Blowback

by Al Pessin

  On the first ring, a man’s voice said, “Aywah.” Yes.

  Rasheed gave the name he had been told to give. He answered the questions as he had been instructed. By the time the call was finished, he had his mission.

  * * *

  Walking home on another indirect route, Rasheed’s mood was sour. He was committed to his path, and he knew it came with responsibilities. He had also known that the easy money would not be easy forever. But, why now? Oh, Allah, not now.

  He threw the phone into a reeking dumpster behind a restaurant and made the last turn for home.

  * * *

  “You are late,” his wife Nur admonished when he came through the door. Their two-year-old son ran to greet him and wrapped his little arms around Rasheed’s right leg.

  “I am sorry, my love. Late customers.” He hugged the boy and mussed his hair.

  “You do not look like you are late for happy reasons,” Nur said.

  “Truly. I was only upset to keep you waiting.”

  “Did you lose your phone, too?”

  Rasheed gave a sheepish smile. “I am sorry. I should have called.”

  “Sit,” Nur said. “Your dinner is getting cold.”

  As Rasheed ate, he watched Nur tidy up the kitchen and listened to his son laughing in the next room, watching a cartoon on TV. Rasheed reminded himself that he was the luckiest man in the world. He was a simple merchant. He made a decent living, nothing more. He was short and thin. His dark hair seemed to be perpetually greasy. Yet he had married this beautiful woman, surprising all his friends, and they had that wonderful son, with another on the way, inshallah.

  Nur’s anger would fade. He would do this little job, collect his bonus, and buy her a new dress. In her eyes, and in his own, he would be as rich and noble as a prince.

  * * *

  When they had put the boy to sleep and gotten into their small bed, Rasheed snuggled up behind Nur, kissed her gently on the neck, and wrapped his arm around her round belly.

  “You know me too well,” he said.

  “Of course I do,” she replied, twisting her neck so he could see her smile. “But you have still not told me why you were in a sour mood, especially if you had customers. Did they keep you and then not buy?”

  “No. But supplies in the shop are low. I must go to the north tomorrow to buy more.”

  “It is dangerous in the north.”

  “I know. That is why I was troubled when I returned home. But life goes on. To sell, I must buy. And those old friends in the countryside, who are worse off than we are, they must sometimes sell.”

  “Can you not send someone?”

  “Who would I send? The cost would erase my profit.”

  “I know. But I must ask.” She took his hand from her belly and kissed it.

  He pulled her tight and rubbed against her. Nur reached back to touch him. He reached under her nightshirt.

  They made gentle love and succeeded in not waking the boy, who snoozed in his crib in the same room.

  * * *

  Rasheed slipped out of bed before dawn. He washed and dressed, then said his prayers in the kitchen. He returned to the bedroom to kiss Nur and their son.

  Nur woke briefly, and he patted her belly. She squeezed his hand and went back to sleep.

  Rasheed pulled his jacket tight in the predawn chill as he made his way to his friend Ibrahim’s car lot.

  He found Ibrahim praying the early prayers in the small trailer that served as his office and bedroom. Ibrahim greeted him with a two-fisted handshake and a triple kiss, left-right-left. He led Rasheed to a small pickup truck. It was badly dented. As far as Rasheed could tell through the caked-on desert sand, the truck was gray, and there was rust around the wheel wells. But Ibrahim assured him it ran well and, of course, came at a special price for his good friend.

  “It will not leave me stranded in the desert?” Rashid asked.

  “Impossible,” Ibrahim said. “And to prove it, I will take no money for the rental until you return.”

  “Thank you, my friend.”

  * * *

  Rasheed drove northeast out of the city, roughly paralleling the Turkish border, as the sun rose over the dunes. He was pleased that the truck’s radio worked, and he hummed along to classical Arabic tunes as the kilometers sped by.

  He cleared two government checkpoints without any problems. He had the proper identification and the proper bribes.

  The truck performed as Ibrahim had promised, and by midday Rasheed had stopped to purchase some goods so that his cover story would hold up with Nur and anyone else who asked why he had traveled to the war zone. He also bought some men’s clothes, which he normally didn’t carry. He thought they might be helpful for the real purpose of the trip.

  After midday prayers at a village mosque, he bought a deep-fried meat pie from a vendor and sat at a picnic table to eat it. He struck up a conversation with a large man sporting a bushy moustache and a Western-style vest.

  “Have you traveled the road between here and the Iraqi border?” Rasheed asked. “I know a village there where I can buy some excellent handicrafts.”

  “Dangerous,” the man said. “Much fighting these days.”

  “Assad’s men this far north?”

  “No,” the man said with evident disdain. “Infidels. And brothers fighting brothers.” He ate the last bite of his meat pie.

  “Ach, terrible,” Rasheed said. “Where is that?”

  “Not far from here. Near Dawaniya village.”

  “I shall be careful.”

  “To be careful, you should return to the south. Ma’a salaama, akhooee.” Go in peace, my brother.

  Back in his truck, Rasheed thought of Nur. She would be worried, even though she knew there was no cell service in much of the area where he was traveling. If he continued, he would not get home before dark. It would not be the first time he had stayed away overnight on a buying trip. But she didn’t like it. He didn’t like it, either.

  He could go home, call the number, tell them he had failed. But they would be angry. Surely, the money would stop. Also, Rasheed believed in what he was doing. He was not the type of man to join a militia, but he could do this. He could go for a drive through his own country. He could talk to people. He could pass on a message, if he got the chance. He could make a phone call and report what he learned. Someday, he would be able to tell his son he had not sat idly by while the tyrant and the Iranians tried to destroy his country, that he had done what he could for the cause of a free Syria.

  Rasheed started the truck and swung southeast toward Dawaniya, across the narrow triangle of Syria that separated Turkey from Iraq.

  * * *

  Rasheed stopped at a local gas station—a crossroads collection of jerry cans manned by a teenager. The boy pointed him toward the site of the brother-on-brother battle a few nights earlier.

  Rasheed arrived at the still-smoldering ruins of al-Jazar’s camp ten minutes later. He eyed the damage from the gate, afraid to go inside. He said a prayer for the dead and continued along the road. If the man he was looking for had been there, he might well be dead. But having come this far with no problems, Rasheed decided to explore farther toward the border and take a different road home.

  He passed a dune, not knowing Nic lay dead near the top under a thin blanket of blown sand. He didn’t see the American outpost on the other side. He went through the intersection where Faraz had stopped and followed the road around to the right. A short time later, he came upon a proper gas station—one real gas pump and a shack.

  Rasheed slowed the truck but decided not to stop. He saw a thin old man struggle up from a broken wicker chair, hopeful of making a sale. Rasheed gave him a wave and got a disappointed shrug in return.

  The road wound between dunes until it brought Rasheed to a small rise. He stopped to take in the view. Ahead and to his left was a lonely grove of desert trees. A short distance beyond, he saw a camp of some sort. There were men on guard duty outside the gate
and more looking over the wall, presumably standing on some sort of platform behind it. They all had guns, and even at that distance they looked fearsome.

  In the distance were the hills of Iraq.

  Normally, Rasheed would have turned back, avoided going anywhere near the camp. But this was not a normal trip. He should approach, see what he could learn. It would be dangerous, but they had no reason to think he was anything other than what he was, a merchant with goods to sell.

  The vehicles came from behind Rasheed so quickly that they were upon him before he could react. They skidded to a halt, one ahead, one beside, and one behind. The men got out quickly and pointed their weapons at him.

  “Who are you?” the man in charge asked. “What are you doing here?”

  Rasheed raised his hands and reached through the window to be sure they could be seen. “I am Rasheed Abu-Ramzi, a merchant from Aleppo. I have wares to sell. Please, look in the truck.”

  The leader cocked his head. One of the fighters lifted the tarp that covered the goods, jumped into the truck, and rummaged through to be sure there were no weapons or other contraband.

  “You are foolish to come here for a few dinar,” the leader said. “Get out of the truck.”

  Rasheed complied, and the commander searched him and the cab.

  “What shall I do with you?” the man asked.

  “Please, my brother, is that your camp? I have clothing and cigarettes and other items for your men. Best prices in all of Syria.”

  The man snorted. He looked Rasheed up and down. Rasheed hadn’t needed any disguise to appear to be a simple merchant. After several tense seconds, the commander shrugged. He ordered one of his men to drive Rasheed’s truck and put the merchant in the back of his SUV between two fighters.

  The vehicles kicked up a cloud of sand as they sped the few hundred meters to the camp.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  When they dismounted, the commander introduced himself. “I am Nazim. You are welcome here. I will send my men to look at what you have brought. I warn you, do not cheat them.”

  “Never, sahib. Never would I cheat our brave mujahideen.”

  As Nazim walked away, Rasheed noticed the bloodstain on his shirt.

  Once Rasheed was no longer seen as a threat, he was welcomed, in keeping with Syrian tradition. The men were respectful. One brought him a glass of tea. Most of them bought a shirt or pair of pants or sandals. This was turning out to be a surprisingly profitable stop, in spite of the “special discounts” he was giving them.

  After an hour, Nazim came out of the headquarters building. “You will eat with us,” he said as he passed by, without waiting for a response.

  Rasheed would rather have gone back to the town where he’d had lunch. But the commander did not leave any room for discussion. The merchant packed up, and one of the men led him to an outdoor seating area, where Nazim gestured for him to sit at his table.

  Over a meal of rice, chicken, and vegetables, with yesterday’s pita, Nazim pumped Rasheed for news from Aleppo and Damascus, and from his trip through the northeast. Rasheed was a font of information, providing insights from news he was able to access that the fighters could not get in the middle of the desert.

  When the conversation finally lagged, it was Rasheed’s turn to get some information. “I have heard about brother-on-brother fighting. Is this true?”

  Nazim frowned. “Yes, it is true. There are some who want to fight their own wars. Assad can win a dozen small wars, but he will lose one big one. That is why we must unify all the brothers.”

  Rasheed nodded, as if that were the wisest analysis he had ever heard. “What you say is true, my brother. That is why the war has gone on so long.”

  “Indeed.” Nazim gnawed on a piece of bread. “We were in one such battle.” He snorted. “Two, actually.”

  “Your injury?” Rasheed asked.

  “Yes.”

  “May Allah restore your health.”

  “We captured one fighter, one of those who refuses unity. The coward attacked us from behind. Foiled my strike on the infidels.”

  “Your strike?”

  “Yes. I saw an opportunity to strike at the infidels and took it. This man intervened, killed several of my men, the dog. Now, the infidels have increased their defenses, and I will have to explain to my commander.”

  “Disgraceful.”

  “Yes. And, like the infidels, he came from far away to fight us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He is from Afghanistan, ibn zina.” Son of a whore.

  Rasheed couldn’t believe his luck. He had been sent to find a sand cat, an American operative from Afghan parents who had infiltrated the mujahideen and gotten involved with their feud. It seemed strange to him. When the contact on the phone first said it, Rasheed had asked him to repeat the information.

  Now, he couldn’t believe he had found this sand cat. Maybe. Surely, there couldn’t be more than one Afghan who fit that description.

  “I want to interrogate him,” Nazim continued. “But he claims to speak only Pashto. Our commander, the esteemed al-Souri, speaks the language, but he is away. The traitor will live another day or two, until he returns.”

  “I used to speak a little Pashto,” Rasheed offered.

  “Why is that?”

  “I used to speak a little bit of many languages, from when traders and tourists came to Aleppo.”

  Nazim’s expression brightened for the first time since Rasheed had arrived. “You must try to speak to him.”

  “Oh, Commander. I only spoke a few words. I may not remember—”

  “Nonsense. You will speak to him.” Nazim got up, their dinners only half eaten. “Come,” he said to Rasheed. “I will take you to the prisoner.”

  * * *

  Rasheed recoiled when Nazim pushed open the door to Faraz’s shed. First, it was the smell that shocked him. Then it was the sight of the man.

  He was bruised and bloodied, curled up in a corner, surrounded by urine stains and feces. His hands were tied in front of him. The man drew himself tighter into the fetal position and covered his head when Nazim approached.

  Rasheed stayed outside, but one of the fighters pushed him forward. He stood behind Nazim, trying not to look at the prisoner and taking shallow breaths to avoid the stench.

  “Up!” Nazim shouted.

  The man moved slowly, in evident pain. Nazim grabbed him by the hair and pulled him to a kneeling position.

  Faraz kept his eyes down. His hands protected his crotch.

  Nazim let go of the hair and wiped his now bloody and greasy hand on Faraz’s shirt. He stepped aside and said to Rasheed, “Ask him why he attacked us.”

  “I am sorry, Commander. I am not sure my Pashto is good enough.” Rasheed coughed and turned away. He felt sick to his stomach but controlled the urge to vomit.

  “Ask him!” Nazim ordered.

  Rasheed turned back and forced himself to look at Faraz. “Yes, sir,” he said. He switched to Pashto, racking his brain for every one of the maybe two dozen words of the language he had ever learned. “Why,” he said. “Why, um, hit them?”

  Faraz looked up at Rasheed. His hesitation cost him. Nazim slapped him hard with the back of his hand. Fresh blood flew out of Faraz’s mouth, and he nearly fell over.

  “Answer!” Nazim screamed in Arabic.

  “My commander’s orders,” Faraz lied in Pashto.

  “Orders,” Rasheed translated.

  “From who?” Nazim boomed.

  Rasheed translated, and added, “I am with you.”

  Faraz let surprise flash on his face. Rasheed hoped Nazim didn’t notice.

  “Commander al-Jazar,” Faraz said.

  Nazim understood that. “Liar!” he shouted. “That dog is dead, killed when I destroyed his camp.”

  Rasheed translated what he could.

  Faraz shook his head. “Injured. He gave the command before he died.” It was close enough to the truth.

 
Rasheed translated the basics again.

  Nazim kicked Faraz in the chest and sent him falling back onto the floor. “The coward!” Nazim exploded.

  Rasheed didn’t translate that. Instead, he said, “Message. Big danger coming. Call your mother.” His limited Pashto was a hinderance. He couldn’t say “intelligence reports indicate a major terrorist attack is imminent. Call headquarters ASAP,” or anything close to that. He could only hope Faraz understood, and that the Syrians around him didn’t notice that his Pashto translations weren’t matching Nazim’s Arabic.

  From the floor, Faraz made a sort of half nod. Rasheed hoped that meant he had received the message.

  Rasheed couldn’t imagine what a man in Faraz’s position could do with the order to call headquarters, or what “big danger” could possibly concern him as he appeared on the verge of death himself. But as badly as Rasheed felt to see someone in such a situation—particularly someone on his side of the conflict—there was nothing he could do about it.

  It wasn’t his job to save the man, anyway. His job was to find him, pass on the message, and perhaps receive a message in return. That last part was impossible, but to his great surprise and relief, the rest of his mission was almost completed. All Rasheed had to do now was make a phone call. Then he could go home to Nur and his son. Soon, a bonus would be delivered to his shop, and he’d be welcoming his second son into the world with money to spend on the celebration.

  Even in that awful, stinking shed, with a man on the floor barely alive, Rasheed had to suppress a smile.

  * * *

  Back outside, Nazim turned to Rasheed. “You did well, my friend. A few words can make a big difference.” Nazim looked at the sky. “The roads are not safe at night. You will stay here. My men will take you to the crossroads in the morning.” Without waiting for a reply, Nazim walked away toward the headquarters.

  Later, lying on a thin mat in a room with three of Nazim’s men, Rasheed couldn’t stop thinking about Faraz. The man was a few dozen meters away, but there was no way to help him. It was a shame. It was also a shame that Rasheed had risked his life, and left his wife frantic, for nothing, in the end—only to tell the Americans their man could not help them.