by Lis Wiehl
“Here’s a phone for you, and here’s a backup,” Ruggio says. “We’re due to drive up and look at the old jail tomorrow. Then we’ll head to the village where the one surviving guard lives.”
“He’s key here. I just hope he has the information I need and is willing to part with it.”
“We’ll bring cash. It has a way of loosening lips.”
“And the area is currently under government control?”
“Yes, but ask me again in ten minutes.”
“It’s that bad?”
“It’s worse.”
They’re silent for the rest of the drive. They enter the gated and heavily fortified Green Zone. Rows of steel-reinforced concrete barriers guard the front of the Al Rasheed hotel. It’s a long hulking building, and the lobby is decorated in shades of dated and tacky. Erica checks in, thanks Bob, tells him she’ll be waiting in the lobby at eight in the morning, and heads up to her suite.
Before she opens her suitcase she calls Anwar Hamade, the journalist Greg put her in touch with.
“It’s Erica Sparks.”
“Welcome to my beautiful country,” he says with an ironic edge.
“Everyone I’ve met at the hotel has been very nice.”
“That’s a good random cross section.”
“So any chance I could lure you over here for dinner?”
“Of course. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
Erica takes a long shower and tries to grab a short nap. No chance. So she does twenty minutes of Tae Kwon Do. She dresses down—though not in the I’m-a-man camo Nancy brought her—and heads down to the restaurant. Hamade is at a table, and he stands and waves her over.
“Greg speaks very highly of you,” he says as they shake hands.
“And of you.”
Hamade is around fifty, with thick black hair going gray at the temples, knowing restless eyes, and a half smile that reads as bemusement-as-a-defense. Erica likes him immediately.
“Greg tells me you’re an expert on covert action.”
“As an Iraqi journalist, I hardly have a choice.”
“This may be a stupid question, but has the CIA been very active in Iraq?”
“The CIA has been very active in the entire Middle East for many decades. The region is still crawling with CIA agents, operatives, and informers. In fact . . .” His eyes scan the room.
“Seriously?”
“Count on it. And they know you’re here.”
Erica looks around. Several diners quickly avert their eyes. Suddenly the restaurant, the hotel, doesn’t feel like a safe place.
“Do you think it’s possible the CIA had something to do with Mike Ortiz’s capture, imprisonment, and escape?”
“It’s very possible. You know, there are still a lot of unanswered questions about Ortiz’s case.”
Erica leans forward. “Say more.”
“First, why was he taken, and not one of the other three congressmen? From what I have been told, he was not the easiest target. The congresswoman who was shot was the logical choice—closest to the gunman and least able to resist. But they went straight for Ortiz. So clearly they had orders to take him and him alone. This is an issue the American authorities have never raised. Why not?”
The question hangs there as they order. The waiter is inscrutable, unsmiling. When he has left, Erica asks, “Do you have any theories?”
“They are only theories. But Ortiz, after his own tour in Iraq as a marine and his subsequent election to Congress, became a fierce opponent of the war and its architects in the Bush administration. Perhaps the CIA was engaged in a little payback. After all, his capture neutralized his criticisms of the war.”
“Are you saying his own government had him kidnapped?”
“As I said, it is only a theory. But stranger things have happened in this region. And many can be traced back to the CIA.”
“And his escape?”
“A little too neat. A little too easy.”
“So you think he had help?”
Hamade shrugs.
“But who?” Erica asks.
“Look at how it has benefited his campaign for president.”
“Yes, but surely the CIA doesn’t want him in the White House. He’s a critic of American involvement in foreign wars. He advocates for diplomacy.”
“Yes, that is my thinking. And that is what makes this case so fascinating. There are many questions. Perhaps tomorrow we can find some answers.”
“If you’re right about his capture and escape, Ortiz isn’t a hero at all. He’s a pawn.”
“As I said, nothing has been proven. But there have been rumors all along. You know, Iraq is a nation in crisis. We take one step forward and two back. It’s heartbreaking on many levels. The Iraqi people have suffered so much; the country has so many problems . . . We don’t devote too much time and energy to Mike Ortiz.”
“But he may become president on the basis of lies.”
“Well, he would hardly be the first leader to accomplish that.”
Hamade’s cynicism is showing. It’s understandable. But if this was all a setup, Erica is not going to let the American people be fooled. Ortiz will be the most powerful man on the planet, capable of molding the course of history. And if he’s under the control of the CIA or some other unknown entity, the American people have to know it. Before election day.
“I’m going to head up to Baiji tomorrow. I need to see the jail where he was kept. And my producer has tracked down the village where the one guard who survived Ortiz’s escape lives. I’m going to try and find him and get his version of events.”
Now Hamade leans forward. “Are you taking an Arabic speaker?”
“My producer knows some Arabic.”
“Would you like me to come? I can translate. I would like to see the jail myself and hear what the guard has to say.”
“Of course. You know it’s a very dangerous area.”
“This hotel is a very dangerous area.”
After dinner Erica goes up to her room. She tries to piece together what Hamade has just told her, but she is so tired that her synapses aren’t firing. Her exhaustion is physical, emotional, and psychic; she can barely keep her eyes open. She undresses and slips between the sheets. But sleep won’t come. Her mind is racing from thought to thought, from fear to terror. According to Hamade, the CIA knows she’s in Iraq. And he implied it wasn’t just the CIA; it was any number of clandestine agencies or even terrorist groups. Erica feels sweat break out over her body—she’s being watched; the room is probably bugged; she’s in danger.
She throws off the covers, leaps out of bed, and starts to pace. The implications of what Hamade has told her about Ortiz are staggering. She goes to the window. Baghdad looks ominous. Patches are lit by streetlamps, but great swathes of the city are dark—dark streets and dark houses. How can she prove Ortiz’s capture and escape were premeditated, a setup, a fraud, designed to propel him to the White House? How can she prove that he was subjected to mind control, to brainwashing? And what if she’s wrong about all of it?
The darkened room feels like a prison cell. Erica can’t go outside, doesn’t even feel safe going down to the lobby. She races into the bathroom and splashes cold water on her face again and again. She goes back out to the room, leans against the wall, and then slowly slides down it. That’s when she notices something moving on the rumpled bedsheets. At first she thinks her eyes are playing tricks on her. Then slowly it comes into focus—first two claws, then the head and body and the creeping movement as the huge scorpion makes its way to her pillow.
Erica jumps up and freezes, watching the scorpion with wide, petrified eyes. Then, not taking her eyes off it, she slowly makes her way across the room to where she’s put the work boots Nancy gave her. Grabbing one by the toe, she moves toward the bed. When she’s close enough she brings the heel down on the scorpion again and again and again, until it’s nothing but a twisted mass of glistening guts and smashed shell.
> Erica pulls a wad of tissues out of the box, picks up the mess, walks into the bathroom, and flushes it down the toilet. Then she goes back out into the room and turns on every light and conducts a thorough search, including pulling off the mattress and all the bedding. The room is clean. Of scorpions at least.
Erica has to sleep. If she doesn’t, she’ll be incoherent in the morning. She takes out her cards and plays a half dozen games of solitaire. Then she pushes through the wall of her fatigue and forces herself to do an hour of vigorous, even punishing Tae Kwon Do until she’s sweating and aching and literally unable to remain standing. And finally it comes, a restless sleep that brings no answers and no solace.
CHAPTER 54
ERICA STANDS IN FRONT OF the full-length mirror in her hotel room at seven thirty the next morning. She’s exhausted and out of sorts, but edgy and eager to get going. She’s wearing the men’s clothes Nancy brought her and the flak jacket from Bob Ruggio. With her hair pinned up and the hat’s brim pulled down, she could pass for a man, at least from a distance. It’s a strange and disconcerting feeling. And a little bit heady. In the Arab world—not to mention the rest of the world—the rules are different for men. They have freedom to come and go without worrying about being sexually assaulted or raped, freedom to look like crap some days, freedom to seize power without apology or explanation, to be full-out jerks. Erica smiles ruefully and walks around a little bit, almost clomping in her boots.
You know what? I’d still rather be a woman.
But Nancy was right—she feels more secure and anonymous in these clothes.
As she walks through the lobby, no one gives her a second glance. She joins Bob Ruggio and the cameraman at their table in the dining room. The room is pretty full, and even at this hour there are a lot of sidelong glances and huddled whispers. Erica scans the faces—who can be trusted? Who is an enemy? She feels slightly nauseous, uneasy, a stranger in a strange land, a place where scorpions crawl across bedsheets and ISIS kills innocents in the name of God.
“This is Riley Smith,” Bob says.
Riley is young and eager, handsome and sun-burnished with a hipster beard, clearly a young adventurer.
“Thank you for signing up,” Erica says.
“I’m juiced,” Riley says, inhaling a plate of eggs and sausage and potatoes.
“Smart outfit, Erica,” Bob says. “Are you anxious?”
“Yes. You?”
“I’ve been doing this for a while, and I always try to stay anxious. I’ve located the jail on GPS; we’ll go there first. It may be full of squatters, but we’ll see. Then we’ll drive to this tiny village and look for the guard.”
“Hamade will be here at eight.”
“It’s fantastic that he’s coming. He’s considered one of the country’s best journalists. He may be very helpful both in finding the guard and getting him to talk. My Arabic is passable but . . .”
The men eat, but Erica is just too queasy to get down anything but half a banana. She’s having a hard time sitting still. Eight o’clock comes—and goes. So do eight fifteen and eight thirty. The mood at the table grows ever more apprehensive.
“I’m going to go call,” Erica says. She heads out of the restaurant, filled with prying ears, and finds a quiet lobby alcove. She calls Hamade’s house. A woman answers.
“This is Erica Sparks. I’m trying to reach Anwar Hamade.”
“This is his sister-in-law. Anwar is dead.” She sounds very sad and very angry. Erica can hear sobbing in the background.
“Oh no. No!”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“When he turned on his car, it exploded.”
“I am so sorry.”
“Maybe you should be. Maybe you are the reason he is dead.”
Erica feels a massive wave of guilt pummel her. Her mind goes blank for a moment. It just flatlines. What can she possibly say? There is more wailing in the background. Erica starts to rock on her feet, at a loss. Thankfully, Hamade’s sister-in-law hangs up. Erica stands there, numb. She remembers Hamade from last night—serious, ironic, helpful. Clearly a man of the greatest integrity. A fellow journalist. Who would want her to move forward with her investigation. To quit now would dishonor him and his death.
She returns to the table. “His car was rigged, he’s dead.”
“Oh, sweet mercy,” Bob says.
Riley goes silent and Erica knows that both of them are rethinking today’s trip. She isn’t. Horrific as it is, Hamade’s death confirms her suspicions that someone is very threatened by her investigation. And that she’s closing in on some answers.
Erica leans across the table and lowers her voice. “Listen, Bob, Riley, if you want to back out, I’ll understand. But this isn’t some puff piece about the horrors Mike Ortiz endured as a hostage and how brave his escape was. I wouldn’t put us in danger for a story like that; I’d rely on stock footage. I believe Ortiz underwent some sort of brainwashing in that jail and that he came back to the States a different man, under control of some outside entity, maybe the CIA. Hamade felt that the whole thing—Ortiz’s capture, imprisonment, and escape—may have been a setup. If Ortiz wins the presidency, he will be a fraud and maybe a puppet. And who knows what dark agenda his puppet masters have.”
There’s a long pause and then Riley says, “Whoa.”
“I’m in,” Bob says simply.
“Me too,” Riley says.
Erica stands up and says, “Let’s do this.”
CHAPTER 55
THEIR DRIVER, STOIC IF PROFESSIONAL, heads north out of Baghdad with Riley riding shotgun and Erica and Bob in back. The city gives way to unkempt suburbs, and then they’re in the countryside. The land and sky are vast and unforgiving. How does anyone survive in this brutal landscape? But they do. And have for thousands of years.
Erica is hyperalert, looking for any signs of trouble or ambush. She scans the landscape, often turning to look behind them. As they continue north they pass small villages with gas stations and car repair shops, restaurants, general stores with their wares piled out front, and children playing, families walking. These people are far enough away from the cities and towns to feel somewhat safe from the worst of war, and Erica gets a sense of life going on as always. It’s really all anybody wants, isn’t it, no matter where they live—the chance to raise a family, earn a living, snatch some good times. And yet their leaders seem to prefer bombs and bloodshed. Eternal bloodshed. If Mike Ortiz is elected president, she wonders, will he lead the country back into war? Will his time as a prisoner give him political cover? Is that why the CIA—or whoever—wants to control him?
The traffic is steady—buses jammed with passengers, their suitcases tied to the top and sides, small trucks loaded with crates of squawking chickens, old American cars with their colors faded, military transports. And all around them the sun and heat, heat and sun. Erica feels disoriented. It’s all so foreign and forbidding, she feels like they could be swallowed up by the sand and sky and never heard from again.
“We’re about halfway there,” Bob says, his voice tense.
“You want a little establishing footage?” Riley asks. Clearly he’s eager to put his nervous energy to use.
“Wait until we get closer,” Erica answers.
The miles pass in expectant silence. And then the driver turns right onto a dirt road.
“Where are you going?” Bob demands in Arabic.
The driver doesn’t answer but his jaw is set, his eyes unreadable behind dark glasses. And then up ahead, in the distance, they see a van.
“It’s a setup,” Erica says, her pulse rocketing up.
As they approach, the van’s back door flies opens and two men with machine guns leap out. Bob pulls out a pistol and slams it down on the driver’s skull. He cries out but keeps driving.
Erica reaches over the front seat and grabs the driver’s door handle and pushes his door open, crying to Riley, “Kick him out!”
Riley braces himself
against his door and kicks, hard. The driver grips the wheel like a vise, and they’re getting closer to the men with the machine guns. Erica fights to pry his hands off the wheel, and they loosen a little. Bob brings the pistol down on his skull again and blood spurts out as Riley kicks and kicks. And then, with a piercing cry, the driver lets go of the wheel and is ejected from the car. Riley scrambles into the driver’s seat, grabs the wheel and turns it hard, kicking up dust, executing a tight screeching turnaround. Then he floors it.
As they speed away, Erica looks back to see their driver struggling to his feet and the two assailants growing smaller and smaller. The only sound in the car is the three of them gulping air. They reach the main road and Riley turns right, heading north toward the prison.
“Is that the best they can do?” Erica asks finally. And they laugh. But the laughter is hollow, and the day takes on a darker cast. Erica thinks of Greg, of his years as a war photographer—traveling into dangerous territory like this was just another day on the job. How did he do it? Live with the fear, all day and all night, every day and every night? The man has true courage. If only he were with her now.
They drive deeper into the countryside, and settlements grow few and far between. If they get into trouble out here, they’re on their own.
“There should be a road coming up on the left,” Bob says.
Sure enough, they reach a rutted, torn-up paved road. Riley turns and the car rattles along.
“We should be coming to a small settlement. According to my sources, it’s been abandoned. Still, I think we should stop and do some reconnaissance before we drive in.”
And then there it is, up ahead, a small collection of one-story buildings that look like a Middle Eastern ghost town. Riley stops and turns off the engine. Almost instantly the car turns into a sauna. Bob takes a pair of binoculars out of his bag and looks through them.
“No signs of life as far as I can tell. You check.” He hands the binoculars to Riley, who looks and then hands them to Erica. She scans the landscape—there are about a dozen small structures, and the ground is littered with dented oil barrels and a couple of dead vehicles. There’s something eerie and malevolent about the scene. It’s too quiet. As quiet as death. She scans the perimeter and sees—nothing. Just endless sky and endless desert. And eternity—implacable and indifferent.