The Pale Tower
Dimitris Ioannidis hauled the heavy iron gate of the caravanserai open, the rusted hinges screaming against the stone lintel, and stepped into the cold, damp darkness of the night, his breath pluming in the air as he checked the ledger in his hand, the pages brittle and stained with the grease of months. He was thirty-two years old, a border patrol officer who had spent the last two years...
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