The world outside is still running.
Inside, a minister's political life has already ended.
But perhaps just another form of battle is just beginning.
14:15, Old Market District, Spice Alley.
Omar Hassan felt like he was about to suffocate.
Not because of lack of air.
But because of fear.
That cold fear, climbing up his spine, wrapping around his heart like a snake.
He was hiding in the back warehouse of the Yazidi spice shop, surrounded by stack upon stack of burlap sacks filled with cardamom, cinnamon, nutmeg, saffron.
The smell was so strong it made him dizzy, but it also offered cover.
The search dogs of the pursuers would have difficulty tracking scents here.
Half an hour ago, he received an anonymous text message at a café near the Ministry of Finance:
Do not return today. The storm has arrived.
The sender was "nightingale," his inside contact at the Security Bureau, an official whose daughter's study abroad he funded.
