by Saad Hossain
Thus, it was near dusk on the seventh day of his reign that found Yakin sitting in his favorite chair outside the stylish Dervishes Café, smoking shisha and drinking coffee, the bulge of his revolver very evident in his waistband, although he had prudently taken out the chambered bullet, for he had heard countless tales of men shooting themselves in the balls. His tobacco was first rate, the best blend of the Swirling Dervish, gratis, which was a good thing since he had never been able to afford it before. The coffee, too, was delectable, the best in Shulla, maybe the best in Baghdad, which was, in truth, the best in the world, for Baghdad was undoubtedly the birthplace of coffee, regardless of what those men in Seattle said.
Yakin was reasonably happy. He had money in his pocket. He had two companions sitting across him laughing at his jokes. Just this afternoon, he had met Saira in the room above the café, had kissed her and felt her up beneath her skirt, had extracted promises of more. So when he saw three men in Salemi clan scarves ambling up the road, he wasn’t really surprised. In his experience, God waited for moments such as these to fuck him over.
Only seven days, for God’s sake, he thought. I haven’t even gotten laid yet. His friends were melting away. The other café patrons hastened inside. He wanted to move, but he couldn’t. Some deeply honed instinct, critical for bullies, told him he was outgunned and that it was better to sit tight and preserve some dignity. The revolver barrel felt hot against his crotch. He wanted to pull out the gun, but his muscles felt loose, disjointed. Too late. Seven days…He could see the black fabric bunched up around Saira’s thighs, the thin shading of down going up, and the smell of her, still on his fingers…it’s not fair.
All too soon, the three beards reached his table. They sat down without a by-your-leave—a studied rudeness that left no doubt in all the patrons of the Dervishes which way this conversation was going to be conducted. Saira was watching from the cash register. He could see the side of her face. The others, his neighbors, so respectful just this morning, were watching avidly, weighing him, no doubt mentally cancelling him out. It was intolerable. It was the story of his life.
“Salaam,” Yakin said, trying for that black stare, but his eyes faltered when he looked at the man in front of his face.
“Salaam, peacock,” the man replied. He was tall, in a spotless long coat, his beard neat and gray, his eyes also gray, but lighter and filled with dreadful intelligence. His scarf was tied around his neck with all the care of a cravat and he sat easily at Yakin’s table, as if he owned the café and was welcome to sit at any table. There were no weapons on him, and this, too was a palpable fact.
“I am Hassan Salemi,” he said.
“I know,” Yakin croaked. “Sir.”
“I have been waiting,” Hassan Salemi said, “for six days, for a visit from you. Hearing that you are a busy man, I have finally decided to come see you myself. Are you a busy man, peacock?”
“No, not so busy,” Yakin said, suppressing a shiver. “Sorry, sir. And please accept my condolences. I was on the verge of seeking an audience, imam, but I expected you were busy with the funeral.”
“Ah yes, my poor son,” Hassan Salemi smiled. “I told him not to play with guns. He was a fool. Don’t you think so, peacock?”
“No, imam,” Yakin floundered. “It is a great loss to the…”
“Community, yes, a very great loss. The community will hardly survive without his posturing,” Hassan Salemi said. “He was decidedly a fool. But he was my son, nonetheless. No doubt he deserved what happened to him. But to be called out in the night and then ambushed and slaughtered like a dog in the street, that is somewhat insulting to me.”
“It was a tragedy, imam,” Yakin said. He’s mad, he thought numbly. He doesn’t care at all about his son, and so he’s going to kill me too, without any remorse. Yakin’s fingers trembled on his lap, and he thought wildly about going for his gun, about shooting this cold monstrosity in front of him. But his courage was gone, his body flaccid, and all he managed was to slump deeper in his chair.
“I need to know some facts, peacock. Just plain speaking, as if we were honest men,” Hassan Salemi said calmly. “First, who called my son that night?”
“Old Amal,” Yakin said, thinking frantically how much blame he could shift. “He spoke to your son on the phone.”
“Who else was there with him?”
“About ten or so others from the neighborhood,” Yakin said.
“Including yourself?”
“Yes,” Yakin said, afraid, reliving those fatal moments, remembering now that it had been his own idea, him and his friends’, that Amal had disagreed at first. Madness. How much would Amal refute? Was it possible to silence him? No, even in the heyday of his power, gone scarcely ten minutes ago, Amal had treated him with only grudging acceptance—more as another burden, he realized now, rather than as an overlord. He had been blind, blind. Why hadn’t he foreseen this day? Why hadn’t he tidied up behind him?
“Now, what exactly was your collective intention here?” Hassan Salemi, who had been studying him, now broke through his panicked thoughts.
“Nothing,” Yakin stammered. “We wanted to hand over the fugitives. We thought we would get a reward.”
“A reward?” Hassan Salemi smiled. “You may yet get a reward.”
I don’t doubt what sort of reward you have planned for us, Yakin thought.
“Now, dear peacock,” the Imam continued. “How did you come to meet these men, these killers?”
“Amal, it was Amal!” Yakin almost wept, cursing the old man. “He wanted them to kill the Lion of Akkad, but they failed, and instead they killed your son!”
“Ah yes, this elusive lion,” Hassan Salemi leaned forward. “Do you think I believe in fairy stories, peacock?”
There was the unmistakable sound of a pistol cocking, somewhere behind him, and Yakin knew they would not hesitate to blow him away in this very café, in broad daylight.
“Ask anyone,” he said, deadly still. “I would not lie to you, imam.”
“That remains to be seen,” Hassan Salemi said. “Now, where did these men come from? There were three of them, I believe.”
“They walked over from Ghazaliya. That’s all I know.”
“Walked over from Ghazaliya,” Hassan Salemi said slowly. “Funny, I remember an American checkpoint across that ditch. I myself would have trouble walking into Shulla from South Ghazaliya. Yet these three men magically appear. Was one of them white by any chance?”
“No, of course not,” Yakin said sullenly. “They were like us, ordinary. One of them was a professor. It was his stupid idea to find the Lion. And the other two were thugs, regular gun men, I think, criminals probably.”
“Street thugs, you say?” Hassan Salemi frowned. “Men like that don’t get past American checkpoints. Men like that don’t shoot bullets at my son in Shulla. Are you merely stupid, peacock, or are you hiding something?”
“I don’t know. I told you Amal found them,” Yakin said. “Ask him.”
“Yes, I think it is time to do exactly that.” The imam got up. His men pulled at Yakin’s shirt, hauling him to his feet, deliberately shaming him. “Come, peacock. You live for a while longer.”
They shoved him down the street, making a show of it. The imam strolled behind them, unconcerned, letting his men have their fun. They wanted him cowed and beaten. Yakin was glad enough for the abuse; it meant they weren’t going to shove him into an alley and blow his head off—not right away at least.
The old man was in his shop, as always, counting his rotten fruit. He looked up morosely at their noisy entrance, eyes drooping, resigned to the visit, it seemed. Yakin cast his mind back, remembering Amal’s curious apathy throughout the week, and realized that the man had been expecting this visit, possibly anticipating his own death.
“Imam,” Amal salaamed deeply, the respect genuine. “I have been expecting you.”
“Then let us get to the point,” Hassan Salemi said brusquely. “You, shopk
eeper, tell me the story. Leave nothing out.”
“We stopped three men who crossed into Shulla,” Amal said. “There was a man preying on us whom we called the Lion of Akkad. It was said he was working for you.”
“That is incorrect,” Hassan Salemi said. “I do not rob people in that fashion.”
“Not by explicit command, perhaps, imam,” Amal said carefully. “But your men—your captains—it is not possible to refuse them, sir, nor to seek clarifications on their demands.”
“I see.”
“Lord, also it is not always money they desire,” Amal said. “I say this to you to show anyways what life is like for us. We are at the mercy of passing wolves.”
“How you live is of no interest to me. Continue,” said Hassan Salemi.
“We asked these men for help,” Amal said bitterly. “These strangers. We asked them for help when our own couldn’t help us. And they were honorable men for what it’s worth. They tried their best and maybe even succeeded. We made the mistake of calling your son, of betraying them.”
“Now you interest me,” Hassan Salemi said. “What were the terms of this betrayal?”
“There was rumor,” Amal said, “of a renegade Ba’athist; one of the old guard, a vicious man, who had tortured and murdered many Shi’a. We thought one of these men…we thought one was he. We called your son. He was excited. He wanted them right away. He gave no time for planning,” Amal spread his hands. “I warned him. I tried to tell him these men would not go quietly.”
“He was a fool, in fact, my son,” Hassan Salemi said quietly.
Amal paused, startled. “Yes, yes he was a fool,” he said finally. “He came loudly, with trucks full of men, firing in the air. They shot back. It was a fair fight, imam, I swear.”
“Fair fight or ambush, I have yet to decide,” Hassan Salemi said. “Now where are these men hiding?”
“I don’t know,” Amal said. “They escaped. The police came. There was a gunfight in the streets.”
“So strangers come to help you, you betray them, and then they kill my son,” the imam said. “They evade my son’s men, and our fine national police help them escape. One of them, you say, is an escaped Ba’athist, a wanted man who crosses American checkpoints with impunity. Tell me, Amal, that it is so simple.”
“I swear I know nothing else.”
“Perhaps,” Salemi said.
He signaled, and one of his men left Yakin to go upstairs. Amal stared after him, aghast, and then bulled forward with a cry when he understood. The second gunman intercepted, throwing him to the floor, his gun out. There was a scuffle, and then Amal was flat on the ground, his head pushed to one side, a boot on his neck. The gun swiveled once from the prostrate shopkeeper to Yakin, a lazy circuit, its meaning clear. He was now almost superfluous. He sat absolutely still, willing Amal to desist.
“Hush, hush.” Hassan Salemi crouched in front of the old man.
“Please, lord, we didn’t know. Imam, in the name of God have mercy.”
“You have no more answers, you say,” Hassan Salemi said softly. “Be at peace then, old man. I too have lost a son. The pain…passes.”
“No, no!” Amal cried, his face contorted against the floor. “Please, imam, mercy. He is the only one I have left!”
There were sounds of scuffling upstairs, dull, ugly noises, and the sharp screams of an adolescent, painfully high.
“Come, you know nothing else?” Hassan Salemi asked. “These men were not friends of yours? You weren’t helping them escape? To ambush my son?”
“No, no, I’m Shi’a! Shi’a! I swear, I don’t know them. I don’t know any Sunni scum.”
“You truly do not know where they hide?”
“I don’t know them!” Amal shouted. “Yakin knows them better than me. For God’s sake, he spent days with them!”
“Be at peace then.” The imam walked to the door.
Yakin started to rise, to protest, but two great noises shuddered through the house one after the other, and he sat back down stupidly, stunned. Fat drops of red hit his face, and he thought it was his own. But it was Amal’s blood, and the old man thrashed incoherently, his spine ruined. The gunman came down the stairs, pistol slack in his hand, and Yakin understood that the boy, too, was dead.
“Come, peacock,” Hassan Salemi said. “This is your lucky day.”
13: ROOTS OF THE LION
HOFFMAN WOKE UP IN DISARRAY, HIS EYEBALLS TURNED INSIDE out, his throat raw from smoke, and a midget triphammer gunning in his cortex. His first instinct was to reach for his cigarettes, which were gone from their usual place beneath his pillow. Half awake now, he fumbled for his 9 mm, which also was not under the pillow. His Navy MK III knife, won at cards from a disgraced admiral, was not in his boot, where it normally spent nights. For that matter, his boots were not there on the floor beside his bed either.
A slow reconnaissance was in order, and he performed this with due stealth. The room was unfamiliar and elegant. The sun streamed in from an open window, and it was this brutal light that had woken him. He got to his feet, found his way into a dressing room. Propped up on a stool was the full complement of his gear, his clothes pressed and folded, the knife sheathed to the boot, his holster and gun placed thoughtfully on top.
He dressed, lit a cigarette, winced at the drumming in his head, and started to wander out. Avicenna’s house, he vaguely recalled from last night, was a series of deliberately confusing passages. He caught the smell of black coffee and followed it blindly, reaching the courtyard eventually, where a small table had been laid in the shade.
A dark-haired lady sat under the stunted olive, sporting oversized dark glasses and a floral patterned Hermes scarf tied loosely around her neck. She was drinking coffee from a glass and smoking a thin, elongated cigarette, flipping through some glossy magazine, one slim Chanel enclosed foot tapping impatiently against the flagstones.
This sight was so incongruous that Hoffman stood slack jawed for several moments, the cigarette hanging from his lip like a hook from some kind of giant idiot fish. She deigned to notice him after a minute, looked up, and scowled at him.
“Don’t stand there like a damned fool,” she said. “What’s the matter with you? Are you autistic?” Her voice was gravelly, attractive. Not least because, Hoffman had to admit, she didn’t look at all like a mustachioed elephant draped in black, the standard of Iraqi ladies he’d normally met during his rounds on the streets of Ghazaliya.
“What? No.” Hoffman shuffled forward, trying to avoid the sun.
“I heard many Americans are autistic,” she said. “Some kind of genetic defect, I think.”
“I’m just hung over,” Hoffman said. He paused at the edge of the table and offered a snap salute, marred somewhat by his misshapen posture. “Sergeant Hoffman at your service… er, ma’am.”
“We were introduced last night, idiot,” she said. “You were drunk.”
“Ah well, Avicenna offered me a whole bunch of bottles,” Hoffman said. “You must be his…girlfriend? Nurse? Fourth wife?”
“My name is Sabeen. Granddaughter,” she said. She pointed at the coffee pot with one manicured finger. “Help yourself. You look like something unpleasant died in your throat.”
“Thanks,” Hoffman said, pouring some into a chipped white mug. “I don’t remember anything from last night. Did I do anything embarrassing?”
“Well, you ate and drank like an ill-bred buffoon. And then near the end, you puked and passed out,” Sabeen said. “So, no, you simply reinforced my view of uncouth Americans. I’d say you behaved perfectly.”
Hoffman tried for a winning smile and failed. “I hope I didn’t offend you in any way.”
“Not specifically, no,” Sabeen said. She went back to flipping the pages of her magazine.
Hoffman said after some time. “Could I speak to Avi, maybe?”
“No,” Sabeen said.
“Er, ok,” Hoffman said. “Behruse then?”
“I sent that oaf o
ut to work,” Sabeen said, not looking up.
“Doing what?”
“None of your business,” Sabeen said.
“Listen, I really don’t remember about last night. I’m sorry if I pissed you off,” Hoffman said, extending his hand. “Can we start over?”
“You probably think that’s charming,” Sabeen said, not moving an inch.
“Your English is really good,” Hoffman persevered.
“I was at Oxford,” Sabeen said.
“What did you do there?”
“Studied English.”
“What do you do now?”
“My grandfather controls numerous assets,” Sabeen said. “I am his chief of security. I make sure no one bothers him.”
“Hey, Behruse brought me here,” Hoffman raised his hands in the air. “I’m not a hostile.”
“I know. Grandfather sent me to protect you,” Sabeen said. “He finds you interesting for some reason. He’s finally gone senile I think.”
“Protect me? Ma’am, I’m a United States Marine.”
“Marine?” Sabeen smiled genuinely for the first time. “Your uniform is infantry, and your sergeant’s stripes look pretty new, so either they’re fake, or some other moron saw fit to actually promote you.”
“There is a Humvee full of extremely dangerous men at my beck and call,” Hoffman said. “I am a death dealing machine, armed to the teeth.”
“Have you actually looked at your gun?” Sabeen asked.
Hoffman pulled his prized desert eagle out with a flourish and cocked it theatrically. The sound was hollow, decidedly wrong. A closer inspection revealed that the clip was empty, as was his ammunition pouch. His face fell.
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t shoot anyone,” he said.
“No. But you passed out with your gun aimed at your crotch and the safety off,” Sabeen said. “Anyone that moronic doesn’t deserve to play with bullets.”
“Heh, you’d love the other guys in my squad.”
“Thank God I won’t have to meet them.” Sabeen stood up. Hoffman tried to rise and leer at her at the same time; blood rushed to his head, and he fell backwards, sending his chair sprawling.