Chapter 184
"Domino Effect," Ashita finally whispered, her voice soft yet thunderous in Nirma's ears, like distant thunder that still managed to make the earth tremble.
"That's what you mean, isn't it? If they managed to plant Sinta's name into the minds of the hadith collectors who would die in the Battle of Uhud—if they succeeded in making Mush'ab, Abdullah, Sa'd, Amr, and Anas believe that among the revelations they heard from the Messenger of God, there was one name that had to be spoken, one servant so special that her name deserved to be recorded alongside the words of God—then the hadiths they left behind would carry that name. And hadith, Arya, is the gateway."
Arya, who had been standing beside Nirma all this time, heard his name being mentioned and, without being asked, stepped closer to the clay phone.
His voice emerged in a tone Nirma had never heard before—not cold as usual, but warm, warm like someone speaking to an old friend after years of separation.
"Tegar, are you there?"
And from the other end of the connection, Tegar answered in a slightly hoarse voice, like someone who had just finished an argument or had run out of drinking water in the middle of the desert.
"I'm here. We're mapping the kidnapping locations in Jerusalem."
"Seven apostles, all kidnapped through different scenarios, yet all using the same method: sleeping gas released from unexpected directions, executed at their most vulnerable moments, in places where witnesses were least likely to exist. Like..."
He paused for a moment, took a breath, then continued in a quieter voice, almost a whisper.
"...As if they had studied the apostles' habits for months, perhaps years. As if they knew exactly where Andrew would walk slightly ahead of the group on the narrow path between Bethany and Jerusalem, knew exactly how the valley wind would aid the spread of the gas along that rocky trail. As if they knew that Philip would be in the marketplace near the Temple at the hour when the scent of spices and incense was strongest, so the sleeping gas they released would go unnoticed—blending with the familiar smells Philip was already accustomed to."
Ashita continued, her voice now steadier, more structured, like an agent compiling a report even though her heart might have been shattered into pieces.
"Bartholomew was kidnapped in the courtyard of a house in Bethany, at night, while he was resting and casually conversing with the other disciples. The gas was released from the side of a clay roof, spreading downward into the open courtyard—and because it was nighttime, no one saw where the smoke came from. No one had time to cover their noses because they thought it was merely the smell of damp earth after the rain."
Hearing that, Nirma tightened her grip on the Qur'an in her hands.
Not because she was afraid, but because she imagined the scene: twelve people who had left everything behind to follow a teacher they believed to be the savior, sitting in a circle beneath the flickering light of oil lamps, laughing, whispering, or simply enjoying each other's company in silence.
And then, one by one, they fell—not because of swords or spears, but because of sweet gas, gas that made their eyelids feel heavy, gas that loosened their muscles without resistance, gas that slowly erased consciousness like water seeping into sand, without sound, without questions, without a chance to say goodbye.
"James, son of Alphaeus," Ashita continued.
Her voice now sounded like someone reading names from a gravestone, yet beneath its flatness was a tremor she could not hide, the tremor of someone holding back tears because crying was a luxury she could not afford in the middle of an unfinished mission.
"James, son of Alphaeus, was kidnapped at the portico of the Temple. Not at its center, but at the edge, where he usually listened to teachings because he never felt worthy enough to stand among the inner circle. The gas was released from a columned corridor, a semi-enclosed area that accelerated its effects. And because he was alone—because he was accustomed to solitude—no one saw when his body began to stagger. No one heard when his knees struck the cold stone floor. No one knew that he was taken away by unseen hands, leaving behind only traces of gas that quickly dispersed in the wind."
Arya bit his lower lip as he listened.
Not out of anger, but because he felt something he had never expected to feel toward names he had never personally known.
A sense of loss.
A sense of loss like someone losing the key to their home during a heavy rainstorm, like someone losing a wallet in a foreign city, like someone losing the memory of their mother's face.
"Thaddeus," Tegar continued.
His voice had grown softer, more careful, like someone telling a sad bedtime story to children.
But there were no children here, only four adults too old for fairy tales and too young for death.
"Thaddeus was kidnapped in a resting room inside a house in Bethany. An enclosed space. The gas was released directly into the room—there was no wind to assist it, no adequate ventilation to dilute it, only the full concentration of that sweet poison. He had no chance to scream. No chance to run. No chance to do anything except fall from his bed with his eyes still open, as though he were trying to see something—perhaps the face of his kidnapper, perhaps the shadow of God, perhaps merely a sliver of light from the oil lamp still burning in the corner."
Nirma closed her left eye for a moment.
And within that darkness, she imagined Thaddeus—a man whose routine consisted of retiring early, who rarely ventured outside, who perhaps never imagined that his most peaceful sleep would become his longest one, a sleep he would never finish because when he awoke, his world would no longer be the same, and he would never know why.
"Simon the Zealot," Ashita said again.
Her voice now sounded like someone dying of thirst in the desert, hoarse yet still forcing itself to continue, because if she stopped, she might never be able to begin again.
"Simon was kidnapped on the outskirts of Jerusalem, near a wall or a hill, a place where he often isolated himself to observe the political situation, a place where he reflected away from the crowds because he, once a freedom fighter who hated Roman occupiers, believed that contemplation was the only way to understand why his teacher, Jesus of Nazareth, preached love instead of resistance, forgiveness instead of revenge... even seeming to walk toward suffering rather than the war that might have liberated his people. The gas was released from the direction of the open wind—there were no witnesses, no screams, nothing except Simon's body, found by our agents several hours later, asleep upon a cold stone with one hand still gripping a small dagger he never used, never needed, never realized that the most dangerous weapon was not sharpened metal, but sweet gas that came without sound, without warning, without mercy."
Hearing that, Nirma opened her eyes.
And in the depths of her heart, she thanked the darkness that blanketed the mud-brick houses of Medina, because darkness, like time, never favored anyone.
But at least it would not show her the shadows of the men whose names she had only just heard, men she had never met, yet whose deaths—or rather, their absence—felt like a wound on a part of her body she had never realized possessed skin.
To be continued…