by Mike Bond
“When’s he back?” Jack asked.
The young man tugged out an earplug. “Say what?”
“When’s Professor Younous back?”
“Maybe ten-thirty. You a teacher?”
Music blasted from the earplugs. Pearl Jam, Jack thought, My son Leo used to play that... No, that’s not who I am – I’m Afghani. And Leo’s dead. And he wasn’t my son. “No.”
“You know string theory?”
Jack couldn’t understand the term in Arabic. “It’s a mathematical model,” the young man said, “for understanding the universe.” He looked Jack over. “Where you from?”
“Afghanistan.”
“Uggh – for that your accent. Poor man, to be there with all those religious nuts.”
When he returned at ten-thirty Professor Younous was there, tall and angular in a wrinkled gray suit. “I come at the request of Ibn Khani,” Jack said.
Younous looked surprised then scared. He reached for the phone among the papers piled on his desk but drew away his hand. “Perhaps we’d better look at your problem.”
They walked wordlessly across the half-deserted campus. It seemed an impoverished version of an American urban state college. “The UN’s been here many times,” Younous said. “IAEA’s sampled every possible site, every factory and old barracks. We’re no closer to making nuclear weapons than Bermuda.”
“I’m told that once there was a program and you refused to work on it.”
“Any scientist who works on weapons is an assassin.”
“What about those Soviet suitcase bombs?”
“Bush talks about us having them? We can’t even fix our sewers. The man’s insane.”
“Al-Qaeda’s working on a bomb –”
“Not in Iraq. Pakistan has the Bomb, and it’s been home to Al-Qaeda and Bin Laden for years. So why do you keep looking in Iraq?”
HE TOOK THE NIGHT BUS to Ramadi. There were not enough seats; he had to stand till Al Habbaniyah. An old woman beside him was eating dates from a paper bag; their smell made him nauseous.
During the night Sophie came to him. They didn’t talk, everything was understood, just the dear clasp of her hand and she was gone.
Next morning in Ramadi he called the Army base from a pay phone and asked in Russian then Arabic for Colonel Nureddin Sama.
“Major Dvorak!” Sama said gloomily in Russian. “How surprising to hear from you.”
“I’m here a few hours, my friend. Can I see you, for old time’s sake?”
“Is it necessary? Well then... After work I walk my dog on the canal near my house, about a kilometer north of town. There’s a white water tank and a goat path that goes west up to an abandoned farmhouse. If you really need to... you can meet me at the farmhouse –”
Jack spent the day checking the base perimeter, counting vehicles in and out, artillery and choppers. In late afternoon he followed the canal, stopping once or twice to throw stones into its stagnant pools the way a man with time on his hands will do.
The water tank had been painted white over its rust and the flaking paint gave it a scabrous hue. On its back had been painted Allahu Akhbar – God is Greatest – but the letters had weathered so all you could see was... God .. eat.
He sat outside against the still-warm wall. The dog came running across the crests, the man picking his way after it.
The dog was a desert greyhound, sleek and gray with a chain collar that jingled when he ran. Nureddin Sama, slender with a hawkish face, came up and sat heavily beside Jack. “It’s crazy, your coming like this. You could get me shot.”
“They’d torture you first.”
“They’ll do the same to you.”
“I’m getting out. Before my friends get here.”
Sama laughed coarsely. “We don’t want war, don’t have the ammunition, the trucks, even uniforms. Look at mine – a Colonel and my trousers are frayed.”
“The White House thinks you have chemical, biological weapons –”
“Because of your embargoes the last twelve years have been hell. No food, no medicine, no parts for machinery or equipment or anything that’s normal in the modern world. Don’t you remember, you fools, what happened to Germany after Versailles?”
“This is not my choice, Colonel. These little Soviet tactical nukes –”
“The suitcase bombs.”
“Where do you have them?”
“I’ve been in the Army twenty-two years. I’ve been at the top of the Defense Ministry, close to our President.” He stared at Jack. “I can tell you we don’t have them.”
“You can tell me?”
Nureddin glanced away. “When we were young, we had such plans... Using our oil to educate our kids, build hospitals and roads, decent homes for everyone. Say what you want, our President loves Iraq. He keeps us together –”
“If we come in from Kuwait what will be your order of battle?”
“I’m not a traitor! Haven’t you seen the wonders of Babylon at the British Museum? Haven’t you read Gilgamesh? When your ancestors were chewing bones in caves we were a great empire of golden cities. We were writing books of wisdom while you were picking the lice out of your bearskins!”
“Ah, lice. I’ve had them in Afghanistan.”
“If you want to live, don’t say you’re from there.” Sama lit a cigarette. “After the Iranians made fools of you in seventy-nine, you showed us false satellite photos, gave us weapons and paid us billions to attack them. Two million died. Now you’re using us again –”
The dog came running back to check on them. Jack patted him, thinking of Bandit. “What about Scuds?”
“Your Special Forces guys are out looking for them now – you know that.”
“Why haven’t you grabbed them?”
“We have nothing to hide. And if we did, Bush would use it as an excuse to invade.” Sama looked at him bleakly. “Nobody here wants war – why do you?”
“You have too much oil, my friend.”
“This time you won’t catch us in the open. We’ll fight you in the cities, in the towns, appear and disappear, small units, a few men here and there... You saw what happened to the Russians in Grozny? Our cities will kill you. You’ll have no medevac, no safe streets, no way to find us, nowhere to hide. We don’t want war. But if it comes we’ll bleed you to death.”
IMAM GHALI WAS HIS LAST SOURCE, a rotund little man with a white beard, bright cheeks and merry eyes. He sat cross-legged on his pillow and waited patiently till Jack had finished speaking.
“Whosoever fighteth for the religion of God, my son, whether he be slain or victorious, we will surely give him a great reward – is this not true?”
“The Fourth Sura,” Jack answered. “Of course it’s true. But that was not my fear.”
“This war will start a long struggle the Americans are too soft and lazy to win. We will bleed them for years. They will not be safe no matter where they hide. We’ll turn the world against them, strengthen and temper the heart of every faithful Muslim. Think not of years, my son, but decades. Centuries.”
Dusk had fallen when Jack left the mosque. Unease was eating him as if someone were watching – were they waiting till he’d met all his sources, then planning to grab him before he met his contact? He wondered who his contact was, if they’d be at the Hotel Palestine as planned.
Afraid to take a cab, he walked across Baghdad to the Hotel, asked for the number of the Marduk suite and went up and knocked on its door. It opened suddenly, half-blinding him.
“You!” He stepped back.
“Get in, get in!” Isabelle Palmeiri yanked him inside and shut the door.
He stared at her. “You?”
“I couldn’t tell you in Afghanistan – wasn’t part of my mission.”
He sat heavily on the couch, looked up at her. “And this is?”
“You look a mess –” She moved toward the kitchen. “You want tea, coffee?”
He followed her. “I’m supposed to download to you?”
“Your guys have nobody here, dearie. Have to put up with me.”
“You’re a pain in the ass. That day in Afghanistan what the Hell were you trying to find out?”
She turned from the sink to face him. “Why didn’t you get Bin Laden?”
“Christ!” He clasped his head. “You think I didn’t try? What the Hell do you care?”
She drew back and he was stunned by how lovely and unapproachable she seemed. “My husband died in the North Tower. I lost a mate, just like you.”
Doubled
“SO YOU’RE THE ONE.” He looked at her. “I took you for a journalist.”
“I am. The Independent. I told you.”
“I paid no attention. I’m sick of war.”
“Which one?”
“This new one in Iraq that Bush is so hungry for. Afghanistan too.” He paced the suite, the bedroom, bath, and living room with the kitchen alcove. “Let’s go.”
“I’ve run the checks. We’re good here.”
The chair seemed to rise up and suck him in. “For days I’ve been afraid of being captured. Shot. Now in the middle of Baghdad I feel half-safe.”
“Until the bombs and rockets hit. Though they’re not supposed to hit this hotel.”
“They still have room service?”
“Comes and goes. What you want?”
“Food. Lots of it. And whiskey, best they have.”
“It’s a hundred quid for twelve-year-old single malt. Up to you – we won’t pay.”
She called the order down in mellifluous Arabic. He went into the bathroom and stood in the cold shower for a long time, dressed again in the jeans and shirt and sat watching Al Jazeera till the food came. “It’s going to happen, isn’t it?” he said.
She handed him a glass of whiskey. “Sorry, no ice.”
“How I like it.” He drank the Talisker and ate the roast chicken, pumpkin soup and chocolate cake. “I better take your report down,” she said, “before you pass out.”
“I can stay here tonight?”
She studied him. “On the couch there.”
“I didn’t mean a damn thing. I’m tired of back alleys and bus seats.”
“Probably was good for you.” She went into the bedroom and came out with a laptop. He put the food tray outside the door and filled his glass again.
She typed as he dictated. First his interview with “A” – Ibrahim the refinery manager, then “B” – Professor Younous, then Colonel Sama, Imam Ghali, every detail memorized. Then the lack of troop movements, the absence of callups, the general mood of a nation unprepared for war.
Two hours later he had finished, the bottle nearly empty. She sat back. “A bleeding tragedy, this!” She reread the file, encrypted it, hit the hardware cipher, went out on the balcony, and sent it off into the night. Five minutes later she went out again to confirm it was received, came back in and deleted it off her hard disk.
“Spying just isn’t what it used to be,” he said.
“Like taking candy from children. They’re so unprepared, these people.”
“Suppose it won’t happen?”
“We’ve just had the largest anti-war protests in history against it. Thirty million people marching in seventy-two different countries. Three million people in Rome, nearly two million in London and in Madrid... Never before have so many people protested a war. And it hasn’t even begun yet.”
“Bush said the protests don’t matter. He called them a ‘focus group’.”
“The man’s clinically homicidal. Cheney too, looking to make billions for Haliburton, the other war companies.”
“The UN inspectors, led by Hans Blix, says there are no WMDs. I can guarantee they’re right.”
“Doesn’t matter. Tony Blair has the hots for it. Bush is wetting his pants with excitement. Of course it’ll happen.”
“And you?”
She toyed with a black scarab on a gold chain round her neck. “I’m sticking it out. That’s my job.”
“Which one?”
“Both.”
He stretched his back muscles. “I’m going out tomorrow, same way I came in.”
“Good luck to that. They’ll be watching the borders.”
“So let’s have some wine. Then I’m going to sleep.”
“Wine? You’ve just had nearly a bottle of whiskey. Anyway Muslim women don’t drink.”
He eyed her. “You’re not Muslim.”
She smiled, tossed back her hair. “I’ve known so many Muslim women, felt so sorry for them... Can you imagine, never allowed in public, wrapped in hideous black veils?”
“A burkha, with just eye-holes and a little grill for your mouth...”
She shuddered. “One night in Riyadh I was invited to an all-women party, all these elegant women who spent their public lives completely covered were smoking hash and dancing naked together. It was sad, warped, crazy – I had to leave.” She went to the phone. “Bordeaux?”
“Works for me.”
A moment later she called to him, “They have a ninety-nine Médoc or a two thousand one Margaux.”
The Margaux had still been on the vine the day his family died. “Médoc.”
She sat across from him, trim and composed. “I’m sorry about your husband,” he said. Her face hardened. A mask, he thought. Am I like that?
“He’d gone over from London the day before 9/11,” she said. “A deal he was working on. He was an investment banker like you. Had the flu, I didn’t want him to go.”
“All the time when we talked... You could’ve told me.”
“What good would that have done you? Or me?” She said nothing, then, “I buried myself in work. For weeks I couldn’t sleep – every time I closed my eyes I was with him, falling inside the tower. The pain, when it crushes you – it’s awful.” She looked away. “Oh God, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I go through it every day.”
At a soft knock on the door he stepped into the bedroom, heard her thanking the bellboy. A queen-sized bed, her white underpants and bra tossed across it.
When he came out she was pouring the wine. “Once they made great wine here. The syrah grape is supposedly from Shiraz in Iran. Where my father came from.”
“You grew up there?”
“Heavens no. My parents were journalists, got out of Teheran when the Ayatollah came in. My mother’s British, so we had no problem. I was seven, grew up in London.”
He grinned. “Kabul on the Thames? Londonistan?”
“It was different then. Now everybody’s so full of political correctness we won’t admit our capital is a breeding ground for Islamic terrorism. We Brits are always weak when we should be strong and strong when everybody expects us to keel over...”
“What would’ve Iran been like, if we hadn’t overthrown Mossadegh?”
“Probably a peaceful, wealthy, modern nation. The France of the Middle East.”
“Sometimes I wonder, do these American politicians understand? Maybe they do, and just want chaos?”
“Chaos? It’s fantastic for oil prices.”
He smiled at the irony. “Where’d you learn Arabic?”
“Cambridge, like everyone. Then Cairo, Yemen, lots of nasty places.”
“Always MI6?”
“Journalist first. Got recruited after.”
He told her about the false meeting with Karim al-Saleh, his frantic dash through the streets. The waiting. Yes, she watched him, the waiting.
“It’s easy,” he said, “to cauterize our pain. But what happens to us doesn’t matter. It’s what happened to them – your husband, Sophie, Leo, Sarah –” he could say their names now without choking. “And all the others.”
She had the clearances so he told her a little about Afghanistan, training mujihadeen to kill Russians, how every war sows the seeds of the next. And how religion is evil because it separates and excludes, incites righteousness, condones mass murder in the guise of war.
“Vengeance is like what Church
ill said about democracy,” she said. “It’s a lousy solution, but better than anything else.”
“We learned a Longfellow saying in school... it’s always stayed with me: If we could know the secret lives of our enemies we’d see enough sorrow and suffering to disarm all hostilities. But that’s doesn’t matter now. I just want to get Bin Laden, Al-Qaeda –”
She sat back. “But you didn’t.”
He felt a little drunk. “That pisses me off.”
“So who gave the order to hand Tora Bora to the Afghanis?”
There she was like a wolf again, closing in. “That proves nothing,” he said finally.
“Blair won’t admit you let Bin Laden go. MI6 doesn’t want any part of this Iraq invasion – a recipe for disaster – they tell Blair but he won’t listen –”
“Your North Sea fields are running out. He wants the oil.”
She eyed him. “If you guys had Bin Laden? What then?”
He looked around, avoiding her. How bizarre the room seemed – the blank TV, the yellow walls, the greenish drapes, the ornate lamps with their frilly shades – when they and the city around them were so soon to be destroyed. “We’d lose our pretext for invading Iraq –”
“Every night I fall asleep determined to kill that liver-lipped assassin. To make him die the death of every single person he’s killed. One by one.” She bit her lip. “Bush and Centcom blew it in Tora Bora. And now you’re chasing this Iraq thing, letting him get further away. Making him a hero.”
“I’m not letting him get away...” Aching to ease her pain – or was it his? – he pulled her close, neither resisting nor accepting, her hair against his cheek. He held her a long time as she breathed softly against him, not in desire nor consolation but in sharing whatever dim human spark their loved ones had lost. “I’ve been doubled,” he said. “By my own country.”
She smiled up at him. “Just by the ones at the top.”
“Imagine, the people who believe in them, respect them. What fools we all are –”
“Cheer up – in ten million years something new may evolve, wiser and less evil.”
“You don’t get to the top except by standing on everyone else’s head.”