Empire of Lies

^EPILOGUE PALMYRA

Kamal had an open book when it came to deciding when to make his visit to the ancient city.

As with everything he did, he chose to go back to a time as reasonably close to the relevant event as possible, to minimize any unintended disruptions that his jump might create.

In this case, he knew the uprising’s first stirs were the protests that began in early 2011. The day that was considered the beginning of the Syrian civil war was March 15, the “Day of Rage.” It had followed the torture and murder of a thirteen-year-old boy who had scribbled some antigovernment graffiti on a wall. Furious protesters in Damascus had thronged the streets, demanding political reforms and the release of thousands of political prisoners. The fuse had been lit.

Before then, however, Syria was a relatively safe place—provided one didn’t anger its tyrant president or his gang of crony-thugs. And when Kamal landed at the Damascus airport, the government was in the thick of a major PR campaign promoting Syria across the world as a charming tourist destination. One of their core messages was about how it was the cradle of Christianity, how welcoming it was, how visitors could actually follow in the footsteps of Paul and walk the fabled road to Damascus.

Kamal had already had his epiphany.

He was more interested in the road to Palmyra.

He’d only be spending one night in the capital. He had already booked a car to drive him to Palmyra early the next morning. It would be a long drive—three hours, he’d been told, as the road was narrow, a single lane in each direction.

Which it turned out to be.

The desert soon bowed to man’s ingenuity, pushed back by olive and palm tree orchards and cotton and grain plantations. Then the glorious ruins of the ancient city appeared in the distance. And by the time his chauffeured Mercedes pulled up outside the city’s museum of antiquities, Kamal could see that the government’s message was working.

Palmyra was throbbing with visitors. All around him, tour buses were disgorging groups of excited visitors who’d made the journey from around the world, with good reason. The “Bride of the Desert” was breathtakingly epic. Famous for its majestic architecture, colonnaded streets, and distinctive tower tombs, it had been inhabited for over four millennia. Romans, Greeks, Parthians, and Sassanids all had their day in shaping it, building temples and palaces, the ruins of which still stood at the time Kamal was visiting. Palmyra was now a World Heritage site, its history as a melting pot of Western and Eastern cultures as important a symbol of historical harmony as it was of Syrian diversity.

If only they knew what was coming, Kamal thought as he stepped out of the car. The ancient city would soon become more of a testament to the fragility—and savagery—of civilization.

He’d booked an appointment with the museum’s director of antiquities, claiming to represent a wealthy German patron who wished to help fund the ongoing archaeological work.

The director, Kamal discovered, had been looking after the city and its heritage for more than fifty years. Now in his early seventies, he was a one-man powerhouse, managing the museum, presiding over excavations and restorations, raising funds, and assisting scholars who journeyed there from around the world. He was more than the preeminent expert on the ancient metropolis’s rich history. He was its protector.

And he would soon be dead, Kamal knew. Shot in the face by an ISIS commander of Iraqi origin called Ayman Rasheed.

But not if he could help it.

He was received graciously by the director, who offered him freshly made mint lemonade before giving him a tour of the museum. The man had an amiable, gentle air about him, a scholar who worshipped at the altar of knowledge and history and adored his city.

Which meant that what Kamal was about to tell him would be even more painful to hear.

They were a couple of hours into their encounter and walking around the remains of the Temple of Nabo when Kamal decided that it was time to say what he traveled across time to say.

“Forgive me, director, but… I need to talk to you about why I am really here.”

The director’s face clouded. “Why you’re really here?”

Kamal nodded, then, in as casual a tone as he could muster, he said, “I know about what you found. In the crypt, carved onto a wall.”

He waited to give his words time to sink in, then, seeing hesitation and fear in the director’s eyes, he pulled up the sleeve of his shirt, exposing the tattooed incantation.

The director sucked in a shocked breath, and his eyes shot wide. He studied the words on Kamal’s arm, then looked up at him.

“How do you know this?” he stammered. “Who are you?”

“It’s a long story, and I think it’s best I don’t burden you with it.”

“But you’ve used it? You’ve been… traveling?”

Kamal nodded. “Yes. A lot.”

Traveling. And learning. Kamal had spent hours upon hours studying the strange new world he had helped create—or, rather, re-create. Trying to understand it.

Deciding what he would do next.

Throughout, he thought of Nisreen. Her words, about how no man should decide for all others, ricocheted in his mind continuously. The idea was, after all, what had pushed them to reset the clock on history, to put the world back onto its natural course. But she didn’t know the full story. She didn’t know about all the horrors the world had endured in the centuries that followed Vienna and the extreme evil it had suffered.

If she had, he was sure that she would have changed her mind.

No decent man or woman could sit back and allow it to happen.

The director’s mouth went agape again. He was having trouble formulating his words.

“Into the past? The future?” he asked.

“Both.”

“My god,” the director gasped. His legs went weak, and he took a few steps to a fallen column and sat down on it.

“I take it you haven’t?” Kamal asked him.

“I used it once, after I first discovered it. I went back. It terrified me too much to try it again. So I never did.”

Kamal shrugged. “A wise choice, I would say.”

“But you’ve been using it.”

“Not by choice,” Kamal told him.

“Is that why you’re here?”

“Yes. There’s something you need to know,” Kamal said, his tone even. “I need you to listen to me very carefully.”

The director nodded.

“There’s a war coming. It’s coming here, to your country, and to your beloved Palmyra. And it’s going to be bad. Very, very bad.”

“When?” the director asked.

“Soon. Within months. You’ll think it’s hopeful at first. You’ll think it’ll lead to better things. It won’t.”

“The Arab Spring… it’s coming here, too?”

Mass uprisings had already happened in Tunisia, Libya, and Egypt. Syria would be next, only the uprising there would turn into a massive civil war that would suck in foreign powers and cause hundreds of thousands of deaths and millions of dispossessed refugees.

“Think of it more like an Arab winter. It’s going to be a disaster.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“A man is going to come here. A brutal man. He’s going to make you tell him what you know about this,” he said, pointing at the tattoos on his arm. “Then he’s going to kill you and do terrible things with the knowledge you give him.”

The director’s eyes receded into themselves, sucked into black holes of gloom. “What should I do?”

“As soon as the troubles start, you must do two things. Destroy the crypt where you found this. And leave.”

“Leave?”

“Leave Palmyra. Take whatever treasures you want—hide them, bury them—then leave. If you stay, you will be killed. I can assure you of that. The men coming here are not fans of history. Not this history,” he added, gesturing at the glorious ruins around them.

The director just sat there, shaking his head slowly, lamenting the stranger’s news.

“Can I count on you to do that?” Kamal asked.

It was a question that had weighed heavily on his mind. Could he, in fact, trust the man to do as he asked? Could he risk leaving someone else in the world who knew what he knew, who could use that knowledge to change things himself?

Or should he use a more permanent way to neutralize that risk?

The idea had been swiftly strangled before it even caught its first breath. The director was an innocent, decent, well-meaning man, and Kamal was no cold-blooded killer. And now, after meeting him, Kamal felt confident that he could, indeed, count on him to do as he asked.

The director, as if reading Kamal’s internal deliberations, nodded. “I don’t really have a choice, do I?

“Not if you want to live. And not if you want what’s best for the world.”

He nodded again. “I’ll do as you ask.”

“Thank you,” Kamal said, and held out his hand.

The director stood up and shook it.

Kamal held his gaze. “Good luck.”

He began to walk away when the director called out after him. “What about you? What are you going to do?”

Kamal stopped, then turned, remembering the exact moment the realization had struck him at Orhan’s stall in Vienna, the realization that would guide the rest of his life from that moment onward.

“I’ve got work to do,” he told the director.

He gave him a small, pensive nod, then he turned and walked away.