The Shelter for Buttered Women

by J. Clayton Rogers

  In fact, had Rodriguez suggested placing Ghaith in the Green Zone, the Iraqi translator would have snapped it up in an instant. Right now, Ghaith's wife lay between life and death in the high security compound, at the 10th Combat Support Hospital. The same bomb that had wounded her had killed his youngest son. Yet Ghaith had accrued many enemies in his multi-faceted career, and he had no choice but to work for the people who had hurt him so grievously. The Tigris River separated Ghaith from Rana like a jagged sword cutting a limb from its body.

  Of course, the upgrade from living in a tent was not as extreme as Rodriguez made out. The large modular tents ranked along Cuervo Avenue were not only air conditioned, but had toilets that only faintly reeked of quaternary ammonium compounds and human excreta. Not that this mattered much. Pine-Sol was a poor weapon in a camp situated between a refuse incinerator and a sewage treatment plant. But the privacy provided by Ghaith's new digs was a huge improvement. While not entirely adverse to company, he had had his fill of crowded cantonments while a member of the Republican Guard.

  The Americans were ignorant of his past military career. They were under the impression that Ghaith had been a low-level clerk at the Al-Ahm al-Khas Administrative Center in the Al Hayat Building, right next to the Republican Palace. After a brief stint helping the Americans find their way through the SSO bureaucracy, Ghaith had been compelled to slip away to attend other matters. This took him to Fallujah, where he managed to finesse a world of trouble into another job with the Americans, this time as a translator for the Marines. The Marines had lost him to the British, who had in turn lost him to the U.S. Army. All this bouncing around had finally landed him in what most American troops called 'Camp Rusty'. Camp Rusty had originally been Al-Rashid Military Camp, part of an air base whose ten hardened aircraft shelters had been severely knocked about during the invasion. Ghaith was familiar with the area because it had once housed Al-Istikhbarat al-Askariyya (the military brigade of Iraqi Military Intelligence), with which he had had some dealings. It had also been home to the 6th Special Republican Guard Battalion, with which he had also had some dealings. The last time he had been here, the Iraqi Army had been pre-sighting artillery on Sadr City as a precaution against a Shiite uprising. Saddam Hussein had been a great believer in the therapeutic qualities of indiscriminate shelling. When the Americans arrived, the Seabees repaired the air strip and erected four 2-story barrack buildings, a restaurant, an internet café and various other amenities. It was dubbed Camp Muleskinner, but not for long, because Pfc. Ray D. Cuervo of the Apache Troop was soon killed while on reconnaissance and the camp was renamed in his honor. In a nod to native sensibilities, Ray Cuervo was (not without some protests) swept aside, leaving Camp Rustamiyah in his wake.

  Camp Rusty.

  Seeing as Ghaith was low in spirits, not to mention suicidal, Rodriguez had tried to interest him in some of the camp activities. Ghaith sniffed disdainfully at the archery club, as if suspecting the Americans were trying to entice him into primitive savagery. Pit a bow and arrow against an Abrams and the conclusion would be foregone, to say the least. He had greeted the concept of kickboxing with more relish. After having the rules explained to him by the Cuervo Team coach, Ghaith had nodded his complete comprehension.

  "Let me know when it gets to be too much," said the coach as he tightened Ghaith's headgear. "Rodriguez'll have my stripes if something happens to you."

  The bell rang and the coach crashed to the floor with a broken jaw.

  "You said you understood the rules!" Rodriguez shouted, jumping into the ring.

  "He tried to kick me in the head!" Ghaith protested.

  "It's kickboxing!" Rodriguez watched the line medic attend the coach, then turned an appraising eye on Ghaith. "You've had training."

  "My toilet is impeccable."

  "I mean hand-to-hand combat." Rodriquez raised his head a bit, like a man suspecting he might be underwater. "The way you laid out those two in Sadr City should have told me…"

  "I learned my skills in the street." Ghaith was also a trained liar.

  "You can't tell me that was common streetfighting."

  "Children scuffling in an alley," Ghaith shrugged.

  "You're saying all the kids here fight like this?"

  "It is part of our national heritage. You can see, now, why it would be wise of you to leave us to fight among ourselves."

  "Not an option," Rodriguez said dolefully.

  For a moment, in Ghaith's private half-bungalow, Private Hutton risked getting the same treatment as the kickboxing coach. Quickly rolling off his bunk, Ghaith took aim at the young soldier's crotch, stopping just short when Hutton made no move to defend himself. Standing, Ghaith stepped past the private and closed the door. He turned on the light switch and faced the intruder. Hutton was blinking away the sudden rush of light. He was also battling tears that had blinded him to the fact that Ghaith had come close to emasculating him.

  "What is it?"

  "Afaf. They've taken her."

  "'Afaf'? Who is that?"

  "Sarah."

  "Sarah…the translator?" Sarah had enlisted as a translator for the Americans a few months after Baghdad fell. Ghaith knew little about her. From a Sunni family, she had attended a good school and had benefited from the usual privileges Saddam Hussein had granted to his political allies. Ghaith sometimes worked alongside her when American patrols penetrated the more densely populated neighborhoods, where the men were likely to start shooting if their womenfolk spoke to male strangers—American or otherwise. When Ghaith asked her why she was working for the Coalition, she curtly explained her father had been murdered by the Shia Militia. Having also been raised a Sunni, or at least a Sunni to all outward appearances, Ghaith had not pursued the topic. The blood of vengeance ran deep, even in Iraq's women. Ghaith's father had been chummy with the Baathists. Had he survived his cancer he might have met the same fate as Sarah's father. Ghaith himself had worked closely with the Tikriti clan and knew all too well that his life was merely death in temporary abeyance.

  "Afaf is her real name," said Hutton, brushing away his tears with his camo sleeve.

  "How do you know this?" Ghaith demanded. He had assumed 'Sarah' was her real name. It was not all that unusual in formerly-secular Iraq to bear a non-Muslim name. Ghaith himself was simply known as Haji, an insult he allowed for the sake of convenience. When he detected a glimmer of guilt beneath Hutton's tears, Ghaith grew alarmed. "What crime have you committed?"

  "Since when was love a crime?" Hutton burst out, leaning towards Ghaith as if he wanted to fight, then suddenly dropping back as if struck down by his own idiocy.

  "Don't your officers command you not to intercourse with our people?"

  Brought up short by the odd wording, Hutton's protest was choked by laughter. "No! You don't understand. We didn't go that far. We only…held hands." Seeing Ghaith's skeptical reaction, the soldier shook his head. "You don't understand! It's love…"

  Ghaith understood love perfectly well, far better than the host of numbskulls (of all cultures) that he had the misfortune to deal with. This dangerous pup was selfish enough to put far more at risk than his own idiotic gonads.

  "Didn't Sergeant Mastin explain the situation to you? I'm sure I was present at that lecture. As I recall, you are to do your utmost to avoid even looking at Iraqi women."

  "That's sort of hard to do when they're on the street."

  "You held her hand? Do you know how dangerous that is?"

  "Holding hands?"

  "In a proper culture, women should be invisible," Ghaith said, too angry to agree to logic. "How do you know that Sarah has been…taken?" He found it difficult to use her real name. 'Afaf' translated into English meant 'chastity'—too painfully ironic, under the circumstances.

  Hutton pulled out a cell phone. "I was talking to her when—"

  "But what is this!" Ghaith moaned. "Personal phones are banned in this camp!"

  "Everyone has a phone!" Hutton protested. "They've set up
a newfangled TacBSR—"

  "This is at the discretion of the commander. Am I not correct in saying that personal cell phone communications at Rustamiyah FOB are strictly excluded?" Naturally adverse to acronyms, Ghaith bruised his tongue on 'Forward Operating Base.' "You could use the voice device at the internet café…I believe Sergeant Mastin called it 'spawar'. Or there's the…" Ghaith winced at the approach of another acronym. "…the DSN—"

  "What, you think you're the CO?" Hutton interrupted, wrath overcoming his grief. "Listen, Haji, I need your help. I could go out by myself, but I don't speak Iraqi."

  "Arabic," Ghaith corrected. "You cannot possibly go outside the wire by yourself. It is not only forbidden, it is a mind-twisting stupidity."

  "If I order you to come—"

  "Don't speak nonsense."

  "I could shoot you and say you were trying to…"

  "What? Ravish you?" Ghaith paused. No question, risking almost certain death—probably a most gruesome death—in order to save Sarah had to say something about the strength of his affection. Perhaps this was not a simple case of lust gone haywire, after all. "Very well, we can go to Sergeant Mastin and ask for assistance. He will have to tell Rodriguez, of course, but he will share your concern for an employee—"

  "An employee!"

  "Such as I am."

  "I can't go up the chain. You said it: they'd drop me from a helo for fraternizing—or toss me to the muj's. I've gone way beyond General Order Number 1. Even if Mastin agreed to going out, he'd want to cut a FRAGO, even an OPORD. He'd notify headquarters…and there's no time for that! Anyway, he already thinks of me as an oxygen thief. I don't know why he has it in for me. I do my bit."

  "You would want to take a gun truck, perhaps," Ghaith suggested.

  "Fill out a requisition? Are you out of your—forget it. I know a way past the wire where nothing on tracks can go. Nothing on four wheels, either."

  "And what do you plan to shoot me with if I refuse? You did not bring your automatic rifle with you."

  "I'm not…you know…but if I had to…" He reached behind and pulled out a pistol.

  "A Star BMK," Ghaith nodded.

  "You know it?"

  "Spanish, manufactured by Bonifacio Echeverria, 9mm semiautomatic."

  "You know a lot for a civilian translator," Hutton scowled. "I bought it off a Brit who got it off one of those guys from the microscopic Spanish contingent. He had to unload it before going home. They don't allow handguns in England. Can you believe that? They make sure their craphats can't sneak any home."

  "I'm relieved he did not sell it to one of my countrymen," Ghaith said.

  "Is that a joke?"

  "Merely a cogent observation." Ghaith hesitated a moment. "Is that weapon loaded? We're inside the wire—"

  "I'm sick of rules." Hutton slid the sidearm back into his waistband. "I couldn't shoot you. You know that."

  "I know no such thing. You are very disturbed at the moment, as you yourself might be aware."

  "Let's go. When I was talking to her, there was banging at her bedroom door—then the phone went dead."

  "That does sound ominous," Ghaith agreed. He brooded darkly for a moment. He himself was treading hard on death's heels in order to protect his beloved. Joining in with this man's folly would worsen his odds dramatically. He had not known Sarah well, but she seemed like a bright, lively woman undeserving of whatever fate her kidnappers had in store for her. He reached past Hutton and switched off the light. "You are prepared to die? Then let us go. You know where she lives, I presume."

  "About a mile from here. Maybe two."

  "That is not promising."

  "Karadah."

  "A large district," Ghaith responded.

  "Sindabad."

  A small industrial suburb surrounded by farms and date palm groves. It was filled with one-story factories and warehouses. Its streets were dusty, making the buildings dusty, which in turn produced a dust-addled populace. With all those parched throats, it was not surprising that it was home of the Baghdad Soft Drink Company. All in all, an unremarkable backwater that had produced the remarkable Sarah.

  Hutton stumbled off the miniature porch as he stepped outside.

  "Do you think you can find your way to her home in the dark?" Ghaith inquired.

  "Of course," said the private, picking himself off the ground. "I just tripped, that's all."

  In a land where tripping could result in death, or even be the cause of death, this was not a good start.

  Richmond, Virginia

  July, 2008

  The Shelter for Buttered Women

  Ari stared through the tall iron-wrought gate and scratched his palms. Lawson had said Nabihah Sadiq had plumped down three million in cash for this French provincial home situated on six acres between Cary Street Road and the James River. It was less than five miles from Ari's safe house, but it was really a world away. In scale it had nothing on the Baghdad Palace, but in charm it literally put Saddam's imperial architecture in the shade. Magnolia trees, weeping willows and a couple of venerable pines near the fence oversaw an elegant garden that gave out to a wide lawn. He heard splashing water accompanied by laughter of various hues, but all female. He felt the urge to press against the bars for a closer look, but the twin security cameras at the end of the driveway reminded him to behave. He would see the entire layout soon enough, presumably. He pressed the outdoor intercom button. A moment later a flat "Yeah?" emerged from the speaker.

  "As-salamu alaykum," said Ari, smiling at one of the cameras.

  "You're the guy Lawson called about?"

  "My esteemed friend thought I might be of assistance in redeeming your missing cargoes."

  "He didn't say he was going to send an ibn haram."

  Ari was taken aback. The person at the other end had just called him a bastard, with emphasis on a bastard's presumably dishonest ways. The voice was husky and it was hard to determine the speaker's sex. But he assumed it was a man. No Arab woman spoke to a man that way, not to his face.

  "I assure you, my birth was honorable and well-documented," said Ari—though he had made sure those particular records had disappeared from the Ministry of Health and the Nationality Directorate. As for his military records—those had vanished at the behest of Sultan Hashim Ahmad al-Tai, Iraq's former Minister of Defense. Presumably, Saddam Hussein had let it be known to the Minister that Ari, then Ghaith Ibrahim, should leave a minimal paper trail. This had served Ari well after the invasion, although he had been compelled to shred a few loose ends. "May I inquire if I am speaking to Mrs. Sadiq? Perhaps your communication device has accidentally linked to a neighboring house. I am aware that some of these wireless devices can be mulish—"

  "I'm Abou el-Zahraa Yilmaz and you wait right there until I come down to check some ID."

  Ari drew back. A woman! Probably Egyptian. He instinctively balled his fist, then forced himself to relax. This was no place to put a woman in her place. He took out the laminated card Lawson had included in the envelope. It identified him as an authorized investigator for the Central Virginia Group. To Ari's immense annoyance, it included a picture of him, captured from the company's security camera when he visited Lawson in his office. It made him look like a bank robber.

  A woman wearing a purple hijab and jilbaab strode down the driveway, her feet crunching on what seemed to be crushed oyster shells. Their whiteness matched the white brickwork of the nearby coach house, itself half as large as a mansion. Yilmaz nearly stormed into the gate in her eagerness to confront Ari. She was almost a head and a half shorter than him. She glared at him with dark eyes that were free of mascara. She poked her arm through the bars.

  "Show."

  Ari held the ID in the air. "You are Abou el-Zahraa Yilmaz, the woman I spoke to on the intercom?"

  "Show," she repeated.

  "Your language is very discourteous."

  "Yeah? Ayyez 'alam?"

  'You want a slap?' Ari stared at her as if she was a horrid creatur
e dredged up from a lagoon.

  "Show or go," she said.

  Ari was tempted to turn around and leave. What rooted him to the spot was the sight of the multi-million dollar mansion. How was it possible that a fledgling company could generate enough capital to allow the owner such indulgence? The answer was probably obvious. Ari wondered if there was a taint of oil in the background. His curiosity overcame his repugnance of the Yilmaz creature. He handed her the card.

  "I realize the picture is of a poor quality—"

  "Ekhras," she said. 'Shut up.'

  "As you desire, sharmuta," he responded.

  Her head shot up. "The last man who called me a whore ended up in Cairo General with broken cheek bones, a broken jaw, several broken ribs and a dislocated patella."

  "This is wondrous. And who performed this function?"

  "Me. Which is why there's a death warrant out for me and why I'm here and why I don't give a damn for any limp dick who thinks he can smack me around."

  "Interesting. Can I come in?"

  "Sure you want to?"

  "I am agog to meet this miracle of destruction—I mean, without the intrusive bars between us."

  She handed him back his ID, sneering. "Sure…" She took out a remote control and pressed the button. The gate lock unclanked and it began to swing inward. "I know you want to cheat Mrs. Sadiq out of her just claims. We will see—"

  A woman in a bikini came racing through the garden. To Ari's eyes, she was completely naked.

  "Yilmaz!" she cried out. "Don't hurt him!"

  "He called me a whore!"

  "Probably in reaction to your wonderful decorum," said the woman, breathing hard as she reached the gate. Her bare skin glistened, but not with water. "Remember what I told you? 'Sticks and stones, sticks and stones…'"

  "Words precede sticks and stones," Yilmaz glowered.

  "Not always." She stuck out her hand to Ari. "Mr. Ciminon?"

  Uneasily, Ari reached out and shook.

  "Yilmaz took the gold at the Karate World Championship in Bremen several years ago. I advise you to treat her with the utmost respect."