewood table. The ice inside rattled, sending up spills that wet his sleeve. 

"Son of a bitch!" He hurled the tumbler at the wall. It caromed with a loud clatter and cracked on the floor. 

A gentle knocking came on the door. 

"Yes?" he snapped, 

The callow waiter gingerly pushed the door ajar. "Yo-your guest arrives, si-sir," he stammered with a lisp as if the stammer had not lost him enough tips. 

Behind him in the corridor dimly lit by ornate scones stood a voluptuous woman in her early thirties. Wearing the claret lipsticks that complimented her cocktail dress, Guiliana Cafaro flashed him a smile before turning to the callow waiter. "Thank you, Baris," she said, her teal blue eyes soft. "You may leave us now."

Baris bowed his head as he closed the door for her. 

"You know the idiot's name?" Serhat scowl before turning his eyes back to the window. 

"Unlike you, I care about people," she jested; the tip of her suede stiletto skimmed the shattered glasses. 

A snort came hissing through his nose. "Save it. We both know he's not gonna be here for long."

"Who said I was talking about Baris?" She sashayed to the sofa across the table and took her seat. "I wouldn't come if I didn't care about you, Serhat."

"My god! You do?" Rolling his eyes skyward, he waggled his hands, his fingers splaying for the theatricals. 

"So, what's up?" 

He slumped, putting a foot up while throwing his arm over the back of the upholstery couch. His brows furrowed; his lips pursed. Once he took the step forward, there would be no going back. Unlike the callow waiter who fidgeted because of his unawareness of the world, Serhat knew very well the consequences. He couldn't understand, however, why those responsible for the consequences were seldom held accountable for it. And the people would always hate and only hate a traitor as if by default, as if it were impertinent to question what provoked their betrayals. 

"You know Vittorio Lori?" he asked in reply. 

"Your new demi? Who doesn't? All the women in the First World scream his name, some men, too."

"Next week, he's gonna endorse Mustafa Agca as the Republican candidate for the First World Premier."

"Does your father know about this?"

Throwing back his head, Serhat guffawed. "He's the one making the call." 

"Why are you telling me this now?"

The guffaw died out into a sneer. "You didn't ask why Arslan wants my demi to endorse his running mate's opponent?"

"Aren't you too old to raise a question like this?" Guiliana cocked her head. A lock of her wavy, blond hair sprang from the chignon. She tucked it behind her ear. "You know the game. Routs and smoke screens to secure victory. I'm sure Lord Qusbecq has a plan after the endorsement that would only wreak havoc on Mustafa's campaign. You shouldn't be spiteful about practical tactics. And more importantly, I don't want to be involved." 

"Then why did you come?"

"Haven't I told you, Serhat my dear?" A smirk parted those claret lips, behind which loomed her pearl-white teeth. "I care about people." 

Putting down the leg as he leaned close to Taylan Dinc's secretary, Serhat raised a brow, his elbows propping on his lap. "What do you know already?"

"Nothing," she teased, picking out from a lowkey designer handbag a black vape with a matte finish that matched the glossy red of her lips. "But judging from what you're tempted to do by calling me here, I have a daring conjecture." A bloom of mist veiled her perfect face. 

Serhat lowered his head, his eyes lifting. "And what may that be?" 

The woman chuckled, "I don't join forces with the losing side, dear."

Serhat leaned back. His lips stretched, miming a grin. "Is it wise to tell who's the losing side before the battle even begins?"

"The result of a battle is always decided before the battlefield. I read it in one of those books you used to decorate your office. Art of War, I believe, by a godlike general from antiquity some millennials ago." Blowing on the vape, she pouted, her voice dismissive. "You wouldn't attempt treachery if you hadn't already been discarded." 

Serhat raised his chin, his eyes narrowing with a sneer. Initially scouted by his talent agency, Guiliana Cafaro had always been different, ineffable in a way. He supposed that was why Warshon fell head over heel for her. To break them off, Arslan Qusbecq had to pay off her contract at the agency and got her a job as a clerk at the Health Ministry, where she spent the last many years to rise, or sleep her way to where she stood now. "Strike two, sweetheart," he said. "Don't pretend that you know me."

"Oh, I never did. Like I said, it's only a conjecture for your entertainment." She smiled, her legs crossed, her arm draping from her knee as she leaned forward. "But I suppose you didn't go through all the hassle to set up a private meeting with me only to be entertained, do you?"

"It's no hassle." He rose to his feet, towering over her; his hand held up her chin. "If people see you, we're on a date. Who says we can't?"

Those claret lips tasted as sweet as revenge served cold. Serhat bit, losing himself in a rage at how Arslan casually tossed him away like a used-up condom. 

Long before Vittorio Lorri rose to fame, he was scouted and tasked with seducing the most likely candidates for the Senate by working at the bars they frequented. Among those men was Kadin Bashara, a family guy known to the public and happily married, but most importantly, he was now the chief running mate of Mustafa Agca. 

Shortly after the pretty boy released his endorsement, R-rated videos and photos of their affair would surface, exposing how Mustafa's campaign cashed in on the demi influence. 

Serhat held little qualms for the pretty boy. No one became a demi without paying their debts, and the time simply had come for Vittorio Lorri. He didn't anticipate, however, that he, too, was among Qusbecq's fodder! Following the foreseeable downfall of Kadin Bashara, Serhat's company would be hacked, as per what the old Qusbecq meant by upending the dustpan, cutting a swath through Mustafa's campaign that firing the running mate simply wouldn't fix. But no achievement comes without sacrifice. Serhat's company was mutually responsible, and as the one at the helm, he would have to announce his resignation in the aftermath. While Lord Qusbecq promised him a comeback when everything died down eventually, and his running mate, Keiren Zaman, was elected the Premier, he, Serhat, became the casualty! The fodder! The bloody sacrifice! And all the while, Warshon stood unscathed! He would continue living his high life as the renowned Dr. Qusbecq and released the Phantom Lord's client list that included all the higher-ups in the Commonwealth, only when Zaman's campaign was in the final stage of the election. 

Serhat savored the bitter contrast as he put more force in his bite. 

He didn't expect Arslan to see him as a son, but to ask so flippantly for him to step down from the company he built from day one and take the blame for Qusbecq's dirty work?

He groped Guiliana's breast, making her moan, and tore up her dress from the hem. His eyes peeled open, one brow jutting over the other, amused as he found nothing under. 

"Slut." 

"What?" She tongued his lips. "Baris needs a tip."

"Slutty whore."

Guiliana laughed and held his head from her neck. "No hickey." 

"Why, you are afraid of Taylan Dinc?" he grunted, his eyes drilling into hers. "You're thinking about the weasel even when you're having it with me?" 

"No, my dear." She held his gaze; a knowing smile rippled across her face. "It's you who can't stop thinking about the weasel. Didn't you have me over because you want to find out through him what Mustafa wants?" 

He parted his lips, his back heaving. While Taylan Dinc held a neutral stance in the election, he was deeply involved in Mustafa's Eternal Project, a longevity health program Qusbecq's running mate denounced as a sacrilege to humanity. "You're too clever by half, you know that?"

"That said," Declining to address his remark, she threw her arms around his neck. "You're wasting your time with Dinc if it's indeed Mustafa you want." 

"Thought you didn't want to join forces with me."

"Was I?" she smirked. 

"If you weren't, then, answer the question," he nibbled her ear. "Why did you come?"

"Father breaking son, son betraying father, I wouldn't miss the front-row seat for that. Besides, can't I miss your brother so much that any Qusbecq will do for the night?"

Serhat halted in motion. Tilting back his head as he pulled a little distance from her, he chortled, "You truly are an abomination, you know that?"

She offered only a smile that didn't quite reach her teal blue eyes even the crackling fireplace did little to warm. 

***

And what could be a better pledge of loyalty to Mustafa than the head of a Qusbecq on the silver platter? 

Back in his opulently appointed lounge, he thought to himself. 

Not mine, of course. 

Under the full moon, the Lake Gök shimmered, vignetted by the undulating undergrowth. He squinted at the dead of night and turned. On the full-length mirror next to him flashed the analytics of the photo he had scheduled to post at nine. Only six thousand likes after five whole hours! Every day he got older, his clout shrank. He had little appeal to the younger crowds. All his followers were old fans he had for over ten years, and even they had grown insipid, hardly engaging with any of his posts. They hadn't abandoned him altogether yet for old time's sake, he could only presume, that unfollowing the man they had adored in their youth would sever the last few strings still attached to a lost time they would always hold dear. 

Without the worship, there is no god, and without the crowds screaming his name, Serhat Qusbecq was bound to return to being just an ordinary man – substantive enough a reason for Qusbecq to discard him.

A snort flared his nostrils, his jaw clenching. 

"Mirror," he said. "Write me an encrypted message to Mustafa Agca. Tell him I want to join his Eternal Project. He'd be glad to hear what I can offer in return." 

"Drafting." 

***

A large ice sphere cracked against the inside of a crystal tumbler when Serhat poured the scotch. 

"Want one?" He swiveled, tossing his head over a shoulder. 

Standing astride next to the ottoman near the entrance, Armo Palermo declined the offer. "But thank you, sir," he added, one hand resting upon the other before his groin. 

Serhat shrugged and raised the glass to his lips. "Found anything interesting?"

"We tailed all the supply trucks like you asked. Seemed normal except for one, which didn't go to any of the locations in the book."

"Oh?"

"Telesphore Pharmaceutical," the man continued. "Not too far from the Port." 

A smirk dissolved into a squinting frown. Serhat nipped from the tumbler. 

Owned by the Commonwealth merchant, Telesphore Reyer, the pharmaceutical plant was an international investment through which Reyer intended to relocate his family assets. Since a group of vigilantes who called themselves the Reds swept the Commonwealth with their revolution, many of their leading figures, from scientists to artists, scholars to politicians, had fallen from grace, burned in effigy if not worse. And those lucky enough to have picked the winning side and remain unscathed feared that the same fate could befall them should they not tread carefully. Among those yet affected were the Reyers, and their youngest son, Telesphore Reyer, had known Warshon since college. While Serhat didn't know the details, no secret there that Warshon was a shareholder who helped make it happen. 

Serhat clucked his tongue after another sip. He darted a glance at Armo Palermo, "Warshon's new lab, is that what you're saying?"

"I'm not saying anything." The burly chauffeur shrugged. 

"But?"

"Is Lord Qusbecq aware of it?"

Serhat lowered his gaze at the amber liquor glittering under the spherical chandelier. His fingers tightened around the glass. 

A simple answer of yes or no would make a world of difference. If Arslan Qusbecq was indeed behind this, nothing much would change, and exposing Warshon as the Phantom Lord would deliver a fatal blow to Keiren Zaman's campaign, a weighty pledge of loyalty to Mustafa unlike anything else. But if he wasn't…

Has Warshon Qusbecq also gone behind his old man's back? 

Clamping a hand to his brow, he brayed with a laugh. 

If that was indeed the case, the capture would cut like a double-bladed sword, hurting Arslan Qusbecq as a politician and a father. And any hope his younger stepbrother had for the old man's rescue would have also gone down the drain. Warshon would be done for! 

 He laughed so hard he spilled the scotch. 

Armo Palermo tipped his bald head, his eyes narrowing. "What would you have me do next, sir?" 

"You know phenylacetone?" 

His chauffeur nodded. "The oil dispatched to the labs?"

"Dilute it. And be sure it's the one that goes to the Plant."

Palermo quirked his mouth. 

Serhat shot him a sullen glance. "What?"

"What if your stepbrother didn't show?"

"He has to. Only he can fix the problem if the percentage is to meet the standard. It's too complicated to instruct, and I doubt he wants to share his secret." A hissing snort paused his speech. "Besides," he continued, nursing the scotch in his hand. "Qusbecq has a deadline for him he has yet to meet."

The bald head bobbed again. "What about the DEA?"

"You know Zahid Abid?" 

"Commander of the operational squad?"

"Mustafa's." Serhat sat down on the turquoise couch facing the chauffeur, a half smile perching on his lips. Leaning back, he slumped, his legs crossed, an arm dangling from the backrest. "He'll oversee the operation, and I'll be watching it live." As his voice fell, he flicked his eyes at a small radioreceptor on the ivory coffee table of polished marble. 

***

"You fool!" Serhat let rip at Commander Zahid Abid over the radioreceptor. 

Designed with frequency hopping to prevent interception, the trunk system cut out voices that ruffled Serhat's feathers even more. 

"How can you let him get away?" he snapped, his eyes bulging, breath shaky. Should Warshon get away this time, what would he say to old Qusbecq? What would he do to him? 

"Well, he's clever," Zahid replied, his voice ragged. "Don't worry, my elite squad is hot on his tail…"

"I hand him to you on a silver platter!"

"Too bad your platter got knocked over." 

Strangling the impulse to smash the wonky gadget into the wall, Serhat shut his eyes, his hands coiling. He drew a deep breath. His eyes popped open. "Did you find anything at the Plant?" 

"Nope, not yet."

"Well, keep looking!"

"Do I need you to tell me that?"

Serhat punched his fist into the back of the turquoise couch. How could it be? No reason Warshon should make all the effort to deliver the phenylacetone if it wasn't for Ice. Or could it be a ploy? Ghashing his teeth, he commanded himself to breathe, to think, to see through all the obscure, the uncertain, and the damned that had thrown him for a loop. "How far behind is your elite squad?" 

"Not far," Zahid grunted. "Looks like he seeks an escape from the Port."

The Port? Serhat knocked his knuckles on his chin. "Shoot him!" he yelled, a shudder coursing down his spine as he heard himself. "If he ever gets out of the car, shoot him!" 

A tentative pause, "He could die."

"Better a corpse to find out who's under the mask than nothing, eh?" Serhat spat, his breath rattling in his throat. "Mustafa will be very disappointed, don't you agree?"

In a few short moments came staccato barks of firearms. 

Bacing his hands on the pane of the floor-to-ceiling window, he heaved, hanging his head between the two arms. "Well?"

"We got him."

"Dead?"

"Nah," Zahid drawled, the lackadaisical voice a constant irk. "But a bullet got him. He ain't going to get far."