“Sorry?” The Bolt Cutter rocked on his heels. “Why would I be sorry? And why would I leave when I’ve just found you sneaking out of Baghdad in a diplomatic vehicle?” He took another step toward her. “If I search your car, what will I find?”
“Nothing, nothing at all.”
“I tell you what I’d like to search.” Once again, the Bolt Cutter swapped his gun from hand to hand. “I’d like to search that foreign slut. Oh, yeah, then I’ll do the same to the Mansour girl. What’s her name? Hanan, right? Yeah, I think I’m going to take her in for questioning.” He bared his teeth. “If you know what I mean.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” the Bolt Cutter growled. “If I want to take the girl, I will. And then, Huda, I’ll come over to your house tomorrow night and show you a video tape of what I did to her. Maybe when I leave, I’ll take Khalid with me. Give him a little tour of Abu Ghraib.” He snickered. “I’m not Abu Issa, remember. I’m not interested in drinking tea and making nice.”
Huda searched for a way out. On her left, patchy scrub led to a tiny beach and a stretch of reed-clogged lake. On the right, head-high grass rippled in the breeze, so thick that four bodies could lie out there for days and no one would be the wiser. Only the birds would see them. Eventually, a circle of vultures in the sky would give their corpses away.
“Tell me what you want,” said Huda.
The Bolt Cutter tilted his head, eyed her up and down.
“I’m going to search your vehicle and everything in it, especially that girl in the back seat. Abu Issa likes to complain that I’m not thorough. Well, I’m gonna be real thorough with her.”
He laughed and slapped his hand against his tree-trunk thigh. A memory flashed through Huda’s mind: her mother had taken her to see a gypsy caravan with a dancing bear. As the animal loomed over her, swaying clumsily, she realized it could kill her with one swipe of its hairy paw. The Bolt Cutter came toward her, and Huda felt that same bone-deep chill.
“Back to the Land Cruiser.” He put his hand on the back of her neck and spun her about. “Get going. Now.”
Huda knew if he looked hard enough, he’d find her passport hidden in the lining of her handbag. He’d probably find Khalid’s birth certificate and Hanan’s as well. How would she explain that? Even an oaf like the Bolt Cutter would realize they planned to flee. On the far side of the windshield, Khalid leaned forward and whispered urgently into Ally’s ear. Huda prayed the girl wouldn’t hesitate, and that she’d slide into the driver’s seat, stomp her foot on the accelerator, and mow the Bolt Cutter down.
The Bolt Cutter shoved Huda between the shoulder blades. Khalid was right. She should have said no to the mukhabarat from the very beginning. Perhaps they would have sent her to Abu Ghraib, but at least it would have been her alone—not Khalid, not Hanan, and not Ally. Her diplomatic ID wouldn’t save her now. Not with a man like this.
Huda whirled about and shoved the Bolt Cutter in the chest.
“Leave them alone!” she shouted. “They haven’t done anything wrong.”
The Bolt Cutter blinked in surprise.
“I guess my gut was right. You’re hiding something.” He smirked and brushed her imaginary hand print from his chest. “If you like, you can confess now. But I’d love an excuse to beat it out of you. In fact, it’ll be my pleasure.”
Huda eyed the rippling grass, the scrub, the lake.
“Listen, you need to come with me.” She tipped her head toward the water. “The diplomat’s wife can’t see this or all our hard work will be ruined. And there’s a nice piece of gold in it for you.”
“What are you babbling about?”
Huda uncurled her hand. Ally’s wedding ring glittered in her palm.
“Come on.” She sidled toward the hedge of prickly salt cedar. “The longer we’re out here, the more suspicious she’ll get.”
The Bolt Cutter lumbered after her. Huda hurried toward the beach.
“This better be good or—”
Huda spun on her heel, wound her arm back, and slapped his face.
The Bolt Cutter’s mouth fell open. He touched his cheek. Huda prayed that she’d hear the Land Cruiser roar to life. If Ally kept her foot to the floor, she’d easily outrun the Bolt Cutter’s old Chevy. Huda slapped the Bolt Cutter again, grunting with effort.
“Shame on you.” She drew herself up tall. “What would your mother think? Does she know you spend your day harassing women and threatening young boys?”
“What the . . . ?”
“Do you have a sister?” Huda had succeeded in bluffing the soldiers at the checkpoint. She prayed she could do it again. “Would you like someone to treat her like that?”
The Bolt Cutter’s fleshy lips twisted. His palm hit her mouth like an oar and she tumbled onto the dirt. She tasted the metallic tang of blood.
“You’re going to regret that, you stupid bitch. And so will your son and the two whores with him.” The Bolt Cutter glanced toward the tiny beach. “And if Abu Issa somehow finds out, I’ll tell him you had an unfortunate accident while swimming. What’s he going to do, anyway? File another report? Put another black mark in my personnel file?”
The Bolt Cutter leaned over her, blocking out the sun.
“Of course, I’ll have to make sure that foreign slut doesn’t open her mouth. And the poor little rich girl too, after I’ve had some fun with her.”
Huda stared up at him. She’d often imagined how it might end. She’d never dreamed it would be washed in a lake’s cool breeze, surrounded by grass, with water birds soaring overhead. The Bolt Cutter glanced toward the lake.
“How long can you hold your breath, Huda?” He reached down and grabbed her by the shirt. “Let’s go find out.”
Huda jerked and twisted like a fish pulled from a river but the Bolt Cutter barely noticed. He dragged her toward the shore.
“Don’t do this!” she cried. “You’re making a mistake.”
“I’m sure I’ll find enough proof in your vehicle to justify a few bodies, but if not, I’ll plant something. I’ve done it before.” He dragged her through a patch of spiky rushes. “I’ve got to tell you, I’m looking forward to feeling your body go limp. That moment is always so good.”
“Don’t!”
“Clean up shouldn’t be a hassle. I know how to get rid of a body fast, even four of them.” He laughed carelessly. “And I know a guy in Fallujah who’ll pay real good money for that fancy Land Cruiser. He’ll give it a new paint job and have it over the border into Syria before sundown.”
“Listen to me.” Huda grabbed at his ankle. “Uday Hussein won’t like this. I swear, he’s going to hang your head on your mother’s gate.”
The Bolt Cutter stopped. He stared down at her, face haloed by sunlight.
“What did you say?”
“The president’s son has marked Hanan Mansour for himself. Uday’s expecting her at his palace this weekend.”
The Bolt Cutter blinked, brain creaking like a rusty cog.
“Uday has plans for the girl.” Huda crawled to her knees. “You can drown me in this lake, but that’ll be nothing compared to what he’ll do if you touch her before he does.”
He shook his head like an angry water buffalo.
“I saw you this morning outside Rania Mansour’s house.” Huda wiped blood from the corner of her mouth. “I told her exactly who you are. If her daughter doesn’t show up, she’ll know who’s to blame. Don’t you know Rania is the president’s favorite artist? She’s painting his portrait right now. These aren’t ordinary people you’re messing with. They’re not like you and me.”
The Bolt Cutter growled and kicked at the muddy beach. Blobs of silt splattered against the water.
“If you’re smart, you’ll get back in your car and leave.” Huda staggered to her feet. “I’ll tell the diplomat’s wife she was right, you were a robber. I’ll say a group of fishermen scared you off.”
She rummaged in her pocket
and pulled out Ally’s wedding ring.
“Here,” she said, “take this and go.”
The Bolt Cutter snatched the ring from her hand.
“Maybe your friend in Fallujah buys jewelry too.” Huda tugged a twig from her hair. “But I want twenty-five percent of whatever you make off that ring, understand? We can both work together and make some money. Or Rania Mansour can call the president’s palace and mention your name.”
The Bolt Cutter scowled.
“Fifteen percent,” he grunted. “I’ll give you fifteen percent of what I get for the ring. Not a dinar more.”
Huda nodded curtly. The Bolt Cutter grumbled and stuck his gun in his pocket. Huda attempted to straighten her clothes. As soon as he left with the ring, she’d climb in the Land Cruiser and drive to the border. Tonight, she and Khalid would be in Jordan. So would Hanan. She could picture it now, clear as sunlight on the lake.
“Hurry up,” she said. “We don’t want the diplomat’s wife raising the alarm.”
“If you say so.” The Bolt Cutter shrugged and turned away from the beach.
A loud crack split the air. The Bolt Cutter jerked backward. He clutched his chest and blood spurted between his fingers. Another crack. Huda shrieked and covered her head. The Bolt Cutter spun 180 degrees and smashed face-first into the dirt, like a tree felled by an ax. Khalid barreled out of the scrub. He sprinted past Huda and shoved an old revolver against the back of the Bolt Cutter’s skull.
“No, Khalid,” screamed Huda. “Don’t!”
The boy’s arm flexed. Another crack. Blood sprayed across the sand. Three more. Then all that remained was rustling wind and a faint click, click, click, as Khalid pulled the trigger again and again.
* * *
Afterward, Huda remembered only snatches: the heat of the gun as she removed it from Khalid’s fingers; how he dropped to his knees and hid his face in his hands; how his heaving back reminded her of Abdul Amir weeping over the dead taxi driver. Huda wasn’t sure exactly how much time passed before Ally and Hanan crept from the scrub, but she remembered that Ally took pains to keep her face averted from the pink fan of blood across the beach.
“Where did he get the gun?” Huda’s anguish echoed across the lake.
“My mom gave it to me when we said goodbye.” Hanan whimpered. “She had it in the closet, wrapped in a scarf.”
Huda silently cursed Rania. Why didn’t she tell her about the gun?
“Hanan, you need to get Khalid back to the Land Cruiser.” Huda barely recognized her own voice. It was as if she’d been possessed by a jinni, as if some other force was moving her lips and operating her limbs. She hauled Khalid to his feet.
“My darling, it’s not your fault.” She gripped his shoulders. “You had no choice. He was going to kill me.”
Khalid stared right through her, eyes as blank as a carp’s. Did he realize she was lying? Or had he learned how to hide the truth, even from himself? Despite her shock, she saw bitter irony bleeding on the shore. She’d done everything she could: lied, stole, blackmailed. Still, she couldn’t outwit fate.
Huda called Hanan over. The girl took Khalid’s arm, and they stumbled away like sleepwalkers. Out on the lake, there was no sign of the fishing fleet. They’d sailed beyond the horizon. All Huda could see was the blurry line where sky met water. She glanced at the Bolt Cutter’s corpse.
“Ally, help me drag him out of sight.”
The girl grabbed the Bolt Cutter’s left ankle. Huda took hold of the Bolt Cutter’s other foot. It was as heavy as a concrete slab. The two women leaned their weight toward the sand and grunted. The body didn’t budge.
“This isn’t going to work.” Huda released her grip. The Bolt Cutter’s boot thudded onto the beach. She rifled through his jeans pocket, leaving his mukhabarat ID, but taking his keys. “I’ll hide his car in the grass. Then we need to get out of here. Fast. No one will stop us once we’re on the highway.”
The two women staggered toward the track.
“Wait!” cried Huda.
She hurried back and ferreted through the Bolt Cutter’s pockets again.
“We can’t forget this.” She passed Ally her wedding ring. Huda took her hand, and the two of them lurched through the salt cedar. As they neared the track, Ally stopped and stared up into space. The birds had fled at the sound of the gun. Not a single cloud stood witness in the sky. Huda told herself there was no time to search the heavens. No time for regret. No time to rage against fate. Yet her tears defied her, and a chasm opened in her chest, vast as the endless blue.
CHAPTER 31
Outside Amman’s Abdali bus station, an old woman elbowed her way to the curb and broke into a joyful wail. Huda shuffled aside as the woman’s ululations spiraled high into the air, above the honk of taxis, the beseechments of ragged boys selling water and dates, and the roar of double-deckers departing for Mecca. A bug-splattered minivan chugged up the hill and rolled to a stop alongside the curb. Passengers tumbled out, stiff-limbed, blinking at the sun. The old woman swooped on a young man in blue jeans, her arms wide like a blackbird’s wings.
Huda called to a roaming ticket seller.
“Has the minivan from Ruwaished arrived?”
“Not yet.” He glanced at his watch. “But soon, inshallah.”
A people smuggler had transported Rania across the border shortly before dawn, but once on Jordanian soil he claimed engine trouble and dumped his passengers in the closest town. Rania had already been on the road for twelve hours when she called to say she’d finish the journey by minivan. She sounded numb, distant as the moon.
The scratchy call transported Huda two months back in time, to when she crossed the Iraqi frontier in the Land Cruiser. She’d felt like an astronaut cut loose from her craft, watching her world grow ever more distant, while space unfurled around her, full of stars but deadly cold. The air too thin to breathe.
Unlike Rania’s long trek, it took Huda less than half that time to flee from Lake Habbaniyah to the border, rocketing along the jet-black highway, overtaking filthy oil tankers and the occasional pickup truck. Not one of them—Huda, Ally, Khalid, or Hanan—spoke more than a couple of words the whole way. They stared at the flinty plains and tried to erase from their minds the red fan of blood on the beach. Perhaps they thought if they stayed silent, it would be as if it never really happened.
Fifteen miles from the border, Huda took the compass from the glove box. She switched the Land Cruiser to four-wheel drive, turned off the highway, and plowed through the gray sand. She wasn’t sure of the exact moment they crossed into Jordan, there were no markers that deep in the desert, but eventually they found a dirt track and passed a pickup truck with Jordanian plates. It was almost too easy.
Huda remembered thinking that the highway should have been rougher, the desert should have bogged them down, they should have been made to get out and flail at the burning sands with their bare hands, they should have been made to suffer somehow, not simply roll across an invisible line and leave their country behind. Even now, as the old woman hugged her grandson and trilled her happiness to the sky, Huda expected someone to grab her by the back of her neck and call her to account.
On the far side of the road, two young women strolled out of a juice bar. One of them had long curly hair like Hanan, and Rania too, when she was young. Hanan had left for London a month ago, after one of Rania’s friends found her a scholarship at a school popular with exiled Iraqis. Rania would soon follow Hanan to London. She had connections to smooth her passage. Much had changed, but she was still a Mansour. Despite Huda’s best intentions, she tasted resentment in her mouth.
Rania should have told her about the gun hidden in the pashmina scarf. If she had, their escape would have gone differently. Huda often tried to talk to Khalid about the Bolt Cutter, and all that happened at the lake. But every time, the light went out behind his eyes.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Huda told him repeatedly.
“Do we have to talk about this
?” Khalid would turn away and pull a dog-earned comic from his schoolbag.
“It must have been very frightening. You must feel upset or confused or . . . something?”
Khalid would shrug, then find some reason to slip away, often to the mosque. Huda knew she should be grateful he found solace in God, but sometimes he returned with a flat look in his eyes, like someone had pulled out a plug, or snipped a crucial wire. The local imam seemed generous and kind, but whenever Huda imagined prayer time, it was the white-bearded cleric from the Khan Murjan she saw railing from the pulpit, and Khalid bowed down before him.
She pushed the thought away, then stood on her tiptoes and searched for Ally’s dark, shining hair bobbing above the crowd. The girl promised she’d meet her here. Huda shifted uneasily. Maybe she’d changed her mind. Perhaps Ally didn’t want to stand on the sidewalk, checking her watch and making chitchat, while the past bore down on them like a runaway bus. As Huda scanned the roadside, she thought it fitting penance for a liar like her, that she could no longer keep faith in anyone else’s word.
A young man pushed a cart with a vat of steaming chickpea stew along the sidewalk. Huda’s stomach growled.
“Huda!” Ally darted through the traffic and hurried onto the curb. “Is she here? Has Rania’s van arrived?”
“Not yet. But soon, inshallah.”
“Is Khalid with you?” Ally waved off a hawker selling lukewarm Pepsi. “I was hoping I’d get a chance to see him.”
“He’s at school.”
“How’s he doing?”
“He’s fine,” she lied. “He’s adjusting. It’s a new place, a new country, after all.”
The girl peeked at her from the corner of her eye, then looked away. Silence rose between them, filled the spaces between the honk, hiss, and hubbub of the bus station. Abdul Amir liked to say the past was dead. But their silence kept it alive, quivering inside them.
“So how’s the new job working out?” Ally adjusted her handbag under her arm.
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