Chapter 1716 - 1348: Citywide Manhunt_3

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.

The text was encrypted with a one-time password, automatically destroying itself after being read.

But the message was enough to prompt Omar to trigger his escape plan.

He didn't hesitate, immediately left the café, didn't go back to the office, didn't go home, but instead went straight into the Old Town.

He changed into the disguise he had prepared in advance.

A plain white robe, a sun hat, an old canvas bag.

The bag contained everything needed for survival.

Fifty thousand dollars in US Dollar cash, three passports under different names, and an encrypted flash drive—inside were the financial dirt on the Barzani Faction he had collected over the years, enough to bring down any government.

But his plan went awry.

Originally, he was supposed to pass through the market, take a ride from the southeast corner bus station to Sulaimaniyah, then head south to Hulmatu from there.

But too many incongruous figures appeared in the market.

Young men, clustered in threes and fives, dressed ordinarily but moving cautiously, eyes continuously scanning the crowd.

Surely they were the Security Bureau's plainclothes officers.

They were looking for him.

Omar changed route, trying to detour through Spice Alley.

But here, he almost bumped into a group searching the area.

He ducked into the Yazidi's shop.

The old man was a friend of his late father, someone he could trust.

"How many people do they have?"

Yazidi asked at the time, his eyes sharp unlike those of an eighty-year-old man.

"The whole market is filled with their people." Omar gasped, "They're looking for me. Barzani has rebelled."

Yazidi asked no more questions, just nodded and signaled him to hide in the back warehouse.

"Wait until dark. You can't get out during the day."

But it's only a little after two in the afternoon now; there are five hours till dark.

In five hours, the Security Bureau could search every inch of the market.

Voices suddenly came from outside the warehouse.

Omar held his breath.

"Old man, have you seen a man wearing a white robe, a hat, carrying a canvas bag? About this tall."

It was the voice of a young man, with an official tone.

"There are many people in the market today." Yazidi's voice was calm, "White robes, hats... half the men are dressed like that. Be more specific."

"He might be hiding. We have reason to believe he's... a dangerous person."

"A dangerous person?" Yazidi laughed, a dry laugh, "Young man, I've been in this market for sixty years; I've seen more dangerous people than you've had naan bread. A truly dangerous person wouldn't dress conspicuously. You're looking in the wrong direction."

Next was a brief silence.

Then the young security officer said, "We need to search your store."

"Go ahead." Yazidi said, "But be careful with my spices. Some are very valuable, and you can't afford to pay if they're damaged."

Footsteps entered the shop.

Omar's heart pounded.

He glanced around the warehouse: besides the sacks, there were only a few wooden crates, nowhere to hide.

Just beyond the curtain was the shop; if they lifted the curtain...

He touched the gun at his waist.

A Czech CZ75 he bought privately and never registered.

Fifteen bullets.

If discovered, he could kill two or three people, but ultimately he would be shot dead or captured.

Not worth it.

The accounts must be taken out; they are Barzani's Achilles heel, documenting the amounts and accounts of money embezzled from American aid over the years.

That was more important than his life.

His gaze fell on an old carpet roll in the corner of the warehouse.

The carpet seemed heavy, but maybe...

He swiftly moved to it, lifting a corner of the carpet.

Underneath was an empty space, a hidden compartment!

Indeed, Yazidi the old man was prepared.

Omar crawled into the compartment, barely covering himself with the carpet, when the curtain was lifted.

A flashlight beam swept across the warehouse.

"What's here?"

"Warehouse. Place for storing spices." Yazidi's voice was close, "Be careful; the sacks contain saffron, a kilogram costs more than your year's salary."

Footsteps walked around the warehouse.

Omar curled up in the darkness, feeling someone standing next to the carpet.

Sweat dripped down his forehead, stinging his eyes, but he dared not move.

"What's below?" The flashlight beam stopped on the carpet.

"Old carpet, ready to be thrown away. Want to check? It's dirty, has lots of fleas."

Another brief hesitation.

Then the young officer said, "Forget it. Let's go to the next shop."

Steps left.

The curtain fell.

Omar continued to wait, counting to a hundred before quietly lifting a corner of the carpet.

The warehouse was empty, but there were still voices outside in the shop.

He heard Yazidi say: "...who exactly are you looking for? Maybe I can help."

"We can't disclose. But if you see anyone suspicious, call this number."

Then came the sound of a paper being rubbed against a nose.

"I will."