Disclaimer: I own nothing. Dina, Navi, and Behrooz Araz belong to FOX, Real Time Productions, and their affiliates, as do Habib Marwan, Naseem, and Debbie.
Familya Mukaddes
("Sacred Family")
Author's Note:
To avoid having to include a tiring and awkward amount of exposition and explanation in the text of the fanfiction, I'm writing these notes at the beginning of each chapter in order to provide some background explanation for things like terms and references.
For the entire fic, it's the case that in many of these scenes, the characters would be speaking Turkish. Unfortunately, as much as I pretend to, I don't speak Turkish (and you probably don't either – if you do, you're much more awesome than I), so in these scenes it's implied that they're speaking Turkish.
There are some Turkish words mixed into the fic. This is a list of those that are in any way relevant to understanding what's going on for this chapter:
"Anne" means "mother"
"Üzgünüm" means "I'm sorry"
Also, it's important to note the timeline of events is based off the information (that apparently came from the fanphone, so don't ask me) that season 4 apparently takes place in 2010. I've approximated the day of s4 as sometime in late March of 2010.
Finally, I hope you enjoy the fic.
"Wars teach us not to love our enemies, but to hate our allies." - W.L. George
"A family is but too often a commonwealth of malignants." - Alexander Pope
The Restaurant Scene
İskenderen, Turkey, June 2003.
Through the window, he could see dark waves roll up against the beach. He could still feel sand sticking to his feet from when he'd been walking with his mother. Avoiding crabs and other skittering creatures while sand crept into his sandals. She smiled at him from behind her menu and said something indiscernible to his father as the waiter stepped in.
"Yardýmcý olabilir miyim?" he asked. Behrooz closed his menu and slid it onto the table, watching his mother.
"Midye dolmasý, lütfen," his mother ordered quickly, taking up the menus and handing them to the waiter. His eyes lingered on them for a moment, but he nodded, took the menus, and headed behind the bar where three patrons were stirring their drinks and watching football on the television on the other side of the counter. Behrooz watched the waiter speak with the bartender, briefly meeting eyes with him.
"Did you have a good weekend, son?" his mother asked gently, prying his eyes toward her.
"Evet, çok iyi – "
"Your mother spoke to you in English, Behrooz," his father interjected. He paused and ran through the words in his head.
"Yes, mother. It was very nice." His father smiled and took his hand.
"You must get used to speaking in English," he picked up his glass of water, and his eyes went up to the bar. After drinking, he touched his wife's shoulder and stood up. She kept her eyes on her son.
"You'll have to speak in English in America," Dina said quietly, as her husband walked to the bar. Behrooz could tell she was trying to distract him from whatever his father was doing, but didn't look away.
"We aren't in America," he argued.
"But we will be soon, and no one speaks Turkish there."
Behrooz sat back in the chair, not feeling like protesting anymore. He looked back out the window and tried to imagine how cold the ocean was. His parents had explained why they were moving to the States, but he still blocked it out of his mind like the hushed conversations he wasn't supposed to understand. He kicked his feet under the table impatiently and looked back to his mother.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing," he mumbled, looking back at the bar. The bartender was gone, and the waiter was behind the counter, watching the game and talking to one of the patrons.
"I have to go to the restroom."
"Do you remember where it is?"
He slipped out of the chair; his sandals tapped the dusty cement floor. Behrooz could feel his mother's eyes on his back as he left, but tried to ignore them – to step just out of her grasp for a moment.
"You're lying." The American just smiled and smashed what was left of his cigarette into the glass ashtray, leaning back in the plastic chair. The room was windowless and humid, and perspiration was forming on his forehead and neck.
"I don't know what to tell you," the American muttered, crossing his arms, his blazer sleeve contracting to reveal a large, gold wristwatch. "There's nothing more to it."
"The U.S. government has invested millions in unrecorded funds in this project," a slender British man across the table countered. Next to him, a veiled Syrian woman who exposed only her eyes was pulling up windows on a black laptop. Navi entered the room, closing the door behind him, and leaned over her shoulder, looking at the communications she was decoding.
"Where's Dina?" she asked in English.
"Watching Behrooz," he replied, observing her progress.
"How old is he now?" she asked, organizing the files and using a program to translate them into English.
"He turned ten a couple months ago."
"Does he know why you're going to the States?"
Navi paused at this question. He tried to occupy his attention for a moment on finding a chair, but he knew she was expecting an answer.
"Dina and I haven't told him everything. We're going to wait until he's old enough to understand it."
"You shouldn't wait too long, Navi," the woman admonished. "Being in America changes you – it changes everyone. I talk to my sister sometimes and it's like I'm talking to a stranger."
"I have faith in my son," Navi muttered. The woman didn't reply as she worked, and Navi straightened up and found another folding chair. The other two at the table continued to argue, but stopped abruptly when the final member of the collecting group stepped in, holding a tray of amber-colored drinks and leaving the door slightly ajar. He silently placed the tray on the table and put glasses in front of the two men, but they didn't accept the offer. They kept their eyes diverted, and for a moment the only sound was the woman's fingers snapping on the keyboard. Their host, a broad-shouldered man from Ankara, met eyes briefly with Navi and the woman before pulling up the last chair next to the table.
"I see you gentlemen aren't thirsty tonight," he said smoothly, slipping into the accent-free English he used around foreigners. The American, his heaviness accentuated by his small business suit, frowned and took out another cigarette.
"Our American friend is being uncooperative," the Briton charged, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded. The American looked up from his palm tree lighter with a mix of annoyance and alarm.
"I'm just a businessman," he argued. "I know what I'm told. The project's been delayed. Indefinitely."
"We have people in the States already," the woman cut in. "They haven't noted any change in the status."
"I'm just giving you what's been passed down to me." The American successfully lit his cigarette. "The word is there was conflict on the state level and with the plant managers – they didn't like the idea of such centralized control."
"And, what, they gave up on it?" the Briton asked incredulously. "Your superiors and the United States government have spilled millions in funding and resources into this project."
"You're intelligence. If you know something, why don't you share it?"
The Briton paused, but a smiled curled up on his lips. The American tapped his cigarette over the ashtray and Navi briefly tried to catch the host's eye. The host, however, was preoccupied with the look on the Briton's face.
"You've been broken, haven't you?"
"Of course not," the American snapped, pounding his fist onto the table so the drinks rattled. The woman gently moved the notebook into her lap.
"They've clearly excluded you," the Briton persisted. "Your story doesn't make any sense."
"What would you know about it?" the American jeered.
"I've been among enough businessmen to know they don't just give up on their more generous investments because of a few 'managers.'"
"Mr. Wolff," the host interrupted, " – if you've tipped off your employers –"
"I haven't," he muttered, nervously tapping his cigarette against the ashtray again. Sweat was beginning to dampen his collar, and with his free hand he tried to inconspicuously loosen his tie. Navi again tried to catch their host's eye – and this time succeeded.
"Maybe you've had a change of heart," the Briton said derisively.
"Maybe you should stop busting my chops," Wolff leaned over the table, but their host took his shoulder and pushed him firmly back into the chair.
"Regardless, Mr. Wolff," he said quietly, "if your position is in jeopardy, we need to know and inform our people abroad."
"I'm telling you what I know – they've discontinued the project." He mashed another cigarette into the tray and picked up the glass in front him. While he drank, Navi stood and walked away from the table, facing the wall.
"Natara," their host said, turning to the woman, "have any of our allies within the U.S. indicated this is true?"
"No," she replied. "But there is no indication anyone is aware of our work, either."
Navi didn't turn. He heard another chair moving, and the footfalls circling around, approaching him.
"If there's a chance you've been exposed, Mr. Wolff, you know we need to know that."
"I have nothing else to say."
"You're stonewalling." The Briton had spoken what Navi was already thinking. He didn't really care for working with Europeans or Americans, but was willing to accept their aid with a certain dose of suspicion. He certainly didn't believe them capable of understanding the true goal of these plans, the true meaning behind them – they were too interested in their white-bred rivalry and century-old greed. They were often guiltier than those who would suffer at their hands.
But they could be helpful, and the outcome would far outweigh any unpleasant associations along the way.
"Look," Wolff slammed his fist on the table again, glaring at the Briton. "I'm working to maintain my cover, but doing it for so little doesn't make it any easier."
"Of course," the Briton snorted. "You're an American – you're not feeling guilty, you just want to line your pockets."
"I don't know what you're asking," the host said quietly. Navi turned to face the table again.
"I'm saying," Wolff began slowly, but confidently, "that if my cooperation is to continue, I'll need some kind of – incentive to push things along."
Navi didn't wait. He came forward and picked up the table by one of its metal legs and over turned it, sending the glasses shattering and alcohol and ice spilling on the cement floor.
"This isn't a negotiation," he spat, leaning over the heavy-set man and forcing him to keep eye contact. "We're serving a greater purpose than improving your finances."
Wolff didn't say anything. His eyes flittered briefly to the door, then down the glass littering the floor. There was a slight crackling sound as their host approached, treading on the crushed glass.
"You must understand, Mr. Wolff, there will be no increase in 'incentive', as you put it" he said calmly. "Let your incentive be that you are working for something far greater than yourself."
"I'm sorry, but I can't buy Armani with 'higher purposes.'" Wolff stood and tried to brush Navi off, but Navi grabbed his shoulder and slammed him back down in the chair.
"If you're not telling us everything –"
"You've already refused to meet my request," Wolff muttered, meeting Navi's eyes and trying to look confident. "I'm going to walk away now."
"Mr. Wolff, you realize that even if you are not, we are very dedicated to our cause," their host said, putting a hand on Wolff's shoulder. "If you're not being completely open with us, we won't hesitate in offering you … a different sort of incentive."
Natara gently placed her laptop on the ground and slid it beneath her chair. She lifted a large cloth black pouch from the floor beside her, held it in her lap, and looked up at their host, her fingers sliding over the button that secured the top. This briefly distracted Wolff, but he quickly looked up to their host.
"I'm leaving now," he mumbled. He stood again, but in a matter of seconds, Navi grabbed him, dragged him to the wall and slammed him against it. His arm lodged against Wolff's throat, he pulled out a switchblade from inside his jacket.
"You're going to talk to us," he whispered. Wolff attempted to push him off, but there was a click behind them, and their host pressed the barrel of a gun to the side of his head.
"You have five seconds," he muttered. Wolff remained silent, looking over Navi's shoulder, where their British colleague was leaning back in his chair, apparently concerned with something on the ceiling.
After he didn't speak, Navi extended the knife and cut into his arm. Blood slid down onto the blade and onto Navi's skin as he tore the knife down a few inches, and pulled it out again. Wolff, whimpering and clutching his arm, slid to the floor.
"That doesn't have to happen again," their host said. As Navi knelt down, his eyes crossed the doorway – the opening was blocked by a small figure. He paused, still holding the knife in his bloodstained hand. A moment later, another figure appeared and took the first away. Navi dropped the knife and stood up again.
"Where are you going?" the woman asked, but Navi threw the door open and ran into the hall.
"Üzgünüm!" he shouted as she yanked him down the hall. "Üzgünüm, anne! Anne, anne!" He dug his face into her sleeve as she pulled him around a corner and knelt down next to him. There were loud footsteps down the hall, and her husband appeared around the corner.
"Navi-" Dina began, but he snatched Behrooz from her grasp and smacked him across the face with his bloodied palm.
"What were you doing down here?" he snarled at the boy. Behrooz didn't respond – he touched his cheek and felt the blood his father had left on it, looking too frightened to speak.
"Navi, kendın yatiştir!" Dina shouted, prying the child away from him.
"You were supposed to be watching him," he yelled at her, his eyes still on his son.
"They're waiting for you," she hissed. "Just go back, we'll talk about it later."
He glared at both of them for a moment, but turned around and headed back down the hall. Dina didn't say anything as she pulled Behrooz the other direction, to the small restroom, where she switched on the light and locked the door. Behrooz curled up on the floor with his back against the wall and hid his face in his knees as she turned the faucet on.
"Üzgünüm," he mumbled again.
"Stop it," she snapped, dampening a few paper towels under the hot water. She squeezed out the excess moisture, and knelt down in front of him. He kept his face hidden, and trembled slightly as she came closer.
"Look at me, Behrooz," Dina whispered. It took a moment, but he slowly lifted his head and met her eyes – his trembling grew worse, but she just touched the wet paper towel to his face, gently washing the blood off. His shaking slowly subsided as she wiped the blood away and used another towel to dry his face.
"You shouldn't have lied to me," she said softly, and his eyes dropped to the floor.
"I didn't mean to," he replied without looking at her. "I heard father down the hall…"
"Aşık, you know better than to disturb your father when he's working," she said as she carefully pushed his hair out of his eyes. He looked up at her briefly, then back at the floor again.
"What was he doing?"
"That's not something you need to know." Dina's tone was a warning to not ask anything further about that topic. Behrooz just shifted uncomfortably and looked too afraid to say anything.
"Behrooz, your father is angry because you interrupted our work – and our work affects everyone, not just you or him."
"Why was he hurting that man?" He kept his eyes diverted, clearly petrified at having inquired further into a matter Dina had made clear was closed. Instead of scolding him, she was silent, and let him pretend he hadn't spoken at all. After a few moments, he looked cautiously back at her.
"Will father forgive me?" he asked instead. Dina put her arms around him and pulled him up to her. He fell limply against her, his head resting against her shoulder, and she kissed his hair.
"You can apologize to him later," she whispered. "Be quiet and obedient and he won't be angry with you." Dina squeezed her son against her briefly, and released him. She stood, and took his hand, pulling him up as well.
"The mussels will probably be done by now." She gave him a small smile, and he walked with her out of the bathroom and back toward the stairs. In the dining room, there were fewer patrons than before, and the waiter was piling stuffed mussels onto their plates. He exchanged a brief glance with Dina before she sat down and began helping Behrooz empty the shells.
