Mark nodded, showing he agreed with Süleyman, and said:
“Phone numbers are 10 digits. So check whether there is a line registered as 323 671 88 13. I’ll look into the other possibilities, even if it’s like digging a well with a needle…”

Mark noted that street numbers were 5 digits, national ID numbers were 11 digits, and bank account numbers were 7 digits, while IBAN numbers consisted of nearly 20 digits. Trusting his intuition, he believed the ten-digit number they had must be a phone number. The report he was waiting for from Süleyman finally arrived—though not in the way he hoped.

“There’s no one registered to this number. Besides, there’s no GSM operator or area code that begins with 323,” he said.

Mark wrote down every area code he knew. Still, he found no connection with the number they had. Not losing hope, he listed every GSM prefix he could remember. Peering over his glasses, he asked Süleyman:

“Are there any other GSM prefixes besides these?”

“542, 545, and more recently, the numbers assigned to new lines: 551 and 507,” Süleyman replied.

Mark began testing different combinations. Subtracting 323 from 542 gave him 219, and adding them yielded 865. Neither seemed meaningful. The sum of 545 and 323—868—also seemed to lead nowhere. Exhaling sharply, he tried subtraction again and got 222. Three consecutive twos might mean something.

He scratched under his chin with his thumb and index finger, eyes drifting into empty space, wondering whether the number two itself could signify anything.

Mark’s eyes darted from side to side when he felt as if an unseen hand were holding his head still, fixing it in one direction. This wasn’t something he was experiencing for the first time. Whenever he came close to a solution, this strange sensation emerged. A similar thing had happened ten years ago, when he recalled the plan that had saved their lives and ruined the devil’s trap. After that day, he had understood that God sometimes placed the solution to a problem in a person’s mind without any apparent cause.

If someone asked Mark at that exact moment, “What does it feel like?” his answer would have been:

“It’s not a touch. It’s like a low-voltage electric shock. But it isn’t disturbing. It may sound strange, but in those moments, I feel like an antenna shifted toward another direction, its frequency altered.”

With that description, Mark was unknowingly defining what quantum physicists called the Sema. The Sema was the main server in which all information, images, and sounds were stored. Through a wireless connection, with the right frequency, anyone could reach the sound, image, or information they needed—through what we call inspiration. When and how this connection could be made, or what one should do to achieve it—those answers were not known with certainty. Yet devout scientists who mastered quantum physics understood it well.

“Whatever a person does with their words, deeds, research, thought, and mental effort counts as prayer. And because the Creator is the God of all, He responds even to those who do not believe in Him—allowing them to connect to this main server correctly and access what they need.”

Mark believed he had made the correct connection. He stared at Leheb’s notes on the board, as if his eyes could pierce through them. ‘Plus 2. I am’—he saw the answer there. He knew exactly what he had to do: increase each of the remaining seven digits by two.

He called out to Süleyman and said:

“Check this number for me: 5458930035.”

His partner replied shortly afterward:

“The number belongs to a priest. It’s in active use. I looked into him a bit—he’s highly marginal. No religious leader, believer or non-believer, would condone burning a book that other people consider sacred. But judging by the statements he made to some racist, fringe newspapers, he approves of it. I can say he’s a full-blown Islamophobe.”

“Looks like he’s the complete opposite of someone like Leheb,” said Mark. Drawing on his experiences and intuition, he had come to recognize that extremists—or rather, those who appeared to be fervent servants of religion but were, in truth, obsessed with preserving a throne built on faith—shared the same higher intellect, regardless of their creeds. In other words, they were governed by the same global, shadowy power. Those who drifted into extremism out of ignorance, however, belonged to a separate category in his mind. That was why he didn’t dismiss the possibility of a connection between Leheb and the extremist priest.

“Before anyone wakes up to what we’re doing, get access to this priest’s phone traffic. We’re not going to tail him physically,” Mark said.

His partner understood exactly what that meant—unofficially reach out to his contacts inside the department where all phone numbers’ HTS records were stored, before the shadow organization sensed exposure and began destroying evidence.

By evening, when Süleyman returned to Mark, the glimmer in his eyes made it clear he had discovered something significant.

“Why hasn’t anyone been able to reach this forensic medicine professor, Berisha?” he asked.

Mark waved his hand dismissively.
“Forget him for now. Tell me what you found.”

“That’s what I’m telling you. This professor we’ve been searching for called the priest approximately 48 hours ago. I couldn’t access the content of the call—you know recordings aren’t stored unless there’s a prior court order.”

Mark rose from his seat.
“Now the pieces are falling into place,” he said, staring at Süleyman.

“If we take into account what Madman said in his testimony—that this unknown dark organization has abandoned cell systems in favor of a covert partnership structure—could it be that Professor Berisha and the priest are partners?”

Süleyman pursed his lips and twisted them forward.

“To make that kind of claim, we don’t have enough data. Maybe the professor calling the priest was just a coincidence. Sure, the fact that he did it immediately after Leheb’s interrogation can’t be ignored—the suspicion that Leheb acted as some sort of courier, passing a message from one partner to another is valid. But someone could have forced the professor to do something, or even kidnapped him.”

“The moment the professor saw Leheb—or rather, realized he had confabulation—he behaved differently toward him. Both Maxi and the assistant mentioned it. Why do you think he personally rushed to perform the MRI on him?”

“But if what you’re suggesting is true, isn’t there a contradiction? If they belong to the same organization, why would the professor accelerate Leheb’s procedures and draw attention to his confabulation with an official report? He could have simply stated that he was lying or suffering from memory loss.”

Mark had no answer. Because, as Süleyman noted, the contradiction was real. He agreed with him, yet he remained convinced the professor was involved somehow. He handed Süleyman a file from his bag and said:

“The professor doesn’t have a clean past. Just like Aros, he used to be a satanist. He was caught killing a neighbor’s cat, went to trial, and even served a short prison sentence—it’s all in his criminal record.”

“People can change—and they can be sincere in that change. But we also have to accept the possibility that some don’t change, they just alter their methods. Of course, we can’t accuse anyone based on mere suspicion. Still, being cautious never hurt anyone.”

Süleyman showed something on his phone—an article from a local newspaper.

“Our priest is about to make a press statement. Judging from the extremist comments under the article, he might do something crazy.”

Mark grabbed his coat.
“We need to hurry. If necessary, we shut down the press conference, stop him from desecrating sacred texts. We detain him, then file a report labeling him as a terror suspect.”

“You know they’re going to launch an investigation against us for obstructing freedom of speech.”

“Let them do whatever they want. The contribution we’ll make to world peace outweighs any price we’ll pay.”

The Demon Hunters set off without delay. Outside the church, they saw only a handful of people—barely more than what two hands could count—and the priest among them.
Mark thought to himself: There are millions of Christians in this city, and most of them, guided by the teachings of the Messiah, are tolerant toward other faiths—including Islam, which, after all, calls for belief in the same God. And yet because of a handful of charlatans gathered in front of a church, millions of Christians will be stained. Best to stop the stain before it spreads.

Determined, Mark moved toward the priest to handcuff him. But something about the man’s expression unsettled him—the priest looked calm, almost as if he had been expecting him. More than that, Mark could see the slyness in his eyes, a hunter who had already trapped his prey. Even more bizarre was the sudden swarm of reporters around them. When and how had the press learned the demon hunters would come here? And nearly all the media present were outlets known for extremist ideology.

Seeing Süleyman approach with handcuffs, the priest yelled at the top of his lungs:
“My message to my country is this: no one should tolerate the burning of Our Holy Lord on this soil!”

Those around him chanted the same slogan. When Süleyman scanned the area, he realized there was neither a Quran nor any other sacred book present.

Mark tried to call out, “Süleyman, stop, don’t—there’s no legal basis to arrest them,” but it was too late. The priest was forcibly dragged away in Süleyman’s powerful arms and shoved into the car.

The incident became the number-one topic—not just in extremist media, but in the mainstream as well. Evening news broadcasts reported that two detectives known as “Demon Hunters” detained a priest without a court order and without presenting any justification. The priest’s frightened, innocent expression went viral as the day’s most-watched video on social media. Commentators harshly criticized the arrest of a religious leader in his own country, pointing to the same underlying sentiment:

“Have we been too tolerant to outsiders in the name of humanism and compassion?”

Watching the news and seeing the commentators, Mark was convinced they had been set up. He whispered to his partner Süleyman:

“I could tell from the priest’s eyes. It was as if the extremist media were already waiting for us there. And those comments under the announcement, along with the racist ads popping out from every corner of the site, made us believe he was going to burn sacred books. Since that was the hot topic, we fell for it easily.”

Süleyman said, “There’s something I don’t understand. For operations like this, why bother with insanity, confabulation, refugees, brain surgeries, and all that? What’s the point? I still don’t get their goal.”

Hearing their whispers, Dr. William cut in:

“Their goal couldn’t be something this simple. You’re right. Honestly, I haven’t figured out what they’re trying to do either. But I’m sure the message that priest delivered wasn’t meaningless.”

“The footage of him screaming like a madman was very short,” Süleyman said. “But they kept replaying that innocent, frightened posture to make him look like a helpless kitten.”

“What’s clear,” Dr. William replied, “is that whatever you’ve done, the dark force controlling Leheb definitely hates you now.”
He said it with that ironic look—one of those looks that implied he knew something, but pretended not to.

The demon hunters understood he was referring to the mysterious events they had lived through ten years ago in Bosnia and Italy. But they chose not to open that subject. At least not yet…

They received the call they had been waiting for; the assistant chief of Berlin Police was on the line. His reprimand, shouting, and scolding were evident in Süleyman’s shifting face and tongue-tied silence.

Mark stood up, casually collecting his bag and belongings. But Süleyman’s final sentence on the phone made him stop in his tracks:

“Yes, sir. I promise you—this will be our first and last mistake. We won’t act on our own ever again.”

“How is that possible—weren’t we suspended?” Mark asked.

“No. Not even an official reprimand. We’re still on duty,” Süleyman replied.

Dr. William stepped in with a faint smile:

“That only means you’re in very big trouble. Think of it this way: the storm has just begun. They don’t want you slipping out of this mess with a simple suspension.”

Süleyman shot him a harsh look.
“Doctor, mind your own business. No point in spreading doom and gloom here.”

“I’m used to those words,” William said calmly.
“Evolutionists, racists, and so-called religious types all say similar things to me—whenever I say something they don’t like.”

Mark signaled to Süleyman to keep quiet.
“There’s no point arguing. Let’s focus. William could be right—we lose nothing by hearing him out.”

Dr. William continued, “Fine, stopping the press conference was a mistake. But you could at least interrogate him—ask about his connection to the professor.”

“We accessed his call logs illegally,” Mark said. “If that ever comes out—privacy violation, unauthorized surveillance… we’d be handing our enemies ammunition on a silver platter.”

A short silence followed before the neurosurgeon spoke again:
“I don’t believe he shouted that slogan for nothing. There’s a message in it.”

Mark nodded. “I agree. Just like when Aros was captured and that bizarre video surfaced:
‘If 16 men eat 15 apple, 12 women eat 9 apple, and 3 children eat 5 apples, and later they eat  totaling 113 apples, how many people are there?’

No one has ever solved it. Or rather—no one has figured out whether it even has a solution. Maybe the numbers and phrases hide a coded message.”

“The officers who interrogated him threatened Aros and tortured him, but as you know, a man without an amygdala showed no sign of fear.”

The demon hunters went to the prison where Aros was being held, hoping to extract something useful. His eyes were giving off the same message as always—I’m not afraid of you—without uttering a single word.

They mentioned Madman, claiming he had made a deal and been released, and told Aros he could earn his freedom too. They carefully avoided mentioning Madman’s staged suicide. They also said that since no one had died or been seriously injured during Aros’s act, a judge might be lenient. But they got nowhere.

Just as they were leaving the room, Aros burst into laughter and said:

“I once read a story about letters coded into the spirals of DNA—like writing a novel. Maybe you should analyze the DNA in the shit that comes out of my ass. Who knows, maybe you’ll find a message.”

Süleyman lunged at him, ready to slap him, but froze mid-air.

“That’s what he wants. Don’t give him what he’s after. We’re already knee-deep in trouble,” Mark said.

The Demon Hunters were forced to go back to the only lead they had left—Leheb. With no concrete evidence, they couldn’t send him to prison. But they also didn’t want to send him to a psychiatric ward and risk losing him, because they were convinced he wasn’t just babbling nonsense—his answers meant something.

“The only thing I could figure out from that damned riddle,” Mark said, “is that men, women and children ate 29 apples and 84 apples remained. I don’t know if those numbers mean anything.”

William responded:

“I told you Leheb never speaks without purpose. You saw it yourselves—these people may look like they belong to different religions or races, but they’re all tied to the same source, connected by an invisible thread. We might not decipher what the priest was signaling with his slogan, but if we can decode parts of Leheb’s answers, we can decode the rest. I think that’s where we should focus.”

They tried to extract meaning from the other number Leheb had given, but this time they reached no conclusion. With the words “partner” and “message,” they assumed Leheb was cryptically telling his partner, “I’m sending you a message,” and eliminated those two words. The phrase “I am Messiah” certainly held weight. Perhaps it was a message directed to the man found in prison—dead, staged as suicide—who also proclaimed himself Messiah. Perhaps he was Leheb’s partner. Perhaps he wanted the professor to reach him.

They also eliminated “preacher,” assuming it referred to the priest they had tracked down and arrested.
That left “Easter” and “rally.”

Süleyman, worn down from thinking, said to his partner:
“Wish Teresa were here. That smart French girl would think for us and solve it.”

“Seriously, why is her phone still off? We haven’t reached her for days. She wouldn’t do that.”

“Who knows, maybe she doesn’t want to be bothered in Cyprus. If I didn’t know her, I’d say she’s gambling,” Süleyman said with a grin.

Dr. William, however, was basking in the satisfaction of having broken through the intellectual fog.

“The biggest topic in our country these days is the election. Candidates are running intense rally schedules. What’s tomorrow?”

Süleyman shrugged: “Tomorrow is Saturday.”

“No, no—tomorrow is an important day: Easter. The perfect time to provoke Christians. Could be a bomb, could be an assassination.”

The demon hunters thought William’s reasoning made sense, but voiced the question gnawing at them:

“There are rallies all over the country. How are we supposed to know which rally they’ll target?”

“It’s hidden in his answer: ‘Maybe I’m Messiah, maybe I’m angel.’”

Süleyman smirked sarcastically:
“All right then, genius. You tell us—who is this Messiah or angel supposed to be?”

“Quite clear: Angela Merkel. You know, Angel means ‘Angel-cherub’ in English, and our Prime Minister will be in Stuttgart tomorrow—after major inaugurations—holding a rally in the city center.”

The Demon Hunters and William immediately set off. Dr. William kept reflecting on the answers Leheb had given.

“I still don’t fully understand whether describing this condition as confabulation is accurate,” he said.

“Yes,” William began to explain.
“He swapped his first and last name. According to his ID, he lived in Stuttgart and was born on Easter. He switched the positions of those two answers. He also inverted the citizenship and phone numbers. And I still believe that eleven-digit number has meaning. From his answers, we learn that we can reach his family by phone message, and that his greatest fear is being burned alive. When he says ‘I am Messiah,’ we should interpret it as him being Christian; when he says ‘my partner,’ we should interpret it as the unknown partner of the ‘owner of the clock.’ Wherever he worked, we can infer that he was a preacher on the second floor.”

“Fine, there’s confabulation—but is it constructed, or genuine? How can we know?”

“Yes,” William replied.
“He could be pretending to be someone with confabulation. Because while there are answers we know to be true—like him having lived in Stuttgart and being born on Easter—what’s also clear is that he is not a Christian and not officially a preacher of any religion. Yet, as is observed in confabulation cases, I did see frontal lobe damage in the MRI scans. So, considering that, I believe there is something wrong with Leheb’s brain, with his mind—though, as I said, I’m not entirely certain.”

Mark decided that when they returned to Forensics, the first thing they would do was get a new MRI of Leheb—right in front of his eyes.