Martin couldn't help but feel a surge of admiration for Rabban Sauma's extraordinary life.
But the story within the asbestos-bound manuscript hadn't ended yet—there was more.
He turned the page.
"My name is Achter, son of a merchant from Egypt. I love philosophy, and I came to Timbuktu to pursue my dream of philosophy..."
"I never expected that during a casual visit to the market, I would buy an oriental-style wooden chest, inside of which I discovered..."
"Oh Lord, what an incredible travel journal! This man from the East, Rabban Sauma, was truly a remarkable soul..."
"Unfortunately, I couldn't fulfill his final wish. The nation of Lamotudan disappeared from this world fifty years ago—its land is now part of the Ottoman Empire. I wouldn't dare set foot in those savage lands, even though we share the same faith..."
"Those barbarians now covet my homeland—Egypt. That was also one of the reasons I came here..."
"Timbuktu is no longer peaceful. More and more people are coming—traders, scholars, refugees. And the shadow of war looms over this city. We must leave and seek a new place of peace…"
"I found a new city. I like it here. It's called—'Auth Asura Sam' (The Place of Separation)…"
"It's a strange place. Even camels lose their way here…"
"But it's quiet. Birds sing, flowers bloom. There's no raging sandstorms like in Timbuktu. I built a mosque here, which also serves as a university…"
"When war broke out and Timbuktu was nearly destroyed, thankfully, some professors from the University of Sankore had already transported most of the library's books here, sparing them from disaster…"
"Lately, the weather has been strange. The horizon flashes with blue light, clouds swirl oddly, and the dogs seem to have gone mad, running wild…"
"Oh Lord, have You abandoned Your people? Why rain such punishment upon us…"
And with that, the journal ended.
Martin closed the book and let out a long sigh.
One journal. Two lifetimes. Separated by nearly a century, yet bound by the same legacy. And in the end—brought to silence by a catastrophe...
It was impossible not to reflect on the fickleness of fate.
Still, he didn't linger in sentimentality.
They were almost back at base.
Martin had no plans to announce what he had found to the world.
The convoy drove straight into a large warehouse, where crates were swiftly unloaded and transported to the underground vault beneath his newly acquired estate in Guinea.
If he tried to bring them into the U.S., the haul would be subject to security checks—which meant exposure. Better to hide it all here.
He had no desire to deal with endless waves of scholars, universities, and research organizations from around the globe.
Besides, many of the manuscripts contained religious content related to Islam. That alone would ignite interest from Middle Eastern countries—Saudi Arabia, the UAE, even Iran and Libya. Some of them might not hesitate to send agents to steal them.
Speaking of Libya, Martin thought of his business associate—the notorious warlord Mu'tasim.
At that moment, Mu'tasim was speaking with his father—the de facto ruler of Libya, Taqafi—about none other than Martin.
"A Westerner with that much generosity? Mu'tasim, don't let him fool you!" the old man growled.
"Don't worry, Father. Everything's in writing, black on white. And I'm personally overseeing the mining firm in Guinea. It's secure," Mu'tasim replied.
"Good. Then I have a task for you. Word is someone saw one of Saddam Hussein's former officials in West Africa. I suspect Saddam himself might be hiding there. Find him."
"Saddam? Are you saying…" Mu'tasim frowned in surprise.
"I want to bring him and his exiled government back to Libya. I'll be the one to restore justice for Iraq!" Taqafi declared, eyes blazing with fanaticism.
Mu'tasim's heart skipped a beat. "But that would mean directly offending the U.S."
"My son, if we want to become leaders of the Middle East and Africa, crossing the U.S. is inevitable. Don't fear it. Don't run from it. Don't be weak like Saddam," Taqafi snapped.
In his eyes, Iraq lost its war because Saddam had foolishly clung to false hopes of peace with the Americans. That mistake would not be repeated.
What he wanted now was Saddam's influence.
Even after Iraq's fall, Saddam's name still carried weight. Because the Americans hadn't made Iraq better—in many ways, they'd made it worse. Nostalgia for the past was growing.
…
While the Libyan leaders plotted how to find Saddam, the man himself was in Guinea's capital—Conakry—inside a wealthy villa in the southern district.
He was meeting with Martin's representative: Gordon.
Yes, Martin had already made use of Saddam's resources.
Over the years, Martin's companies had acquired many valuable assets in Iraq—facilitated by none other than Saddam and his fugitive inner circle.
At first, they had worked for Martin reluctantly.
Especially Saddam himself. Once the head of a nation, reduced now to a subordinate of a Western businessman—such a reversal had been hard to swallow.
But over time, that resistance faded. Their new roles began to feel... natural.
As if they had always been Martin's people.
Such is the work of a Soul-Binding Formation.
"Saddam, these are the letters that need your signature," Gordon said, placing a neat stack of documents on the table.
The bulky man picked them up and skimmed through them.
A moment later, he looked up in confusion. "You want to recruit Avdol Ibn Harim, Diya Haimeh Sadq, and Amir Tazadidas? These are some of Iraq's top mathematicians and physicists."
"That's right. Mr. Meyers's company needs them. And frankly, they're not doing well these days. CIA and Mossad both have their eyes on them," Gordon replied calmly.
Saddam's expression shifted.
Without hesitation, he picked up the pen and began signing with swift strokes.
Gordon collected the signed documents and departed the fortified villa, preparing to head to Europe.
Several of the scientists Martin had his eye on were now being watched closely—especially by Mossad.
And it was Gordon's job to get them out safely.
Before it was too late.