by Tara Mills
Dylan eased away from the brown-stained, bullet-riddled wall, then dropped to the floor beside his friend and watched him place another card. “Well, now we know why the house is empty.”
Jim grunted and shifted a card.
“I think I prefer the Sheraton,” Dylan muttered.
“I know I prefer the Sheraton.” Jim sorted through his remaining cards, gave up with a muted curse, swept all of them back into a pile again, and started shuffling.
“Where are the facilities?” Dylan looked around.
“Back the way you came in. It’s not much, but you’ll be more comfortable afterwards. Oh, and the only water is what Ali left with us.”
“I figured.”
Dylan worked himself stiffly back up and turned away from the wall of violence as he went out. After answering the pressing call of nature, he went searching through the metal footlocker Ali had left in the room where they’d spent the night. He’d included a large jug of bottled water. Dylan poured a little over his fingers to wash, but was forced to dry his hands on his pants. Thirsty, he tipped the bottle back and took a swig. It soothed his parched throat.
His most pressing needs met, now he was ready to rummage through the box for breakfast. There were two apples, two oranges, dates, pistachio nuts, and pita bread, with the popular white, feta-like cheese called Jibneh Arabieh. Dylan used the bottom of his shirt as an improvised sling and loaded it up with an assortment of food, then caught the handle of the water jug on his way out.
Jim glanced up, apparently knowing intuitively food that was coming. The man was as bad as Max. “Excellent, what do you have there?”
Dylan crossed his ankles and sank down beside him and spread what he brought out on his lap.
Jim frowned. “No jerky?”
“There’s jerky?”
“Yes. For all I know, it might be seasoned goat, but who cares? It’s pretty tasty. Heavy on the cumin, but I can deal with it.”
“Sorry, I didn’t see it. Do you have your knife on you?”
“Always.”
“How about cutting up this apple? There’s only two, so we might want to save the other one.”
“Sure.” Jim pulled out his knife and folded the blade out, putting it to work.
Dylan peeled the orange and began sectioning his half, eating the first of his succulent segments.
“Here’s your apple.” Jim dropped the rough-cut fruit on his lap. “I’ll take a few of those dates.”
Dylan passed him a handful along with a little bread as well. They ate in silence, the jug of water between them.
“You know,” Jim finally said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand after taking a good, long swig of water. “I’m thinking of making a change too. I’ve gotta get out of here. It’s too damn hot. I’m thinking Helsinki.”
“Helsinki? Yeah, that’d be a big change, but it’s pretty expensive. I don’t think you could afford it, doing what you’re doing, without sacrificing your autonomy.” Dylan popped his last date into his mouth. “I know you. I don’t think you can work inside the system.”
Jim dropped his head against the wall and rocked it back and forth, his Adam’s apple thrust out. “Damn it. You’re right. Money might be sporadic, but at least when I get it, I can make it stretch farther here. Unfortunately I have to be here to spend it.” He glanced over and asked, “Do you know what I can’t stop thinking about lately, what I miss most?”
“What’s that?”
“Short skirts and long legs,” he murmured dreamily. “I’ve been away so bloody long I’ve almost forgotten what a pair of heels can do for a nice ankle and a shapely calf. That’s a shame, it really is, a goddamned, crying shame. I’m a man in my prime.” Jim struck himself in the chest. “I shouldn’t be surviving on memories already.”
“You need to get out more.”
“I need to get home more.”
It was hard to argue with that.
Dylan sighed. “I’m hoping we can wrap this up by tomorrow—Friday at the latest.” He took a drink and set the water between them again. “Ariela didn’t take the news I was heading back here very well. I don’t blame her. She told me from the start she wouldn’t get involved with me if I kept putting my neck on the line. Now I know her reasons. The thing is, I never even blinked when I said I was done. I believed it at the time. Now I look like a liar. This article will be the last one I write on Iraq, at least from here, anyway.”
Jim snorted skeptically. “Right. You said that the last time.”
“No, I mean it. I won’t be sucked back again. There’s no way I’m going to sacrifice my shot at a personal life with Ariela by making the wrong professional choice. That’s what this is Jim, a choice. I’ve done my tour of duty, willingly, I might add, but now I’m ready to settle in at home. I’m going crazy just thinking about the woman I care about sleeping alone in my bed.”
“You’ve almost convinced me.” Jim grunted as he worked his way up to a stand. “My feet are going to sleep. I need to walk it off.”
Dylan smirked as his partner tiptoed miserably into the next room.
Jim turned back and said under his breath, “I’m gonna get some of that jerky. Do you want some?”
“No thanks.” Dylan pulled his telephone out of his pocket and checked the battery level. It was down and he’d grabbed the wrong charger, not that he could have charged here anyway, or made a phone call for that matter. It was time to conserve what he had for emergencies. He looked at his pictures of Ariela one last time before he shut off the phone and snapped it closed.
Dylan was just tucking it away when Jim came back, tearing a stick of dried meat with his teeth.
“What time is it, anyway?” he asked Dylan.
Dylan checked his watch, converting the numbers to local time. “It’s twenty to nine.”
“What time did the kid say he’d be here?”
“Early.”
“Then where the hell is he?”
“I wish I knew. Something is definitely off.”
***
Ariela was just turning on the copier when Jean strolled into the office, stifling a big yawn.
“You’re here early. Anything wrong?” Jean asked.
“Max needed to go out.” Ariela dropped into her chair and rolled up to her desk, reaching to turn on the computer. She glanced up from logging in. “You know something? Having to deal with a pet really impresses on a person how much more work a kid would be. I don’t think I’ll be rushing into that anytime soon. I like my life as it is, especially when Dylan’s around to share it with me.”
Jean looked over the top of her computer screen. “Have you heard from him again?”
Ariela held up her hand, signaling Jean to give her a second. “No.” She sagged back with a disappointed sigh. “Nothing since he got to Amman.”
Jean squeezed Ariela’s shoulder on her way to her own desk. “Well, he did warn you.”
“I know.” Ariela reread the old message, needing to feel their connection.
“Can I see it?”
“Sure.”
Jean came around Ariela’s desk to take a peek, leaning over her shoulder while she read. When she finished, she returned the mouse and straightened up. She was unusually quiet as she switched on her desk lamp and turned off the answering machine.
“Is something wrong?” Ariela asked.
Turning back, Jean gave a listless shrug, her attempt at a smile failing. “Nothing’s wrong per se. I just envy you a little right now.” Seeing Ariela’s confusion, she explained. “My relationship with Ron isn’t like yours. Sure, we love each other, we talk, we hang out and fool around, but he’s never once written me. It’s another layer of intimacy I might like to have, that’s all. He gives me cards for my birthday and Valentine’s Day, but all he does is sign them. A personal message might be nice once in a while.”
Ariela closed out of her e-mail and went to unlock the door and turn on their open sign. Coming back, she asked, “Do you think Ron�
�s the one? Can you see yourself married to him?”
Jean gave her a bashful smile and looked away. “I’ve been paging through bridal magazines when I’m shopping, but I don’t have the nerve to buy one.” Then her eyes returned to Ariela’s and she nodded. “Yes, I’d marry him, if he asked.”
Ariela was glad to hear it. “He’ll ask. Ron loves you.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m just getting impatient. It’s been three years now.”
“I think a heart-to-heart is overdue between the two of you. Maybe you should fix him a nice dinner and speak to him. This week would be perfect since I’m out of the way. As scary as it sounds, you need to let Ron know what you want. Tell him where you’d like to see this relationship go and when.”
“Terrifying.”
“No one said emotional exposure is easy.”
Jean looked up in surprise. “When did you become the relationship expert?”
Ariela snorted. “Hardly an expert, but I think I understand both of you. This is the next logical step. To be honest, I’ve been expecting it for a while. Some guys just need a little prodding to get the ball rolling.”
Jean rubbed her temples and groaned. “Everyone’s an expert when it comes to someone else’s love life.” She held up her hands in surrender. “You just happen to be right in this case.”
***
Mrs. Corley phoned later that morning, actually giving Ariela the first good news she’d ever delivered to her. She’d made her final decisions for her kitchen and accepted Ariela’s enthusiastic flattery for her wonderful taste with delight. As far as Ariela was concerned, laying it on a little thick was worth it if it kept the woman from second-guessing herself.
For the balance of the day, Ariela was on the phone ordering cabinets, tile, fixtures, flooring, wallpaper, lining up contractors, and trying to schedule the jobs in order of priority.
With her work finally cleared away, she double checked her messages. Nothing. If only she knew something. Where was he? She’d memorized his earlier messages so she knew them by heart, but that didn’t tame the wild anxiety she felt when there was no word at all. Even a two word message would be appreciated right about now—a simple, I’m okay. Was that too much to ask?
***
Dylan sat on the bare floor of the abandoned house with his back against the wall and his spiral notebook resting on his knee as he made notes to himself, recording impressions of his trip the old-fashioned way. Satisfied so far, he rapped the pad with his pen a couple of times before flipping the tablet closed. He set it aside then shifted so he could reach into his pocket. Knowing he shouldn’t didn’t stop him from pulling out his phone and thumbing it open. Moments later, he brought up his photos of Ariela again. Resting his wrist on his knee, he studied her image, a tender smile on his face. He scrolled to the second photo and brought it closer, trying to see her in more detail.
His smile deepened as he gazed at Ariela’s playful expression, her pose reminiscent of a pin-up girl from the forties, except she was nude, freshly tumbled, and luxuriously displayed on his sheets. Dylan loved the curve of her hip and the sweep of sexy thigh. To him, she was exquisite, inside and out. Just looking at Ariela’s picture was making him hard. He tapped his head against the wall several times before shutting off the phone to conserve power.
When Ali didn’t appear by eleven a.m., Dylan and Jim began to pace like caged animals. Something was wrong. They tossed disastrous scenarios back and forth, which only made their mounting anxiety worse.
Jim chewed off his fingernails one at a time, spitting them out as he rounded their improvised cell. “Do we call Paul yet and get a patrol out here to pick us up?”
Dylan scowled at him. “Get serious. Paul would shoot us personally for putting his men at risk. Just calm down. If we’d been compromised, we’d be dead by now. I say we give Ali whatever time he needs to work things out. Obviously he’s run into a snag. We have to trust him.”
“Doesn’t look like you’ll be out of here as early as Friday.”
“You might be right.”
Jim snorted and dropped down in a slump against the wall. “I’m going to rest my eyes for a while.”
“Fine,” he said, adding a soft, “And I’ll just picture my relationship with Ariela imploding when I don’t come back as soon as I’d hoped.”
***
An hour later, Jim hurried into the back where Dylan had gone to brood. The photographer roused him with his foot. “Ali’s coming.”
Jim had spent their time apart spying on the neighborhood through his camera lens, his position at the bottom corner of the broken window obscured by overgrown shrubs outside.
Dylan climbed to his feet and stretched his stiff muscles. They’d spent a long, hard stretch in this desolate house, worrying about gunmen breaking in on them, yet unable to leave. Another night on this cold hard floor would have been intolerable. With their ration of water gone, they were facing dehydration and sanitation issues no one should have to face, and yet, millions of Iraqi citizens were in the exact same situation. He didn’t envy them.
A car horn blew at the end of the street, and a moment later, Ali slipped in through the front door, pulling it closed behind him.
“Where the hell have you been?” Jim hissed before Dylan could stop him.
Ali didn’t look offended. He looked sorrowful. Dylan knew it was bad.
“Hanna Gouda is dead. She disappeared late yesterday. I finally found her in the morgue. She’d been stabbed, many times, and her left hand was gone. I’m so sorry.”
Dylan felt sick, nauseous. He grabbed hold of the wall just to remain standing. Ironic, he’d seen death, hundreds of times, and been able to handle it because it was part of the job. He’d learned how to insulate himself from the trauma, but this, this was personal. It hit him hard. His loyalty to Khalid and Hanna was the reason he’d put his relationship with Ariela in jeopardy to begin with.
“What about their son?”
“I heard he’s with Hanna’s uncle, but her brother and cousin are missing.”
Most likely hidden by other family members to avoid punishment, Dylan presumed. They’d be celebrated inside the family and protected. She’ll be forgotten. He wanted to weep, for his dead friends and for the little boy who would never know his wonderful, loving parents. It left him shaken and sick with misery.
Jim grabbed his arm. “Hey, are you all right?”
“No. No, I’m not. I’m pissed. I’m fucking pissed!” he shot back under his breath, still conscious of the need to remain undetected. “How can people do that? Just murder a member of their own family over an unfounded suspicion?” He laughed at himself, bitterly, remembering his reply to Ariela when she asked the same question. “You don’t understand the culture,” he murmured to himself and felt another wave of grief swell inside his chest. Oh god, it hurt.
“Dylan.” Jim gave his arm another squeeze, finally breaking through the pain. Deep blue eyes locked with cool gray and brought a semblance of calm to the raging storm inside of him.
Dylan shook himself. They had decisions to make. “What happened with the police car?”
Ali’s pain was as palpable as Dylan’s. “My friend, Mo, never brought the truck, and I can’t reach him. It would be much too dangerous for him and his family, if I try. I fear his time has run out. He walked the sharpened edge of the knife for three years. It was risky. I can’t get a police vehicle without him.”
Dylan understood what Ali wasn’t saying. The radio would have helped them avoid checkpoints. Without it, they were subject to stops and searches. They could blunder into anything.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” Jim told him.
“Are you safe?” Dylan didn’t want anyone else at risk for his sake.
“Thank you, yes. I had to be sure I wasn’t leading danger to you.” Ali nodded sadly. “A police vehicle would have been better. People see them and are afraid. They don’t want trouble, so they try to avoid being noticed and move away if possible,
look away when it isn’t. It’s dangerous to meet the eyes of the men inside. It would have made it much easier to get you through the city. But I’m afraid there’s more,” said Ali gravely.
“How bad?” Dylan asked.
“The other women you were planning to interview, Noora and her sister, they’ve fled the city with their children. I went to their home. A different family is living there now.”
Jim’s head jerked back at the news. “What?”
“That fast?” Dylan asked, equally shocked.
Ali rubbed his temples, an apologetic look on his face. “It’s not a good time to be Sunni in a Shia neighborhood, or Shia in a Sunni area. They are separating by sect, often violently. I just hope Noora and her family are safe. I have no way to find out.”
“This is why we’re in this bombed out, bullet-riddled house,” said Jim. “The family who lived here were driven out.”
Dylan groaned, seeing his Pulitzer disappear in a puff of smoke. He’d failed. He’d failed everyone; Khalid, Hanna, their little boy, Noora, and her sister, Amira, Jim, Ali, but most especially, Ariela. He’d sacrificed so much, and for what, to run up against a dead end? Hell no!
Hanna wanted this story told. So did Noora and Amira. They might have been silenced, but damn it, they still mattered. With the rights and status of women in this transforming country under discussion, they needed to be heard, silenced or not. He would speak for them. He would be their voice.
How? All three of his interviews just evaporated. They were going to be the safe conduits to other women. He couldn’t arrange any others, not without endangering more sources. That was something he wouldn’t consider.
Jim looked at Dylan. “Why don’t you call your friends at the Baghdad bureau? They just might have to help. Otherwise, I don’t see this happening.”
“There’s nothing they can do.”
Ali broke in. “It would be very dangerous for me to go there now. If Mo talked, I’m already under suspicion. I can’t be seen anywhere near the Americans or the Europeans. I wouldn’t like to try.”