Chapter 8: Shadows and Signatures
The first drizzle of Istanbul's late evening rain tapped gently against the glass, turning the skyline into a watercolor blur. Imani stood by the window of the small apartment Zara had rented for their stay, tracing the fog with her fingertip. Somewhere beyond the rooftops, someone knew too much about her life. Her father. Her mother. Kora Foundation. And now, Omar, who was both informant and mystery.
She hadn't opened the USB yet. Her chest still tightened at the thought of what she might find. Zara had insisted on leaving it until they got some clarity. But how do you wait for clarity when your heart is a battlefield?
A ping brought her back to reality. It was a message from Omar:
"Your flight data was accessed by someone inside Kora. We need to talk."
She typed back:
"Meet me at the bookshop near Masjid Al-Quds. 7 PM. Come alone."
---
By 7:00 PM, the rain had grown heavier, and the little bookstore's wooden sign creaked ominously in the wind. Imani stood under the porch, arms folded, head scarf tucked tightly. Inside, the store smelled of old leather, ginger tea, and ink. The owner, still unsure what to do with his stock, had poetry shelved beside political thrillers and children's coloring books.
Omar arrived late, dripping and breathless, but thankfully alone.
"You ran?" Imani asked with a raised brow.
"Not exactly. Istanbul traffic is built like trauma."
Imani rolled her eyes. "What did you find?"
He pulled a damp file from his coat. "Your father's hospital records were erased last year. Not just archived—erased. And I cross-checked the security feed the night you left for Istanbul. Someone cloned your badge."
"Cloned it?"
"Yeah. And whoever it was left an anonymous call to Zara's office. It wasn't a warning. It was bait. They want you to chase something. But I'm not sure what."
Imani's brain was fogged with too many "maybes" and not enough facts. But something inside her—the part trained to pick up subtle symptoms—knew this wasn't just a game.
She leaned closer. "Do you trust Zara?"
Omar paused.
"I trust her... ambition. Not always her priorities."
---
Back at the apartment, Zara was cooking something that looked like it had survived both an earthquake and a betrayal.
"Smells like panic," Imani said, removing her coat.
"It's supposed to be biryani," Zara muttered. "I was stressed. Sue me."
Imani chuckled and joined her in the kitchen. She gently moved Zara aside and took over, scooping the rice into a pan and adding a bit of yogurt and spice.
"Here's a life hack," she said softly. "If your rice dries out or starts burning, add a bit of yogurt or broth and let it steam for five more minutes. It brings back moisture without making it soggy."
Zara smirked. "You always did love a good kitchen remedy."
"Yeah, I do miss cooking".
They ate on the floor with mismatched plates, like they were back in university, broke but unbothered, only this time it was the complete opposite - Rich and Bothered.
"What if your mom is part of this whole thing?" Zara asked between bites. "What if she was never just your mother, but a founder of something darker?"
Imani sighed. "Then I want to know why she kept it from me. I want to know why Baba disappeared. Why I was left thinking I lost him."
"Maybe she thought she was protecting you."
"Or maybe she thought I couldn't handle the truth."
The room went silent and they both just ate in peace....except the peace wasn't for long.
---
The next morning, Imani walked alone to a nearby mosque. The Imam had seen her a few times and greeted her gently.
"Daughter, your face carries weight."
"It carries a hundred questions."
He smiled. "The answers don't always heal, but the questions remind us we're alive."
Imani prayed. Her forehead pressed to the mat, the calluses of her palms rough against the fabric. She whispered a dua for clarity, for courage, for the father she still hoped to see.
When she finished, she sat back and watched two little girls run across the courtyard, their laughter echoing like bells.
The world was so chaotic and yet, so beautiful.
---
Omar messaged again. This time, a photograph. It was taken in a hospital—the one she used to work at.
The photo showed a man walking through a back exit. Slightly hunched, wearing a hoodie, but unmistakable. Dr. Hussnain Nurain.
The timestamp? Two weeks ago.
Her father had been at the hospital. Possibly watching her.
"I need to go back," Imani said aloud.
Zara looked up. "To Nigeria?"
"To the beginning."
---
They flew back quietly, without alerting anyone. Zara stayed back for another lead, but Imani arrived in Abuja alone. As her taxi neared the compound of her family home, she felt that twist in her chest again.
Her mother was in the garden, pruning roses. She looked peaceful. Too peaceful.
"Mama," Imani called.
She turned, startled but not surprised. "You came back."
"I know about Baba."
The shears dropped.
"I don't know where he is. Not exactly."
"But you know he's alive. You let me believe he was dead."
Her mother looked tired. Old. Like the truth had aged her twice as fast.
"He made me promise. He said you were safer grieving than searching."
"You buried an empty coffin!"
"Because if I didn't, people would ask questions. If Kora knew I was out, they would dig."
"Out?"
Her mother nodded slowly. "I left after he vanished. After he exposed things even I didn't know. They called us traitors."
"So why pretend to be powerless? Timid?"
"Because people trust the weak. They overlook them."
---
That night, Imani opened the USB.
Inside were folders upon folders of encrypted documents. Audio files. Photos. One labeled simply: Z-Protocol.
She opened it.
It was a report detailing human trials conducted under a shadow organization embedded within Kora. The subjects? Mostly refugees. All undocumented. All forgotten.
The author of the report? Layla Kareem.
Her mother.
Imani turned to the window, hand pressed against the glass.
It was too much. Too fast. Too horrifying.
And yet, one name kept repeating in the files.
Idris.
The man who disappeared years ago.
The man she once loved.
The man who might be the only person who knew where her father was.
---
A soft knock pulled her back to the present.
"Come in," she called.
Her mother entered, carrying a letter.
"This came for you. No address. No sender."
Imani opened it.
Inside, a single line:
**"If you want to find him, come alone. You know where."
And below it, a drawing.
The Masjid from Istanbul. The Imam.
To be continued...