by Tom Clancy
I give him a bleak smile. We shake hands and then he rushes back toward the mess of burning debris.
8
SARAH Burns was having a wonderful time in Jerusalem. On the third night of her stay, she and Rivka decided to break the double-date routine and go off separately with their beaus. Rivka and Noel went to the movies. Sarah and Eli opted for a romantic stroll through the Old City and dinner in the New City.
Sarah had been brought up secularly and had no allegiance to any particular faith. She was one of those naïve but well-meaning people that was constantly bewildered by the fact that different races and religions found it difficult to get along. It was this purity of heart that made her so attractive, and she was well aware of it. Sarah often exploited this side of her personality in a charming, all-American girl-next-door persona. Academically she was very bright and accustomed to being an overachiever, but this didn’t mean she was particularly worldly. Her mother, and later her father, had raised her in a protective environment that sheltered her from the liabilities of the street. She was, therefore, unintentionally gullible—a trait she never realized might someday get her into trouble.
As she walked arm in arm with Eli, the young man with whom she was enamored, Sarah had no reason to worry about terrorists, suicide bombers, Arab-Jewish conflicts, or the peace process. The only thing on her mind that evening was whether or not she and Eli would eventually end up in a bedroom.
She had met Eli at the Northwestern University library during her sophomore year. Rivka Cohen belonged to a campus social club of Israeli students. She had arranged to study with a boy she was interested in, a fellow named Noel Brooks. Rivka asked Sarah to come along because Noel might bring a friend. Sarah needed to study for an exam so she thought, why not? She and Rivka found themselves at a table in the library and after a while Noel showed up with a companion. They sat across the table from the girls and introductions were made. His name was Eli Horowitz. Sarah thought he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. He had dark, curly hair, brown eyes, a closely cut beard and mustache, and was tall and muscular. He would have resembled Michelangelo’s David if the statue had sported facial hair. Sarah attempted to continue studying, but she found the young man’s presence quite distracting.
Eli, like Noel, was a graduate student from Israel. He was studying music and wanted to be a conductor. He didn’t specialize in any particular instrument but claimed to be able to play several “not very well.”
After the study session, the girls said goodbye to the boys and they went their separate ways. That night, Eli called to ask her out.
They dated for three months. Eli and Noel had an apartment off-campus and Sarah found herself often staying there. As a sophomore, she still lived in a dorm, but the rules were lax enough that she could sign out to “stay with a friend.” It got to where she rarely slept at the dorm.
Then, suddenly, both Eli and Noel were gone. Rivka and Sarah tried in vain to find out what had happened. At first they were hurt badly because they thought the boys had abandoned them without saying goodbye. Two letters arrived a month later, one for Rivka and one for Sarah. The boys explained that Immigration had deported them. Their student visas had been invalid—expired months earlier—and due to the heightened security rules regarding foreign students, they had no recourse.
Sarah kept in touch with Eli by e-mail once he was reestablished in Israel. He didn’t reply often, which concerned her, but she figured he was busy looking for work or whatever. When he did write, the e-mails were full of love and adoration, many times loaded with sexual suggestions and invitations for her to come and visit. This encouraged Sarah to carry a torch for the young man.
And now, ten months later, here she was walking with him through the historic Old City of Jerusalem. Eli gave her a running commentary as they strolled through the narrow streets.
“You see, it’s divided into four quarters. This is the Christian Quarter, the one we’re in now. Over that way is the Muslim Quarter, and over there is the Armenian Quarter. The Jewish Quarter is straight across, to the east.”
“You sound like a tour guide,” Sarah said, laughing.
“I worked as a tour guide when I was a teenager,” Eli said. “I’d take fat Americans all over the city in a company car. Sometimes I’d drive really fast and scare the hell out of them.”
She slapped his arm and said, “You’re awful.”
They approached a somber church that appeared to have been built in a patchwork-quilt fashion. It was made up of several architectural styles but was impressive by its sheer antiquity.
“This is the Church of the Holy Sepulchre,” Eli said. “It’s built on the site where the Catholics think Jesus was crucified.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. The Orthodox and Coptic churches believe it, too.”
“You mean not everyone thinks it’s here?”
“Nope. There’s a place in East Jerusalem where most Protestants think it happened. You want to go inside?”
“I don’t think so. I’d rather keep walking.”
“Okay.”
The couple moved south and east one block to the Lutheran Church of the Redeemer. Eli took her up the tower so they could see the excellent view of the Old City. As they gazed upon the marvelous vista, Sarah said, “You haven’t told me where you live. Do you and Noel share a place?”
“No, I live alone now,” Eli answered. “I have an apartment in East Jerusalem.”
“Oh, yeah? You going to show it to me?” She squeezed his waist flirtatiously.
He smiled. “Maybe. You know East Jerusalem is the Palestinian part of the city.”
“So?”
“I’m just saying.”
After descending the tower they walked to David Street and headed west. When they reached the Jaffa Gate, Eli said, “This is the traditional doorway between the Old City and the New City.” He pointed to an old building. “That’s the Crusader Citadel. That’s where they think King Herod hung out.”
“There’s so much history here,” Sarah said, wide-eyed.
“You hungry?”
“Starving!”
“Let’s go eat. I know a very famous place in the New City.”
They walked up the Jaffa Road past expensive gift shops and eateries until they came to the Village Green Restaurant.
“I’ve heard of this place,” Sarah observed.
“Some people think it’s the best restaurant in Jerusalem,” Eli said. They entered, secured a table, and looked at the menu.
“It’s kosher vegetarian,” Eli explained. “No meat for you carnivores.”
Sarah kicked him lightly under the table. “Hey, I like my hamburgers. But I like veggies, too. What’s good?”
“I like their pizza.”
She ended up ordering a meatless lasagna dish, vegetable soup, and a salad. Eli asked for a mushroom pizza and a bottle of kosher red wine.
As she watched him eat, she was reminded of her father’s probing questions. She liked Eli a lot, but it was true she didn’t know a lot about his background.
“Tell me about your parents,” she said.
He shrugged, chewing on a piece of food. “What’s to tell?”
“They live here?”
“Um, no. At one time they did.”
“Where are they now?”
“My mother is in Lebanon. My father was Jewish and my mother is Muslim. They didn’t stay together.”
“I didn’t know that,” Sarah said. “Why haven’t you told me that?”
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
“How old were you when . . . they divorced?”
He laughed inwardly. “They were never married. It was a bit of a scandal, I think. Not many Muslims and Jews have children together. My mother raised me until I was seven. Then . . . well, I went to live with relatives in Lebanon. I came back here when I was eighteen.”
“Where’s your father?”
“He’s dead.”
“Oh, I
’m sorry.”
He shrugged again. “It happened when I was young. It was a terrorist bombing. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Gee, Eli.”
“Your mother is dead, too, isn’t she?” he asked.
“Yeah. She died of cancer when I was fifteen.”
“And your father . . . is he still an ‘international salesman’?”
She looked at him sideways. “You say that like you’re skeptical.”
He laughed. “It’s just that you don’t seem to know much about what he does for a living. You never have.”
“That’s true, I guess.”
“You see him much?”
“No, not really. He lives in Baltimore, or rather a suburb of Baltimore.”
“That’s near Washington, D.C., you know,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s probably in the CIA.” Eli said it facetiously.
“Actually he did work for the CIA a long time ago. Not anymore, though. He was in the CIA when he met my mother.”
“No shit?”
“That’s right.”
“What was he, like a spy or something?”
“I really don’t know. Some kind of diplomat’s aid.”
Eli laughed. “Yep. Spy.”
She laughed with him. “I guess, maybe. Anyway, I don’t know what he does now.”
“I see.”
“So, Eli, are you going to stay in Israel or are you coming back to the States to get your degree?”
He took a sip of wine and said, “I’m thinking of going to Juilliard. I have an audition in the summer. I just have to get a visa.”
“Really? Juilliard?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So you won’t come back to Chicago?”
“I don’t think so, Sarah. But, listen, why don’t you come live with me in New York after you graduate? You’ve got one more year, right?”
The question took Sarah by surprise. “You want me to come live with you?”
“Sure. Why not? You like me, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah, but that’s . . . that’s like we’d be married or something.”
“No it’s not, silly. We’d just be living together.”
She was flustered. “I’ll have to get back to you on that one, Eli.”
“There’s plenty of time, I think,” he said. He reached across the table, placed his hand over hers, and lightly squeezed it. Sarah was taken aback by his show of affection. She had no idea that he cared enough for her to ask her something like that.
What would a future with Eli Horowitz be like? she wondered. As an English major she could probably get a job teaching somewhere in New York. She’d have to get a certificate from that state, of course. Or maybe she’d just stay at home and be a writer. That’s what she really wanted to do. Wouldn’t it be an idyllic existence? She a best-selling author and Eli a famous orchestra conductor?
Sarah turned over her hand so that she could squeeze his in return.
It just might work, she thought.
9
I set out in the Toyota Land Cruiser and head north from Baghdad. The Iraqi security forces stop me at two different roadblocks on the outskirts of the city. They’re very thorough. At the first one they ask to see my identity papers and passport. They ask me if I’m armed even though the papers indicate that I’m cleared with the Iraqi government to carry firearms. I comply by revealing the Five-seveN, but the SC-20K remains in the duffel bag. After a few minutes of suspicious looks and some frowns, they let me drive on. The second roadblock is much the same. They ask what I plan to do in Mosul and how long I’ll be there. I tell them what I think will appease them and they let me go.
The highway is a modern one—newly repaved after the beating it took during the war and subsequent months of unrest. The city was brutal with stop-and-go congestion on every major street, but here there isn’t much traffic. The open road feels good. I occasionally see military vehicles, even U.S. ones. Dilapidated pickup trucks and wagons carrying produce and other goods are fairly common.
The intensely bright sun beats down on the car, and I’m grateful that I remembered to bring an ordinary pair of sunglasses. The landscape is flat and barren. As I said before, it reminds me a little of southern Arizona. It’s a rugged, cruel country and I wouldn’t want to be stuck in the middle of the desert with no transportation. Thank goodness someone invented the air conditioner.
“Sam, you there?” Lambert sounds like what I imagine the Voice of Conscience to be. It’s tinny and small and is lodged deep within my right ear.
I take one hand off the steering wheel and press the spot on my neck to activate the transmitter. “Yeah, I’m here, Colonel.”
“How did everything go with Petlow?”
“Fine. He’s got his hands full, though. This is still a very rough place.”
“I know. Listen, I take it you’re headed up to Mosul?”
“I’m on the road now. I’ll be in Samarra in less than an hour.”
“Forget Mosul. You need to go to Arbil,” Lambert says. “That’s why I’m contacting you via the implant instead of with text. We’ve just received word that the Kurdish police there have captured a brand-new shipment of weapons. Nasty stuff, too. Lots of AK-47s, but a nice little pile of Stingers, too. They’ve made an arrest—the truck driver that was bringing them in. He’s not talking. The shipment is sitting in police headquarters in the town center. Since this is a fresh lead, I suggest you check it out before they move it. If you can determine where the arms came from, then you can follow the trail back to the source. Remember, that’s Kurdish territory. You have no authority there, so you’ll have to get in and out without the police knowing.”
“Right,” I say. “What’s the best route from where I am?”
“Our intelligence suggests that you continue on to Mosul and then go east from there to Arbil. The main highway from Baghdad to Arbil runs parallel to yours, and the connecting roads aren’t safe.”
“Roger that. Anything else?”
“That’s it for now. Good luck, Sam.”
“Roger that. Out.” I grip the wheel and keep driving. I eventually pass through Samarra and head toward Tikrit, the birthplace of Saddam Hussein. When I finally get through the roadblocks there, repeating the routine I perfected outside of Baghdad, I see nothing special about Tikrit. I’m happy to say there are no road markers proclaiming that “Saddam Hussein Was Born Here.”
Mosul is Iraq’s second-largest city. It’s just on the edge of what is considered Iraqi Kurdistan. From what I understand, we get the word muslin, the famous cotton fabric, from Mosul. Apparently that’s where it was first made. The ancient city of Nineveh is located outside of Mosul. I’ve heard there are a lot of archaeological ruins in the spot worth seeing if you’re in a tourist frame of mind, but I’m afraid I have business elsewhere.
Another roadblock, another song and dance with my identity papers, and I’m now driving east to Arbil. This is officially Kurd country, for Arbil is considered the Kurdish capital in Iraq. Both of the two main Kurdish political parties, the KDP and the PUK, have their headquarters in Arbil. Considered to be one of the world’s oldest cities, Arbil dates back past the Romans and Alexander the Great’s time to Neanderthal Man, whose relics have been discovered there. The modern portion sits atop a mound that’s been formed by successive building over centuries.
The scenery in Iraqi Kurdistan contrasts sharply with the rest of the country. Here there are high mountains and colorful, fertile valleys. The mountain ranges grow more impressive the farther north you go and are commonly referred to as “the Alps of the Middle East.” Throughout history the mountains acted as a natural barrier for a society that has been eager to preserve its culture. Ethnically, the Kurds have no relationship with Arabs. They were allies of the U.S. during the Iraq War, in theory at least. I wonder if I’ll be able to trust them.
The sun is setting as I approach Arbil. Lights up ahead indicate I need
to slow down—another roadblock. Four men surround the Toyota when I stop. They’re dressed in Iraqi police uniforms, but somehow I get the feeling that something’s not right. Two men carry rifles and the third has a handgun.
As soon as I lower my window, the man with a handgun points it in my face. “We’re going for a ride, friend,” he says in Arabic. These guys aren’t Kurds.
“I have my papers if you want to see them,” I say in his language.
“Shut up!” he commands again. He waits until his three companions get in the backseat of the car. The guy with the handgun goes around the car and gets in on the passenger side. He keeps it trained at my head.
The man without a gun sitting in the backseat says, “Now drive that way,” pointing to a dark dirt road leading off the highway. There’s nothing I can do but obey. I put the Toyota in drive and follow their directions. The road moves off into the thicket. Were it not for the headlights, I wouldn’t be able to see a thing.
“Where are we going?” I ask in Arabic.
“You’ll see,” the backseat driver says. “Just shut up and drive.”
Three minutes later we’re approximately a mile from the main highway. The man in back tells me to stop the car, leave the headlights on, and get out.
I have no choice but to comply. I open the door and step out, followed by all four men. It’s now very dark outside, but the car’s headlights illuminate the area well enough to see. The unarmed man, obviously the leader, roughly turns me around and pushes me against the car. “Get your hands up, on top of your head!” he orders.
I do so, but I’m getting pissed off. I’m not about to let these guys manhandle me. The asshole starts to frisk me. I’m thankful I left the Five-seveN in the glove compartment, but I need to think of a way to keep them out of the car.
“I’m with Interpol,” I say. “I have clearance with your government.”
“Shut up!”
The guy with the pistol grins at me. I see now that he’s missing three teeth and is the ugliest son of a bitch I’ve seen since I got to Iraq. “Where did you get the nice car, my friend?” he asks.