“What’s his name?” Dain asked.
“They call him Mr. Smith.”
“Where in Abadan is his office?”
“The Arab was unable to tell me that,” Chitai said. “He had never been to Abadan himself. He could only tell me what his tribesmen said when they returned.”
Hansen said, “There can’t be too many red-haired Americans in Abadan.”
“I don’t think we can count on the red hair,” Dain said. He turned back to Chitai. “Did the Arab say anything else?”
“Remember,” Chitai said, “he never saw the man himself. But he said that the American was large and strong, that his voice was somewhat higher than you would expect, and that his features were like those of any American.”
“Are they sure he’s American?” Dain asked.
“That’s what the Arab said,” Chitai replied. “But the Sanniya don’t know much about any nationality except their own.”
I said, “So we are to find one man, presumably an American, in Abadan, and all we know is that he is a large man with a voice somewhat higher than you would expect, and that he might or might not have red hair. Chitai, do you know how many Americans and British there are in Abadan?”
“I know there are many,” Chitai said.
“There are too many for your description to be of any use,” I said. “We need more details, some means of making a positive identification.”
“I realize that,” Chitai said. “Do you think I would come this long way without knowing how to find the man?”
“All right, how?” Dain asked.
“It is simple enough,” Chitai said. “We learned one fact of great value from the Arab. It seems that his tribe, the Sanniya Bedouin, are fighting a blood feud with the Suaid Ma’dan. The original quarrel was over grazing land; but the Bedouin and the Ma’dan have hated each other since the beginning of time, and they need no excuse for fighting. Therefore we can go to the Ma’dan—”
“No,” I said.
Chitai turned on me furiously. “You idiot!” he shouted. “The Ma’dan are always spying on the Sanniya, they know everything about them. We could get valuable information!”
“We could get our throats cut,” I said. “Go to the Ma’dan? Have you lost the little sense you had, Chitai?”
“I haven’t lost my sense; you have lost your courage.”
“It doesn’t take courage to go to the Ma’dan,” I replied. “It takes blind stupidity, with which you are plentifully endowed.”
Our quarrel might have grown serious, but Dain interrupted to ask who the Ma’dan were.
The Ma’dan, I told Dain, were marsh-dwellers who lived in the great swamps of southern Iraq, close to the Persian border. They could be found anywhere between the Tigris and the Euphrates, and on either side of the Shatt-al-Arab, from Al Qurna to Abadan. In fact, you could find the Ma’dan wherever the land was flooded and unfit for normal humans. Sometimes they were called Marsh Arabs, since they had the look and manner of Bedouins; but both Arabs and Ma’dan denied any racial association. The Arabs of southern Iraq and Iran said that the Ma’dan were a race of bastards without lineage. The Ma’dan denied this, claiming descent from the ancient Persians and Babylonians, and looking down on all Arabs.
Wherever the truth lay, I said, the Ma’dan had an unsavory reputation as murderers and thieves, especially among the neighboring Arabs. The two peoples feared each other; but perhaps the Arabs had more reason to fear, for the Ma’dan could raid and then retreat into their impenetrable swamps.
“People tell a lot of lies about the Ma’dan,” Chitai said as soon as I had finished. “The truth is, they are no better or worse than other men. They kill their enemies and help their friends, and they want to be left alone.”
“Everything you say is true,” I replied, “except that the Ma’dan have no friends.”
We disputed hotly on this point. Then Dain interrupted to ask us what our personal experiences with the Ma’dan had been.
Chitai had never so much as laid eyes on a Ma’di. I had seen several of them working in Abadan, but had never talked to them.
“Typical,” Hansen muttered. “Very typical. Plenty of gossip and warmed-up rumors, but not one fact you can sink your teeth into.”
I couldn’t resist telling Hansen what he could sink his teeth into, and Dain had another quarrel to stop. At last, when we were all friends again, Dain made his decision. Since we lacked any other source of information, we would have to visit the Ma’dan.
Chitai was pleased, of course; already he could feel the weight of his promised money resting in his hand. The thought of Ma’dan treachery didn’t disturb him, for a Turkoman can only be disturbed by the growling of his stomach. For myself, I was in a state of resignation. Fate had put me on this dangerous road, and had ordained that I climb mountains, cross deserts, and wade through swamps. My destiny was written on my forehead, invisible except to God, unavoidable except through God. No matter if it led to great riches or to a painful death, there was no avoiding my destiny. Under these circumstances, the True Believer submits reverently to the divine will.
We made our preparations for an immediate departure from Shiraz. Before we left, Dain drew Hansen to one side, shook his hand, and thanked him warmly for his cooperation. Hansen stared at him, and asked why he was saying this now. Dain said that he had been forced to take Hansen away from his regular job during an emergency, but that now the emergency was over, and it would be unfair to detain him any longer. Therefore, Dain said, he would now telephone Hansen’s company and explain everything, with a written explanation to follow, and with immediate payment for the truck and Hansen’s time, as well as for the inconvenience to Hansen’s company.
“Well,” Hansen said, “I see. Of course you’re right, the emergency of the transportation is over. But the case is not finished, and you still might need some assistance—”
Dain said that he couldn’t possibly ask Hansen to run any more risks; forgetting, I suppose, the dangers he was asking Chitai and myself to undergo.
Hansen nodded, looking extremely unhappy. I suppose it was a shock for him to be changed back so suddenly from a detective to a truck driver. Too great a shock, perhaps; for after a second, he said, “Mr. Dain, I would prefer not to leave the case at this critical moment. My conscience would bother me.”
Dain started to say something, but Hansen interrupted with more reasons.
“Aside from that, Mr. Dain, I think perhaps we are still in a state of emergency, and that you still need my help. I know that you don’t have a truck for me to drive at the moment; but suppose you get one later on? Also, I know the roads and docks around the Abadan area, and I’m handy with tools and weapons.”
They argued for a few minutes more, but Hansen refused to be swayed. Having gone this far, he wanted to see the adventure through to its end. Dain gave in at last, and told Hansen he was very glad to have him.
I was glad, too, for you want as many men as possible if you are entering Ma’dan country. A regiment would have been just about right; but that was clearly impractical, and I had to be satisfied with the four of us.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
We flew from Shiraz to Basra on the early morning flight. Soon the Zagros Mountains were behind us, and to our left we could see the pale gleaming curve of the Persian Gulf. Then the plane turned north, and we crossed the mouth of the Shatt-al-Arab and descended to Basra airport. Iraqi customs checked us through with no delay, and we hired a taxi. Our first destination was the village of Jazireh-ye-Sal-bukh.
Already we were in the marsh country of southern Iraq. Our road, three feet above the flooded rice fields, was the only firm thing in sight. This watery wasteland extends along both banks of the Tigris and the Euphrates, north halfway to Baghdad and south to Al Qurna, where it is said that Adam and Eve found the Tree of Knowledge. Below A1 Qurna, the two rivers join to form the Shatt al ’Arab, which flows south past Abadan to the Persian Gulf. In its lower reaches, from the Khiyin Cana
l to the Gulf, the Shatt al ’Arab forms the boundary between Iraq and Iran.
Our first destination, Jazireh, was on the Iraqi side of the river. Nearly opposite and to the south, was Abadan on the Irani shore. Between the two lay twenty miles of river and swamp. Somewhere in that wilderness we hoped to find the Suaid tribe of the Ma’dan, to buy or beg a valuable secret from them, and to escape with our lives. After that, we had only to proceed to Abadan Island and find an illegal American racketeer. Having seized our man, and disposed of his bodyguard, and made sure of our proof, and secured witnesses, we could then march him to the nearest Irani police station and demand his arrest, detention, extradition, and so forth.
Such were our modest ambitions, and I was not over-hopeful about any part of them. But I have a naturally pessimistic nature when it comes to the laying of plans. Too often an ambitious scheme merely tempts Providence into showing the futility of human desire. Such a lesson is undoubtedly good for the soul; but it is invariably bad for the body.
We drove through Sinbad’s ancient port of Basra, and continued along the Shatt-al-Arab. More rice fields came into view, and occasional stands of papyrus reed and bamboo. Herders trudged by with their water buffaloes, and an occasional mud village sprang up along the riverbank, wherever a few feet of solid land could be found.
Further to the south the villages became fewer; there was less land and more water, and even the road became soggy under our wheels. At last we came to Jazireh, perched all by itself on a gentle rise of land, and sinking lower every year. This was the last Arab village we would encounter. The road ended here and the deep swamp began.
We paid off our taxi and went into Jazireh to hire a boat and a boatman, for that was the only way we could reach the Ma’dan. But here we ran into difficulties. Although the people of Jazireh traded with the Ma’dan, and were known as good fishermen, they never ventured into the deep marsh. Man after man refused to transport us. We couldn’t even find anyone to sell us a boat; each family had only one, and depended upon it for their livelihood.
After an hour of this, I could see that Dain was losing his temper. I think he was close to commandeering a boat at gunpoint, much as he had taken Hansen’s truck. But luckily, we found a group of Sabaeans at the riverbank, and one of them agreed to take us to the nearest Ma’dan village for a very reasonable price.
We entered his boat without delay. Soon Jazireh was lost behind us, and we were gliding down the Shatt-al-Arab. For a while, the riverbank marched with us, straight and low and covered with a sparse withered grass. There was a scattering of huts along the shore, and from time to time we saw a boy leading a donkey, or a group of women laboring at the family wash. We even saw cultivated fields along the riverfront, planted by impoverished fallahin who hoped to gather one crop before the spring floods washed their fields and their homes into the Persian Gulf.
The river broadened, dividing into two streams around an island called Muhalleh. Then it split into three streams to go around Abu Dood, and then into a dozen streams separated by numerous long sandbars. After a while, we could no longer determine the banks of the Shatt-al-Arab, or any other landmark. But our boatman seemed to know where he was. Sometimes paddling and sometimes poling, he picked a route into the depths of the shoreless marshland.
I used to pride myself on a never-failing sense of direction; but I was hopelessly lost, unable to tell one channel from another. Each sandspit looked just like the last one, and each stand of bamboo or clump of reed resembled its predecessor. Not even the sun was any help, for it was hidden behind a thin gray layer of cloud. Never had I felt more helpless. Now I knew why the men of Jazireh stayed out of the marsh.
“I don’t like this damned place,” Chitai whispered to me. “I can understand the land, and perhaps I could even understand the ocean. But this devil’s mixture of the two …”
“Yes,” I said. “I, too, have lost my bearings.”
His eyes met mine, and for the first time a look of understanding and comradeship passed between us. We both glanced at Dain sitting stiffly in the bow, and then looked once again at each other.
Chitai put the thought into words. “My friend, that stone-faced American is going to get us both killed!”
“I don’t doubt it,” I said.
“By God!” Chitai said. “Has anyone ever heard of such a thing? Dain stumbles up mountains, across deserts, into swamps, and God knows where else—and all in order to stop one group of men from selling a little heroin to another group of men. But there’s been too much of this running and climbing and shooting. You know, Achmed, a man is born with only a certain quantity of luck, and when that is used up, he dies. Listen to me, Achmed—how much luck can we have left?”
Chitai’s talk of luck sounded vaguely blasphemous to me; but I also thought it made sense, so I nodded sadly.
“If Dain were to die …” Chitai began, then stopped and watched my face.
I should have blasted his Turkoman treachery there and then. But the fierce smothering heat had depressed my spirits. I was sick of the featureless waterland, and my nostrils were filled with the low-tide stench of the marshes. So I said nothing; but I turned my face away.
Chitai seized my arm fiercely. “Well, why shouldn’t he die? What does he mean to us? He is a foreigner and an unbeliever, while we are of the true faith, and we are both Iranis of ancient blood …”
He went on for a while in this vein with considerable eloquence. But I couldn’t help myself; I was forced to laugh when he spoke of “one religion, one heritage, one people—” exactly like a speechmaker from Radio Cairo. Our “one” religion was divided into Sunnis and Shias, and further divided into Ismailis, Wahhabis, and Sufis, and still further into Ibadis, Druzes, Quadianis, and God knows what besides. Our “one” heritage came to us piecemeal from Arabia, Africa, Europe, and Asia. And as for our “one” people— well, in Iran we are composed of tribes, clans, and settlements of Persians, Arabs, Turkomans, Turks, Sarts, Bakhtiaris, Greater and Lesser Lurs, and Baluchistanis—to name only a few of the more important divisions.
Knowing all this, I couldn’t restrain my laughter. Chitai gave me a look of hatred and deep reproach. But then his eyes filled with tears, and he said, “Achmed, I didn’t mean it! I am faithful, I stand by my pledged word—but oh, God, I am so miserable in this place!”
He began to sob, and I waited until he had returned to himself. I had never thought a Turkoman could be so high-strung; but I didn’t think any the worse of Chitai for his outburst. In fact, I liked him far better, for now I had caught a glimpse of the real man beneath all the bluff and swagger.
The other occupants of the boat were discreet enough to ignore this little scene, and we continued to paddle silently into the strange country of the inner marshes.
That Sabaean was a marvel of a boatman. The route must have been tattooed in his head, for he paddled without hesitation, down broad reaches and into winding, weed-choked passageways where each of a dozen entrances looked the same. Several times we were caught by an unexpected current and rushed sideways for a dozen yards; then I was glad for the boatman’s skill, and for the wide, stable bottom of his canoe. When the paddling was easy, we talked, and he told me some very improbable stories of the dangers of the swamp. All these Sabaeans have beards and wear red checkered khaffiyehs. Their sect is neither Moslem nor Christian. You always find their communities beside rivers, since their religious ceremonies require flowing water. They are highly skilled at building and repairing any sort of boat, and they trade extensively with the Ma’dan. By all accounts, they are reliable men.
Late in the day, we arrived at our first Ma’dan village. It consisted of perhaps two dozen houses, a few of which were surprisingly large. All were constructed entirely of reeds, which had been woven into bundles and lashed into place like lengths of timber. Mud and buffalo dung served as insulation, and the entranceways of the houses faced toward Mecca. Most interesting of all, the houses rested upon a thick mat of reeds, which supported t
he community above the water. I had heard before that the Ma’dan lived on man-made islands, but I had not believed it.
The Sheikh of the village made us welcome, and put coffee on to boil. He knew nothing of the Habbaniya Bedouin, or of the White Powder. Nor could he tell us where we would find the Suaid Ma’dan, since they were nomads who moved constantly in the marshes in search of grazing for their buffaloes. But he agreed to transport us next morning to the Tarqua’l, a Ma’dan tribe further to the east. Our Sabaean boatmen took his leave after receiving payment, and the Sheikh invited us to stay at his house.
We slept that night among the Sheikh’s buffalo calves, dogs, children, mosquitoes, and fleas. At first light, after a hasty breakfast, we were given a canoe and a boatman, and were sent on to the next village.
Two villages later, I freely acknowledged to Chitai how wrong I had been about the Ma’dan. They were usually suspicious of us, but their hospitality left nothing to be desired. They shared freely of the little they possessed, and more often than not they refused any payment, even when it was presented as a gift. Their country of the marshes was nearly as bleak as a desert, and as inexorable. Yet it had, like the desert, a special beauty of its own. Each sunrise and sunset bathed the shallow waters in a soft golden light, and the slender distant lines of reeds and palm tree were sketched against the sky in sooty black. A single heron was a joy to behold in that country of few sharp lines, and a flight of cormorants seemed as joyous as the first day of Creation.
The reeds grew higher as we continued to the east, reaching a height of twenty feet. We crept through them, and sometimes we frightened a wild boar, and sometimes a wild boar frightened us. I think we traveled for two days or three; but it seemed a year in that water-soaked land, for every part of the swamp was like every other, and even the Ma’dan villages could not be told apart, except for size.
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