Abdul swallowed the mouthful before he had chewed it completely. ‘We investigated a story.’
‘So . . . what’s your job?’
‘I don’t think I have a title. I do things the white guys can’t do. I talk to Iraqis, find locations, stuff like that.’
‘Sounds like fun,’ she said.
‘Not exactly how I would describe it.’
‘You said you hadn’t had a day like it.’
‘It was different.’
‘So tell me what you didn’t like about it, then.’
He sighed. ‘OK, OK . . . You and your cross-reference analysing . . . It’s just, well, not what I expected.’
She studied him patiently. His moods were so difficult to understand these days. It was as if she didn’t really know him at all any more.
He appeared about to reveal something deep, then winked at her.
Tasneen gave up, rolling her eyes. ‘If you don’t want to tell me, fine. You like the job, kind of. At least you don’t hate it. And since it was the first day it could get better, or worse . . . What about the others? The Iraqis? Can you tell me how they were?’
‘They don’t like me.They’re suspicious.They’re not very bright, either . . . The journalist is strange. I have mixed feelings about him.’
‘In what way?’
Abdul shrugged.‘I don’t think I trust him. He’s hard to understand. I don’t think he is very experienced. He knows nothing about Arabs, that’s for sure.’
‘What about Bernie?’
‘He doesn’t like me or trust me.’
‘I don’t believe that,’ she said.
‘He’s hard to read, too. He seems impatient, as if he has other things more important to do.That - or he has no interest in being here.’
‘He wouldn’t have hired you if he did not like you.’
‘It doesn’t matter what he thinks, anyway. Stanza is the boss and Mallory will be gone soon.’
Tasneen did not allow her expression to change. ‘Oh? When?’
‘I don’t know. I heard the drivers talking. He’s been here longer than he should have, apparently.’
Mallory had told her that he would have to leave but also that he would be back. ‘Are you going to stay working with them?’ she asked as she picked up her jacket and handbag and carried them into her bedroom.
‘Sure . . . Why not?’ Abdul said as he sank into the couch, finished off his sandwich, wiped his hand on his lap and looked at his stump. The first thing he did every morning when he woke up was to check his hand to see if it had all been a dream. It was why every day began at a low point for him.
Abdul lowered his arm as he pondered his next step, dark images returning to his thoughts. Since leaving the hotel he had considered the best way to approach Hassan.The telephone was pointless since details could not be discussed over it and Hassan would not meet him unless he was told the purpose of the rendezvous. There was only one solution, not a particularly attractive one. But then, no part of the undertaking was particularly appealing.
‘Tasneen?’ he called out.
‘Yes?’ she answered from inside her room.
‘Can I use your car for a couple of hours?’
She appeared in her doorway. ‘My car? Why?’
‘Mine has a problem. I think it’s the fuel pump.’
‘I meant, why do you want a car?’
‘It’s not so difficult to drive with one hand. I used to do it all the time when I was using my phone.’
‘Where are you going?’ Tasneen asked, trying to sound matter-of-fact. But she was concerned for several reasons.
‘I have to work.’
‘Work?’
‘That’s why I was home early. My day is not yet over.’
‘What work?’ she asked, growing suspicious.
‘It’s confidential.’
‘Is that right?’
Abdul sighed. ‘I work for a newspaper. The stories are often confidential. Scoops.’ He could see the doubt in his sister’s eyes. ‘If you don’t want me to work for them then why did you get me the job?’
‘Don’t twist this around, Abdul. Why can’t I drive you to wherever it is you want to go?’
‘Because then you’d know what the job was.’
‘What about your drivers?’
‘The boss doesn’t want them to know, either. He hasn’t even told Mallory.’
Tasneen wondered if that was true.
‘Why do they all call him Mallory but you call him Bernie?’
Tasneen decided there was something dark about Abdul today. ‘How long will you be? Are you allowed to reveal that much?’
‘Why? Are you going out somewhere?’ he asked cheekily.
‘You don’t have the keys to the car yet,’ she parried.
Abdul conceded the point. ‘A couple of hours. No more . . . All I’m doing is going to see someone who might have some information for the journalist about a story he wants to do . . . Look, I’ll tell you a little but if you tell anyone else I could get fired . . . The news story is about an American hostage. He comes from the same town as the newspaper and so the journalist is very interested in him. OK? Now you have it.’
Tasneen didn’t know what to make of it. It sounded odd to her. But if her brother was lying he had suddenly become very good at it.
‘The problem is that I don’t know what time this person will get home so I will have to wait for him.’
‘So you could be late.’
‘I’m not a child!’ Abdul snapped, startling her. Immediately he regretted losing his temper, although he was not sorry for the sentiment behind the outburst.
Tasneen walked back into her room and a moment later emerged from it and tossed the car keys at him.
Abdul sighed again as he leaned back and looked up at the ceiling in silent prayer.
He got to his feet, went into his bedroom, opened up his wardrobe, reached in, took out a shoebox and put it on the bed. As an afterthought he pushed the door until it was almost shut, sat on the bed beside the box and opened it to reveal his pistol and spare magazine. Tasneen had found it on the floor of his car days after the incident. It still belonged to the police and Abdul was supposed to bring it in with him when he went to collect his final pay cheque. He pondered the wisdom of taking it with him. It had no part in his plan but it might be useful if things went wrong. He dithered over the pros and cons before finally allowing his male vanity to decide for him. He shoved the loaded magazine into the weapon, placed the gun in his jacket pocket, closed the box and put it back in the wardrobe. He checked his watch and then the window. It would be dark soon but it was still too early to go. However, the thought of hanging around the apartment with Tasneen made him uncomfortable so he pulled on his jacket and opened the door. ‘I’ll see you in a while,’ he called out as he walked to the front door. ‘I’ll call you if I’m going to be late.’
He closed the door behind him and a moment later was walking out of the apartment block to Tasneen’s car.
Abdul took his time getting the feel of the vehicle and practising his one-handed technique before starting the engine and slowly manoeuvring the car out of the parking space and around the block. The most difficult operation was turning the wheel quickly enough to steer around the tighter corners without crossing to the other side of the road. Once on the wider main streets his confidence increased and he joined the busy late-afternoon traffic.
He took his time, ignoring the usual fierce competition for gaps and lanes, allowing anyone who wanted to push in front of him, and headed due south towards Dora once he arrived at the roundabout beside the Baghdad radio tower. The control building at its base had been destroyed by a guided missile during the war. He crossed the BIAP highway near the great mosque and headed for the towering smokestacks on the edge of the infamous neighbourhood.
Abdul had been to Hassan’s house a couple of times although he’d never been inside it. The street was easy to find because of a prominent blue ceramic-tiled
mosque at one end and a small produce shop almost directly across the road from the house itself.
The first phase of Abdul’s simple plan was to see if Hassan’s car was outside his house. It wouldn’t necessarily mean that Hassan was home if it was but he would knock on the door anyway. If the car was not there Abdul would wait. But that was the potentially tiresome part. When Hassan wasn’t working as a cop he was conducting his nefarious business dealings around the city and he could be out at all hours.
It was dark by the time Abdul arrived in Hassan’s neighbourhood. The area looked as bad as its reputation. Several streets around Abdul’s neighbourhood had a street light or two that worked most nights but Dora was in darkness except for the glow of benzene lamps from some of the houses.
The mosque loomed ahead, its colourful dome illuminated by a couple of light bulbs powered by a small generator. A cruise along Hassan’s street revealed only a couple of vehicles, neither of them his. Abdul carried on to the end of the street, circled around the block, pulled to a stop beside the kerb, from where he could see the house and turned off the car’s engine and headlights. He sat in the dark silence for a moment. He felt uncomfortable and, in case he was being watched from one of the unlit houses, he climbed out and walked down the street to the small store across from Hassan’s house.
The shop was a hovel of dust-covered tins, sweets and cigarettes. Abdul bought a packet of Marlboro Lights and headed back the way he had come. He considered walking past the car and continuing around the block but decided against it in case he was challenged. He climbed back in behind the wheel. If anyone came up and asked him what he was doing he would tell them the truth. Hassan was well known and respected - or feared - in the neighbourhood and Abdul might attract a measure of the same esteem if it was understood that he was an associate.
Abdul placed the packet of cigarettes on the dashboard, eased down into the seat and rested his head in a position that allowed him to watch the street.
He checked his watch, deciding to give Hassan until nine o’clock. But then, if the man did not arrive by then Abdul would have to come back another night if he was to pursue his plan. He would give the man until ten, or perhaps later. It didn’t really matter if he gave him until midnight. His final decision was to leave it to fate, to Allah. If it was His will that Abdul should make this connection then it would take place. But that was the big problem with fate, Abdul decided. In this case, for instance, it was up to him to choose the time until which he would wait. If Hassan arrived in that time it would be Allah’s will. But if Abdul decided to then extend the time limit was that then also extending it beyond the divine will? Everything was of course Allah’s will, but the outcome might be different if Abdul kept changing his mind.
Abdul decided that the best way had to be to stick to his guns. If he declared to fate well in advance that he was leaving at nine o’clock then that would be the time he should leave.
At a quarter to nine a car drove into the far end of the street and Abdul watched its headlights move slowly towards him. Before reaching the small shop the headlights pulled into the kerb, came to a stop and went out.
Abdul leaned forward in his seat, unable to make out if the car had stopped in front of Hassan’s house. Its interior light flickered on as a door opened and a figure climbed out. Abdul suddenly wondered what to do if there were other thugs - such as his dreaded team mates - with Hassan but as he peered into the darkness it did appear that the figure was alone. It disappeared into a house.
Abdul’s heart rate had increased, his nerves were tingling and a ripple of fear passed through him as he contemplated the next phase of his plan. A voice inside his head was suddenly arguing that the whole thing was pointless.
But he knew it was the voice of fear and not of reason that was nagging at him. He took several deep breaths, crushed the internal debate and went through a mental rehearsal of what he was going to say to Hassan. Abdul remembered the gun in his pocket. He thought about leaving it in the car in case Hassan decided to search him. The weapon would only make the man suspicious and perhaps even alarmed. But if Hassan did lose control Abdul would be defenceless. He took the pistol out of his pocket, cocked it as quietly as he could by gripping the top-slide between his knees and put it back.
He climbed out of the car and closed the door, making hardly a sound. He crossed the street towards Hassan’s house, his nerves tightening even more as he took several deep breaths in an effort to calm himself.
As Abdul arrived outside Hassan’s house he looked in every direction, at the same time straining to listen. A light was burning inside on the ground floor. The car that had pulled up was Hassan’s red Opal. Abdul stepped into the shadows of the doorway and faced the shabby door that had not been painted in years. His feeling of apprehension grew even stronger and he prayed it would not get any worse - Hassan would sense it and feed off it. He breathed deeply several more times, reached his hand out and struck the door with his knuckles. The knock was pathetic and he cursed himself for his feebleness as he repeated it with more vigour.
An orange glow appeared through several cracks in the door and a noise came from inside the house. Abdul’s heart beat faster at the sound of the key turning in the lock. The door opened.
Hassan was holding a pistol. The pale orange light filled the end of the hallway behind him. He stared at Abdul with an ominous expression on his face. Hassan’s shirt was unbuttoned to reveal a stained T-shirt beneath and the top of his trousers had been unfastened to ease the strain on his fat stomach. He looked as oily and sleazy as ever.
Hassan’s stare shifted to Abdul’s stump and his podgy unshaven face broke into a smirk. ‘What do you want?’ he asked, losing the smile and spitting out something.
Abdul swallowed, opened his mouth but was unable to speak. It felt as if he had suddenly been choked by a tightening pressure around his chest.
‘Say something or get lost,’ Hassan growled.
‘I . . . I have to talk to you,’ Abdul finally managed to stutter.
‘About what?’
Abdul glanced behind him nervously. He cleared his throat but found that he had become tongue-tied with tension again.
‘Are you going to say something or are you going to just piss your pants?’ Hassan asked.
‘I have . . . I have business to discuss with you,’Abdul stammered at last.
‘Business?’ Hassan said with contempt. ‘What kind of business would you have with me?’
‘I need information.’
Hassan suddenly grew suspicious and looked past Abdul.
‘I’m . . . ’ Abdul began. But he found himself struggling to remember the verbal strategy that he had rehearsed.
Hassan raised his pistol and levelled it at Abdul’s forehead. ‘You’ve got five seconds. If you don’t tell me what you are doing here by then I’ll shoot you where you stand.’
‘The man w-we kidnapped. I have people who want to know where he is.’
‘I’ll leave your body in the street right here,’ Hassan growled. ‘No one will care around these parts. I could butcher you with a cleaver into a dozen pieces and no one would bother me . . . Who wants this information? ’
‘An American. Civilian, not military,’ Abdul quickly added.
‘I think I will shoot you,’ Hassan said, turning the weapon to check the safety catch was off before pointing the muzzle back at Abdul’s head.
‘Please. They will pay for the information,’ Abdul pleaded. ‘I’m frightened.That’s why I can’t speak. Give me one minute. Please, Hassan.’
Hassan studied the younger man as if he was a piece of dirt. ‘You said the one word that could save your life, you little shit. Pay.’ Hassan lowered his gun. ‘In,’ he said, stepping aside.
Abdul stepped into the house’s narrow hallway, past Hassan who smelled of sweat and alcohol, and waited as the man checked outside before closing the door.
Hassan brushed past him, walked to a room partway down the hallway and stoppe
d in the doorway. ‘Here,’ he grunted.
Abdul shuffled past him and into a squalid room. The only furnishings were a tattered couch, several worn and grubby rugs overlapping each other to cover the floor and a side table.
Hassan went to the side table that was covered in dust-covered junk as well as several bottles of Scotch, one of them half-empty and with its cap off. He put the gun down, picked up a filthy glass containing a fair measure of the amber liquid and took a large swig. He winced as the liquid passed down his throat and then he glared sullenly at Abdul. ‘You want a drink?’
Abdul shook his head. ‘No.’
Hassan dropped his gaze to Abdul’s stump. ‘How’s the hand?’
‘What hand?’
Hassan broke into a guttural laugh. ‘“What hand?” That’s good. I never knew you had a sense of humour.’
Abdul had intended it simply as a stoic statement.
‘I hope what you want is not some kind of joke, though,’ Hassan said, ominously serious once again.
‘I am here to do business.’
‘About the American we kidnapped,’ Hassan said, chortling. ‘“We.” I like that. I hope you don’t expect to get paid now that it’s we.’ He took another swig from the glass. ‘Who are these Americans?’
‘A newspaper.’ Abdul felt less tense now that he had engaged Hassan in conversation. ‘They want to do a story.’
‘What’s the deal?’
‘They want to know where the man is.’
Hassan drained the glass and refilled it from the bottle. ‘Where he is? That’s another joke, of course.’
‘They want to make contact with the people who have him,’ Abdul corrected.
‘And how much will they pay for this information? ’
‘I don’t know.’
Hassan looked at him suspiciously.
‘This is why I am here, Hassan. You know that I don’t know much about these matters.’
‘Who are they?’
‘I’m not supposed to say.’
‘I asked who they are?’ Hassan said darkly.
‘I . . . I cannot say,’ Abdul said, sensing danger but pushing his luck.
Hassan took another swig, put the glass down and picked up the pistol. ‘I could fire bullets into you all night and no one would come to investigate.You come into my house and dictate to me! “I cannot say”.’ He mimicked the words with a fair approximation of Abdul’s pathetic tone. He looked at Abdul coldly.‘Who are they?’
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