Blowback

by Al Pessin

  Faraz repeated the oath, phrase by phrase.

  “I, Karim Niazi, a son of Islam, swear by almighty Allah, the merciful and beneficent, that I commit my body and my soul to His jihad, to ending the infidel occupation of the Holy Lands, and to establishing His law for all mankind. This I swear upon my life.”

  “Allahu akbar,” the men responded.

  “Allahu akbar,” Faraz said.

  Mahmoud embraced Faraz. “Now you may call me brother,” he said.

  Faraz smiled. “Thank you, my brother.”

  Each man embraced him in turn. Then they led him out of the room and into their bunkhouse, where he spent the rest of the night sleeping on a cot—his first night as a sand cat.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was pushing seven p.m. on Bridget’s second day in Baghdad, and she was secure chatting with Liz Michaels at the Pentagon about mission plans and efforts to build the Task Force Epsilon team.

  Robin came by Bridget’s cubicle. “I see we’ve got you properly seated and even online,” she said.

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. But we do hope for a five-star rating.”

  Robin had the casual banter of someone working in advertising or sales or some other normal job in a nice, safe, stateside office building—not what one might expect of a field-grade U.S. Army officer in a war zone. But Bridget knew that was normal. Even in a sandbagged facility that used to be a brutal dictator’s dining room, with bomb shelters outside the door, and even with a sidearm perched on her hip, for Robin, this was just another day at the office. That had been Bridget’s life, once. Now it was her life again, minus the sidearm.

  “We’ll see about that rating,” Bridget said.

  “Wanna grab some chow?”

  “Thanks, but I’ve got a pile of work to do.”

  “C’mon, it’s New Year’s Eve. Unless you have a date, of course, which would be impressively fast.”

  Bridget laughed. “No. No date.”

  “Come on, then. The contractor hired these women from Bulgaria or Croatia or someplace, and they are making their specialty, chicken Kiev. It is to die for.”

  “Bad metaphor in a war zone.”

  “You be the judge.

  “All right. But you’ve probably raised my expectations way too high.”

  * * *

  Their trays weighed down by chicken, mashed potatoes, and assorted add-ons, Bridget and Robin found a free table in the dining facility’s annex, a large tent with wooden floors and plastic windows that made it look like a greenhouse. The chicken Kiev was amazing, and the mashed potatoes were passable.

  The desserts were large and, except for the water, the beverages were sugar-heavy. This was a meal designed for muscular men who were burning a lot of calories making war. Bridget would have to be careful, and also find out where the gym was.

  “How long have you been here?” Bridget asked.

  “Coming up on eight months, four to go,” Robin said. “Hardest part is being away from my kids.”

  “Oh, jeez. How many kids do you have?”

  “Three. Youngest was a year old when I left.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Tell me about it. She thinks Mommy is a character in an online TV show. The other two are just mad at me.”

  “They’re with your husband?”

  “Yes. Jeremy. Saint Jeremy. Former chopper pilot. He got out two years ago, but I was too pigheaded. My mom helps out, and his, too.”

  “Wow. My hat’s off to you, and Saint Jeremy.” Bridget raised her water bottle in a toast.

  “Yeah, well, it’s probably a huge mistake. How about you?”

  “Oh, well, yeah, no kids, no husband, saintly or otherwise. Boyfriend shot up in the other war is recuperating at my place outside D.C.”

  “You meet him in Afghanistan?”

  “No, after. I was academy, intel, two tours. That was enough for me. Got out, got the PhD, got a nice normal job at the Pentagon—well, as normal as that place can be. Then my boss decided to send me here.”

  “Well, congratulations. I’m sure it’s a huge honor.” Now Robin toasted Bridget.

  “Oh, absolutely.” They laughed.

  “And I guess there’s no point asking what exactly you do,” Robin said.

  “No, sorry.”

  “Don’t worry. I don’t know what most of the people here do.” Robin leaned in conspiratorially. “And between you and me, I don’t think they know, either.”

  “I’m starting to feel at home already,” Bridget said.

  A tall man with broad shoulders, a barrel chest, and a shaved head, wearing nonmilitary khakis, came from behind Bridget and stopped at their table.

  “Good evening, Robin. How’s the best-looking major in the army?” he asked in a Georgia old-boy drawl that Bridget thought he had to be faking. Then he turned his larger-than-life smile on her and asked, “And who is your equally ravishing friend?”

  Robin rolled her eyes. “Be careful, Carter. You do know my gun is loaded.”

  “I do, indeed, as you have pointed that out on numerous occasions.”

  “Bridget, this large Georgia Bulldog is Carter Holloway, of Spotlight Security. He is to be avoided at all costs. Carter, this is Bridget Davenport of... may I say?” Bridget nodded. “Of the Defense Intelligence Agency. And this is her second day, so be nice.”

  Carter moved back, as if offended. “When am I ever not nice, Major? Okay. Don’t answer that.” He extended his thick hand toward Bridget, and she shook it. “Ms. Davenport, welcome to Baghdad. Lord knows we can use some intelligence around here.” He said “here” like “heeah.”

  “Spotlight has quite the reputation,” Bridget said. Spotlight’s reputation was for blasting through missions with little regard for rules of engagement or civilians in their path. The firm was useful, taking on everything from convoy security to special ops–style missions when the U.S. military didn’t have the assets or the stomach to do them itself. But Spotlight’s approach to its work made a lot of people uncomfortable.

  Carter parried the jab. “We have a reputation for being very good and occasionally very bad.” The look in his eyes said he was not talking only about paramilitary operations.

  Bridget ignored it. “What do you do for them?”

  “I do whatever the army tells me to do . . . or the navy, or the marines, or the air force, I guess, and certainly whatever the DIA tells me to do.” He gave her a cocky smile and a half wink.

  “You sound quite versatile,” Bridget said.

  “I try, ma’am. I do try. And now, before Major Stern reaches for her sidearm, I shall try to get some of that chicken Kiev, lest the army grunts eat it all. It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Davenport.”

  “Bridget, please.”

  “Bridget. Robin, I’ll see you around the campus, and I do hope you will continue to resist the urge to shoot me.”

  Carter gave them a nod and moved toward the service area.

  “He’s quite a character,” Bridget said.

  “That he is,” Robin replied. “But he’s far from the worst of them.”

  “Good to know. I’d forgotten what it’s like.”

  “Oh, yeah. So many men, so few women, so little else to do except work. What happens in Baghdad stays in Baghdad. It’s Vegas without the slot machines.”

  Bridget laughed. “Sounds just like Kabul. I could tell you some stories.”

  “I could tell you some back, and everyone knows I’m married with children.”

  Chapter Twenty

  For Karim Niazi, still wearing his American clothes and carrying his U.S. passport, the New Year’s Eve red-eye to Istanbul was uneventful. The plane was only half full, with a mix of international tourists and Turkish businessmen. When most of them headed into the city or changed to flights for Ankara or the beach, Karim strolled as casually as he could toward the gate for the flight to Diyarbakir in the east.

  He was traveling alone, but he had the sense that ey
es were on him. Probably two sets, at least—one from Mahmoud’s organization, one from Bridget’s.

  Diyarbakir’s small airport was not the closest one to the Syrian border, but it was a safe choice, frequented by journalists, aid workers, and a few intrepid tourists, which is what Karim claimed to be at the security check.

  Diyarbakir was the center of Turkey’s Kurdish region, with language and cultural ties to Kurds in Iran, Iraq, and Syria across the nearby borders. The Turkish government was wary of anything that could lead to support for Kurdish independence, so the airport had extra security. Mahmoud had assured Faraz that an American with a return ticket, tour book, and dollars to spend would breeze right through.

  Faraz put his ticket and the American passport of Karim Niazi through a slot in the bulletproof glass that protected the security officer.

  “How long in Diyarbakir?” the officer asked in stilted English muffled by the barrier.

  “One week. You see my ticket.”

  The officer took his time with the papers. “Yes. Okay. Welcome.” The man slid the paperwork back to Faraz.

  Diyarbakir’s small airport provided the typical mob of overaggressive taxi drivers. Faraz surrendered to one of them and gave him the address of the guesthouse where Mahmoud had booked a room for him.

  He had trouble sleeping. The next day at noon, he would reenter the world of jihad.

  * * *

  In the morning, Faraz left early, pausing only to drink a small cup of Turkish coffee and pay his bill.

  Tour book in hand and the rest of his belongings in his backpack, Faraz walked through the gate into the old town to savor his last few hours of freedom.

  He admired the architecture of the stone houses with rounded windows and white abstract decorations. The streets were quiet at that hour. A few shopkeepers were just sliding up their security gates or dumping buckets of soapy water onto the cobblestones. They looked like a cross between Arab and Turk. The women favored colorful long skirts and blouses, with hijabs placed casually over their heads and necks, as if only for show.

  It was colder than London, but dry, a welcome relief. Faraz was glad Mahmoud had given him a sweater and a lined denim jacket.

  He noticed a heavy police presence, men in Western-style uniforms carrying automatic weapons pointed at the ground. He had to trust that his new friends knew how to avoid the authorities when the time came.

  Faraz stopped for a breakfast of scrambled eggs with tomatoes, homemade bread, and more sweet coffee. Then he browsed souvenir shops, where he politely declined “the finest quality merchandise at the lowest possible price.”

  With prayer time approaching, Faraz checked the map in his tour book and set a course for his rendezvous.

  The Great Mosque of Diyarbakir looked more like a market from the outside, two stories high with a series of doors topped by rounded windows. In the middle was a taller section, crowned with a minaret. This was not anything to compare to the grand mosques of Istanbul or Arabia or anywhere else.

  The inner courtyard was somewhat more impressive—columns topped with rustic engravings of Koranic verses. And inside the building, arches held up the high ceiling over pale blue carpeting designed to look like individual prayer rugs. At midday, light flooded in through the transoms.

  By the time Faraz got there, it was about half full. He had been told to find a spot near the back, so he waited, pretending to admire the engravings, until the room filled up. As the imam started to chant the prayers, Faraz took a place in the next-to-last row and began to say his prayers.

  When the service ended, he greeted the men on each side, as was customary, but did not follow them to the exit. He went the other way, to the back wall, and again feigned fascination with the décor.

  A young man approached him. “Salaam aleikum, my brother.”

  “Aleikum salaam,” Faraz replied.

  “You are a visitor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Welcome.” Then the stranger added the code phrase Faraz was expecting. “These carvings are from the sixteenth century. They have survived many invaders.”

  Faraz gave the required response. “They’re beautiful, but difficult for me to read.”

  The man smiled. “Perhaps you will have lunch at my father’s house.”

  “It is my honor,” Faraz said, and the young man led him out of the mosque.

  Sadly, there was no lunch at the man’s father’s house. Instead, there was an alley with two men and a small, windowless van. They checked Faraz’s backpack and frisked him.

  Faraz thanked the young man from the mosque and got into the back of the van, where he found wooden floorboards and crates to sit on. There was a paper bag with a small oval Kurdish bread and a bottle of water. Faraz noticed an AK-47 under the front passenger seat. The driver closed a curtain so Faraz could no longer see or be seen and put the van in gear.

  * * *

  While Faraz was heading into the Turkish countryside, Bridget was on a call with Will. He had just woken up and sounded sleepy.

  “Maybe I should call back later when you’re awake,” she said.

  “No, I’m fine. Cat woke me half an hour ago. Anyway, I have a packed day of video games and physical therapy ahead. Won’t have time for chitchat.” The sarcasm came through the connection loud and clear.

  “Sounds like your world sucks as much as mine.”

  “More. At least you’re where the action is.”

  “Only action we have here is mealtime and the occasional shelter drill.”

  That got a laugh out of Will. “That’s not how I remember downrange tours.”

  “Me, neither. But I’m a headquarters rat now.”

  “Poor you.”

  Bridget felt resentment in that one. She didn’t have an immediate response. Cue the awkward silence.

  Will filled it, softening after his jab. “I miss you, babe, wish I could be there with you.”

  Real feelings. Dangerous territory. The last thing Bridget needed was to add “lovesick” to her list of frustrations. She was sad that they were separated but felt that being an adult meant dealing with it.

  “I think we have to keep working on the nickname,” she said.

  Will didn’t answer.

  “Sorry,” Bridget said. “Bad answer. I miss you, too, of course. I guess I feel like saying it only makes it worse.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” he said. “I don’t know. Any word on how long your deployment will be?”

  “No. This thing’s just getting started.”

  “Hey, Bridget.” Robin’s voice came from two cubicles away. “Want to get some chow?”

  “I’m on a call,” Bridget shouted back.

  “Who’s that?” Will asked.

  “Just a friend asking if I want to get some food.”

  “A friend?”

  “Yes, a friend.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Will! C’mon, you want a list of the people I’ve met over here?”

  “No. Sorry. Okay, so I’m a shithead.”

  Bridget made him wait a couple of seconds. “Apology accepted. Look, shithead, I know it’s hard being left behind. You did it to me, remember?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Her name is Robin, by the way.”

  “Thanks. Give her my regards.”

  “Sure. Let’s talk later.”

  “Okay.”

  Bridget hung up and stared at her locked computer screen. She and Will had had a long-distance relationship for longer than they’d been in the same place at the same time. Having him at her apartment had been nice, but the memory had a feeling of unreality about it. Now that they were apart again, this seemed like the norm. A totally unsatisfying norm.

  * * *

  After an hour, the men stopped the van and went into the back. They removed some of the floorboards, revealing a crawl space.

  One of the men looked at Faraz. “Kontrol noktasi,” he said.

  Faraz returned a blank look.

  Th
e man looked at his colleague. They seemed to be trying to remember the word. The driver provided it. “Checkpoint.” Then he added, “You, down.”

  Faraz had to bring his knees to his chest to fit. The men tossed in his backpack. When they put the boards back on, there was not an inch of spare space.

  The van started moving again. Faraz felt every bump in the road as he lay on the bare steel of the vehicle’s floor. His tomb had a limited supply of air and an ample supply of exhaust fumes.

  They slowed to a stop, then moved a bit several times. Faraz heard the driver speaking to someone. The driver’s tone was bright. But Faraz’s fluent English and Pashto and limited Arabic did little to help him understand the Turkish conversation.

  Faraz tried to breathe evenly. The dust from the road made him need to sneeze. He managed to get his hand to his face so he could rub his nose.

  He heard the rear doors open, and there was more conversation as, Faraz imagined, IDs were being checked. Questions were asked and answered, but Faraz didn’t know what they were. Again, he stifled the urge to sneeze. He felt a cramp forming in his left calf and raised his toe as high as he could to fight it.

  Finally, the doors slammed, and the van started moving again.

  Faraz breathed through his mouth, still massaging his nose. It seemed like a long time before the men removed the floorboards. Faraz sneezed immediately, and the men laughed. He also reached down and pulled his left toe up to ease the muscle that was still threatening to cramp. The men helped him out of the hole.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  After two hours, Faraz felt a slight turn to the right as the van went off the paved roads onto a dirt trail. He held onto his seat as they bounced along for another ten minutes.

  When they stopped, someone outside opened the rear doors. The flood of light blinded Faraz, but after a few seconds, he saw a man and a woman smiling in front of an old house surrounded by overgrowth. There were farm fields in the distance.

  “Welcome, mate.” The man shook Faraz’s hand and helped him out of the van. “I’m Trevor. You made it this far, so let’s celebrate, eh?” The accent was Australian, and the enthusiasm seemed fit for a gathering with shrimps on the barbie, as did his jeans, cotton sweater, and flip-flops. He was thin, and his beard was ragged.