by Gayle Lynds
When the rowboat returned, his three men—Jalal, Hassan, and Mahmoud—jumped out and dragged it up onto the muddy shore. Each wore a pistol on his belt. They were in their early forties, seasoned and strong. They joined him.
“Everything’s aboard and stored, sir,” Jalal reported.
Jalal was a compact man built for speed but not endurance. Al-Sabah had allowed him to join his special guards on the recommendation of Jalal’s uncle, who had died a few days ago in a firefight. Jalal had been there, too, but had walked away uninjured.
Al-Sabah nodded and turned to the second man. “Tell me what you are thinking, Hassan.” It was a question he often asked, and they knew how to answer it.
“Because of you, I’m working for Allah and the future of Iraq,” Hassan responded. “What’s better than that?”
“Yes,” al-Sabah said. “And what about you, Mahmoud?”
“Thanks to Allah, yes, I agree.”
“Good. And what do you say, Jalal?”
There was a second of hesitation, of guilt. Al-Sabah saw it.
“I agree with Hassan and Mahmoud.” A ray of morning light coming through the trees beamed on Jalal’s face, the cheek muscles that were starting to droop, the mouth that had grown thin, the eyes that squinted from a lifetime in the sun. Baghdad’s climate was not kind to the poor.
“That’s not what I’ve been told, Jalal,” al-Sabah said sternly. “I hear you’ve been talking to Prime Minister al-Lami’s people.”
Jalal stepped back. His eyebrows rose. “No!”
Al-Sabah followed, pulling Jalal’s pistol from his belt. He pointed it at him. “You are courting Cala.” Her father worked for one of Prime Minister al-Lami’s top aides.
Jalal swallowed hard and stared at the gun. “I … I have the money to marry now,” he begged. “Please—”
“Didn’t it occur to you that the reason her father allows you to visit is because he knows you’ll eventually tell him everything he wants to learn about us so you can continue to see her and hope he’ll let her marry you?”
Jalal gave a violent shake of his head. “That’s not true. I come from a good family!”
“You’re a fool, a damn dangerous one. What should we do with him?” al-Sabah asked his two other men.
Hassan and Mahmoud were stiff with tension. Al-Sabah’s rules were strict. Everyone knew what happened when someone broke them.
Before they could answer, al-Sabah turned on Jalal again. “What should we do with you, Jalal?”
A tear slid down Jalal’s cheek. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“Did you confess to your aunt that you killed your uncle because he was going to tell me what you were doing?”
“I didn’t kill him! I’d never do that!” Jalal shook his head hard.
Mahmoud cleared his throat. “Jalal didn’t have anything to do with his death,” he said nervously.
Al-Sabah gave Mahmoud a withering stare. No one contradicted him, and Mahmoud knew that. Was Mahmoud getting restless, too?
Looking away, Mahmoud seemed to shrink.
Al-Sabah turned again on Jalal. “What should we do with you, traitor?”
“No, no! I didn’t do it!” Jalal bolted, his feet making a hollow, sucking sound as he scrambled through the muck.
“Take care of him,” al-Sabah ordered.
Hassan’s eyes were dull with disbelief that Jalal could have been disloyal. Mahmoud’s expression was grim. They aimed and fired. Two shots rang out. Jalal’s arms flew up and his back arched. He took three more steps, started to turn, and collapsed. The noisy gunshots seemed to shock the waterfront. There was a sudden silence. Not even the bulbul birds sang.
As the men cleaned up, al-Sabah climbed the hill to where his car was parked next to the road. Getting in, he saw that Zahra had taken off her headdress, and her face was red and puffy from crying. She was sunk deep into her seat, looking limp and weak.
“How are you, dear?” He patted her hand. It was an inadequate gesture, but it was the best he could do.
Clasping a wad of tissues, she rested her head against his shoulder and sobbed, murmuring memories of Katia as a baby, her baby.
Al-Sabah drove them away from the river. He phoned Jabari and warned him about Mahmoud. “Mahmoud tried to save Jalal. In the end, he did the right thing and helped to execute him.”
“I’ll have him watched.” Jabari Juader was his number two, a completely reliable man whose knowledge of Baghdad was as intimate as the veins in his body.
Ending the conversation, al-Sabah paused the car at a red light. He stroked Zahra’s arm. As much as he wanted to, there was nothing he could do to repair her heartbreak.
“Can you stand to listen to Katia and Krot’s conversation?” he asked.
She sat up, her face hardening. “Yes, of course. We need to know everything.” She blew her nose.
He handed his iPhone to her. It was open to the attachment Liza Kosciuch had e-mailed. Zahra started the recording and put it on speakerphone. From Rachmaninoff’s concerto to Katia’s and Krot’s warm statements of love, they listened carefully.
“Katia sounded so happy,” Zahra whispered. “At least we have that.”
He nodded. “The Carnivore is probably on his way here now. I forwarded the video Liza sent to Jabari with instructions to distribute it to our people and send out teams to cover the airport and train and bus stations. If Greg and Courtney Roman come, we’ll find them.”
“We won’t know what the Carnivore looks like,” she said worriedly.
“There are other ways to recognize him. The problem is, I’m the only one who can do it.” Al-Sabah parked the car at the curb.
Starting the video on the iPhone, she leaned close to him. He inhaled her fresh lemon scent. They watched Mr. and Mrs. Roman—the tall, athletic man in the Hawaiian shirt, and the woman with the red hair, dressed in dark slacks and blouse—run across the street toward Liza’s garage, pause against the wall, then duck under the lowering garage door.
“They’re well armed,” Zahra noted. “They seem confident. Competent, too.”
“Don’t worry, dear,” he assured her. “We’re better. Besides, we can’t let them get away with murdering our Katia.”
65
It was nine A.M. when al-Sabah strolled down the arcaded walkway of centuries-old Mutanabbi Street, the city’s beating heart of intellectual and literary life. Old men in knit vests and a few old women in hijab sat in the open windows of the Poets’ Café, arguing books and ideas while drinking strong tea from little cups shaped like hourglasses. The scent of fine tobacco was in the morning air.
Al-Sabah walked past and stopped a block away at a bookstall where he bought a copy of the International Herald Tribune. At exactly 9:04, the bomb went off in front of the café. The noise was thunderous. The façade exploded. Two wrens fell dead from the sky, killed when the blast sucked the oxygen from the air. Charred bodies and the smoking shells of dozens of cars littered the area.
Satisfied, al-Sabah tucked the newspaper under his arm and walked away.
* * *
In central Baghdad, Tahrir Square was a roundabout at the end of Jumhuriya Bridge. Six of the city’s major boulevards met there, the vehicles circling at dizzying speeds. At the nearby bus stop, two rockets exploded, shattering glass and melting signposts. Thick dust and debris rained down. Survivors screamed and ran.
As Zahra left, she noted with satisfaction that police were sealing off the bridge. By the time she was a mile away, the normally bustling city center was silent except for the high-pitched shriek of sirens.
* * *
Tariq Tabrizi, candidate for prime minister, stood outside the smouldering ruins of the Ministry of Interior. Ceilings had pancaked into rubble. The air stank of ash and soot. Forklifts were removing the shells of burned-out vehicles. As Tabrizi lifted his head, news cameras focused on him. His long face was angry as he railed against the terrorist bombers—and against the current government.
“What mor
e has to happen for the prime minister to know he should quit?” he raged. “This is the country’s deadliest day in a year. Attacking a government institution like this ministry building is more than the terrible destruction you see around you.” The cameras panned over the smoking hills of concrete, brick, and wood. “This is an attack on the state itself, designed to undermine our belief in our country and destroy our sense of unity. You said you’d keep us safe, Prime Minister al-Lami! Where are you now? Hiding under your expensive desk? Vote for me, people of Iraq. Elect a leader who will protect you!”
66
The situation in Iraq was worsening: The national elections were over, but they still had no prime minister. Without a prime minister, they had no cabinet, and without a cabinet, bridges could not be fixed, schools could not be rebuilt, and hospitals could not be repaired.
In the parliament building, politicians jockeyed, each party trying to gather a large enough coalition to take control of the new government.
In one of the meeting rooms, two of Iraq’s most influential men exchanged customary pleasantries. After shaking hands, they pressed their palms against their hearts and sat on sofas facing one another. From a bowl on the coffee table between them, they nibbled green pistachio nuts. The sweet aroma drifted through the room.
They were very different in dress, one traditional Arab, the other modern European. Both were Shiites from the south. One was a member of parliament, an MP; the other was the cofounder of the Save Iraq League political party, which was backing Tariq Tabrizi for prime minister.
Siraj al-Sabah, cofounder of SIL, leaned forward over his bulk, clasping his hands between his knees. “It’s always good to see you, my friend. Is there any chance you’d honor us by taking a position in a Tabrizi government?”
Gone was al-Sabah’s kaffiyeh, and in full display was his square face and short gray beard and mustache. Somehow he looked scholarly. His hands were knobby, his nose flat, his black eyes steady. He was dressed for government business—a dove-gray Savile Row suit that emphasized the muscularity of his girth, a sedate green silk tie, and highly polished wing-tip shoes. He had checked the room for bugs before beginning the day’s meetings.
“I’m delighted you ask,” the sheik said. “If Tabrizi wins, I would like oil. After all, oil is the south’s lifeblood.” Sheik Muhammad bin Khalifa al-Hamed lifted his hands and gestured widely around his red-and-white–checkered headdress, drawing to him the room, the parliament, all of oil-rich Iraq. The sleeves of his thawb—his white robe—slid down, revealing his brawny forearms and gold Rolex watch.
Al-Sabah said nothing. He lowered his gaze. A respectful statue, he sat unmoving and unmoveable.
With al-Sabah’s silence, a note of resignation entered the sheik’s tone. “But if not oil, then finance. Definitely finance. If you’re serious about wanting my people’s votes for your coalition, I must have finance.”
Al-Sabah looked up. “You deserve the Ministry of Oil or the Ministry of Finance. You could make something of them.” It was not what you told people that mattered in politics, it was how you made them feel. For millions of Iraqis, loyalty lay first with the tribe. An endorsement by a popular tribal sheik like al-Hamed could make or break a coalition.
“Then it’s oil?” al-Hamed said eagerly.
“My friend, I can’t do that.” Al-Sabah wanted to keep oil, finance, and the interior for himself. Those three ministries would give him the most clout.
The sheik’s black brows lowered, hinting at anger. “You need me. Tabrizi needs me. Don’t let me down.”
Al-Sabah patted his hand. “We hope never to disappoint you. Let’s talk for a moment about one of the tragedies of our people. Our date trees.”
For five thousand years, southern Iraq had been famous for its dates. But the Iraqi date farmers were mostly Shiite, and Saddam Hussein was both paranoid and Sunni. When they finally revolted, his troops crushed them, and to make sure they never rose up again, he ordered some six million date palm trees cut down. Then the swamps were drained, killing the rest of the trees.
“Saddam wasn’t satisfied killing Shiites.” The sheik’s voice rose with outrage. “He executed our date trees, too.”
Al-Sabah nodded. “Remember how beautiful Basra was—the wide boulevards, the flower gardens and parks? Now it’s a dump. Help our people, Muhammad. We need to be the date capital of the world again. If you do that, you will be an important international figure.”
The sheik sighed heavily. “I want to say yes, but I have a large family to support. On the other hand, if it’s oil or finance—” He shrugged, his meaning clear: With either ministry, he could skim and get generous kickbacks, while agriculture was, after all, just farming, a crippled giant unlikely to rise from its knees anytime soon.
Al-Sabah slid a large white envelope across the coffee table. “You must save our date industry, Muhammad. You’ll be doing Allah’s work.”
The sheik picked up the envelope, lifted the flap, and peered inside. His eyebrows rose. Pulling out the sheets of paper, he scanned them and smiled broadly. They were unregistered bearer bonds totaling €1 million, about $1.4 million at today’s exchange rate—highly liquid, with no record of the owner or the transfer of ownership. As good as cash, they were much easier to conceal and transport. He studied al-Sabah. “I hear I’m not the only one to receive an offer of a kindly gift from you. Where did you get such a fortune that you can be so generous? I ask only because I’m concerned you’ll deprive yourself.”
“My resources are a deep well,” al-Sabah assured him. “Don’t worry, my friend. Perhaps in six months you’d like another white envelope?”
“With the same contents?”
“Of course.”
The sheik sat back, gripping the open envelope, still not committed. “What makes you think you can assemble the winning coalition? From what I hear, Prime Minister al-Lami has more promised votes.”
Al-Sabah took from his briefcase a printout of the morning’s online edition of Al-Zaman newspaper, one of the most circulation-rich in Iraq. He handed it to the sheik. “This is why our man will win. Read the first paragraph of the lead story.”
Frowning, the sheik put on gold-rimmed glasses and read aloud:
“‘Over a matter of hours, bombings and mass shootings struck government security forces and buildings in thirteen Iraqi cities this morning, killing at least two hundred and three people and wounding five hundred. In Baghdad, two ministries and four popular landmarks were bombed in shocking coordinated attacks.…’”
As if it burned his fingers, the sheik dropped the printout onto the coffee table. “We used to be a civilized people. What have we become?”
“Foreigners won’t invest here because of the instability,” al-Sabah reminded him. “And they won’t order our goods and services because they’re afraid we won’t be able to deliver. If this keeps up, oil contracts will freeze, and we’ll lose the revenue stream that’s kept us afloat. Prime Minister al-Lami still hasn’t brought us back up to the standards we had under Saddam. The attacks and kidnappings are worse than ever. Our country is dying. How long do you think we’ll last as a nation if al-Lami is reelected?”
“You’re right.” The sheik licked the flap, sealing the envelope and the deal. “If you can talk an old desert nomad like me into taking on agriculture when I’d rather be out riding a camel, you should be the next prime minister.” In a sudden swirl of cloth, he was on his feet. “Will I see you at the party at the Iraq Museum tonight?” The popular gala had become a ritual to honor newly elected MPs.
“Of course. I’m looking forward to it.” Al-Sabah led him to the door.
They kissed each other’s cheeks in farewell, and the sheik left.
The conference room was quiet, peaceful. Al-Sabah strode to the coffee table and picked up the newspaper. He would need it for the next meeting, and the next after that. He smiled grimly to himself. The attacks had been as successful as he had hoped.
67
Women’s chatter filled Zahra al-Sabah’s living room. In their designer-label jackets and slacks, cashmere sweater sets and skirts, the women looked like just what they were—upper-class homemakers and professionals. They were important in their own right or, far more often these days, claimed importance by being married to an important man. This was Zahra’s monthly salon, where they discussed culture and history. But that would not be all today.
As the women sipped tea from fine china cups, they listened to young poets from the University of Baghdad’s College of Arts recite their latest works, then, as the salon wound down, they talked about life in Baghdad, the new restaurants briefly opening on Rasheed Street, the nightclub closing on Sadun Street.
“Has anyone else gotten a fish pedicure?” The woman who spoke lived in one of the luxury high-rises on Haifa Street.
“You’re joking, yes?” asked a neurosurgeon. Her family had moved back from Jordan in 2011, but she had been unable to find a clinic or a hospital that would let her be associated with it. That was one of the greatest problems today—fewer jobs for women.
“It’s the truth,” the Haifa Street matron said. “There’s a tank full of carp attached to your pedicure basin. The pedicurist opens a little door, and the fish swim for your feet and start munching the dead skin. It tickles, but your feet feel fabulous afterwards. The spa spent ten thousand dollars to buy six hundred carp and ship them here. Can you imagine?”
Laughter spread through the room. For the moment, they were no longer the women who had arrived two hours earlier, drawn and frightened. In Baghdad, you grew accustomed to the fact that people died violently every day. You could see your friend, your aunt, your son in the morning, and attend their funeral tomorrow. It was the new normal, and it wore on everyone.