by Glenn Cooper
Standing in front of the vast pink confection that was Saddam’s palace in Kirkuk, his emotions were decidedly mixed. On one hand, his chest swelled with pride at how far his ambitions had taken him. On the other hand, his heart boiled in anger.
Tariq Barzani looked at the building through his mirrored sunglasses and told him that it looked like a hotel, adding that it seemed a bit much for one man.
‘It is not just for him,’ Hamid said. ‘He keeps some whores here for when he comes to Kirkuk. At least that is what the generals tell me.’
Barzani had been made to wait at the guard station when Hamid was shown inside and in an anteroom the size of a basketball court, he had been made to wait for three hours without so much as a soda water. It was another lesson learned. Powerful men knew how to make lesser men understand their weakness.
When he was finally granted admission to a monumental receiving hall decorated with a quarry of pink marble, Saddam was seated in a snow-white armchair decorated with his presidential seal woven in gold thread. A fareeq, a lieutenant general, stood by his side and a praetorian guard of soldiers with Belgian sub-machine guns lined the walls.
Even now, Hamid remembered the wave of nausea and disgust he felt at seeing Saddam’s coarse face, being there in the belly of the beast.
The general reminded Saddam who Hamid was.
‘What is it you want from me?’ Saddam said.
Hamid bowed and scraped as required but he did not take the obsequious tone that others had recommended. He had an ace up his sleeve and it gave him confidence.
‘Mr President, I would like to receive your permission to sell heavy military surplus equipment you no longer require.’
‘What kind of equipment?’ Saddam asked.
‘Tanks, rocket launchers, aircraft engines – surplus materials the army purchased in years past from Yugoslavia and Ukraine through the Syrians.’
‘For a small-time provincial man you seem well informed about where I make my purchases.’
‘Mr President, you are correct that I am small-time and provincial and you are also correct that I am well informed.’
That elicited a laugh.
‘I have men from Baghdad who are big businessmen, Ba’athists, Muslims who can sell heavy goods. I am aware you have made a lot of money, but it is money you made from buying and selling little things. You are like a little Kirkuk ant. And you are a Christian.’
Today, Hamid perfectly remembered the way Saddam had spat out the word, Christian. He had gone through life in Iraq as a second-class citizen, despised by the majority of his countrymen. He looked at the smug thug of a man and thought, Muslim bastard, I would kill you with my own hands this very minute if I could.
But he would not let his anger show.
‘Correct again, Mr President,’ he said with confidence.
His swagger must have piqued Saddam’s interest. ‘Who would you sell to?’
‘Africans in half a dozen countries. I have excellent connections.’
‘No, it’s impossible, isn’t it, General?’
The general agreed that it was indeed impossible.
Hamid smiled, again, further driving Saddam’s interest. ‘I am not an ordinary businessman, Mr President. I have some remarkable powers. If I demonstrate these powers would you consider my proposal?’
‘I have ears,’ Saddam said. ‘Speak.’
‘Last week you were staying at the Republican Palace in Baghdad. Late at night you went for a stroll around the swimming pool. Except for your guards you were alone. Two eagles came down from the sky and perched on a date palm. You took it as a good omen.’
Saddam’s thick mustache twitched in anger. ‘Who told you this?’
‘I assure you, Mr President, I do not know a soul in your inner circles and I have never even been to your palace.’
‘Then how did you know about the eagles?’
‘An angel told me, Mr President.’
Saddam looked up at the general, who responded with a shrug. Then Saddam laughed again a little nervously. ‘How much will you give me on the sale of this military equipment?’ he asked.
‘Fifty percent, Mr President.’
‘I require seventy-five.’
‘Then it will be seventy-five, Mr President,’ Hamid said, extending a hand, surprised that the palm of the most powerful man in the country was moist.
And that was that, if not for this irony: while Hamid had foreseen the eagles, he had not thought to ask the angels about the Americans, who would soon invade, sending Iraq into paroxysms of paranoia and chaos. Power vacuums were to form, old checks and balances would evaporate. Ba’athist officials in Kirkuk would manage to seize Hamid’s businesses and drive him into poverty. He would save himself and what remained of his family, by spying on Saddam’s government for a CIA operative who infiltrated Kirkuk. Had he not done so, his US visa would not have materialized and he would have likely died in Iraq during the subsequent years of conflict.
He rode to the top floor of the midtown Manhattan office building with Barzani at his side, then presented himself to the woman who was waiting at the elevator doors.
‘Mr Hamid, let me take you to see Mr Stern.’ She asked for Barzani’s name, but Hamid told her not to worry, that his associate would wait in the reception area.
Leonard Stern played in the same space as Hamid, mid-tier residential rental buildings that boasted hundred-percent occupancy. The two men had been not-so-friendly competitors for years. Time and time again they went after the same assets, whether they really wanted to own them or not, sometimes just to bid up a building and drop out when the other man trumped their offer, leaving the sucker holding the bag. But a year earlier, there had been a property in Brooklyn – a four-hundred-unit building – that Hamid really wanted to own, only to be outgunned by Stern.
Stern wasn’t as flashy as Hamid. His office was relatively small with a rather ordinary view. Hamid forced a smile.
Stern said, ‘George, come in, have a seat. Can I get you anything?’
‘I’m good, Lennie.’
‘I was surprised you called me,’ Stern said, settling down in one of the armchairs. ‘I think this is the first time you’ve been up here.’
‘I think that’s correct. You’ve been to mine, right?’
‘Once, if I recall. Killer views.’
‘They are,’ Hamid agreed.
‘Congratulations on going public. Sounds like a great deal.’
‘It was. We raised a lot of money. The stock’s up. I’m worth a few billion more.’
Through an artificial smile Stern said, ‘Glad to hear you’re doing well. So, to what do I owe the honor of your presence?’
Hamid went right for it. ‘I want to buy Grayson Court.’
Stern looked over the top of his glasses. ‘My Grayson? In Carroll Gardens?’
‘The very one.’
‘My Grayson that I outbid you on a year ago?’
‘That’s right, Lennie.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because I’m going to give you a good price.’
Ever-practical, Stern said, ‘Shoot.’
Stern almost slid off his chair at the number. ‘Are you crazy, George? That was your last bid before I raised it by ten percent! On top of that I’ve done some improvements. On top of that the market’s up in that neighborhood. So, with all due respect, jump in the river.’
Hamid nodded as if he understood the points but said, ‘It’s a very generous offer, actually. I could have come in lower given the circumstances.’
‘What circumstances?’
Hamid was ready. This was going down perfectly. ‘Seven months ago you had a bit of a family problem. You were successful in covering it up. Life went on. Smooth sailing on the good ship Stern.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about but whatever it is has nothing to do with real estate.’
‘It’s got everything to do with it. You’re a fortunate man, Lennie. You’ve got a
son who’s going to take over your business one day. A good kid, I understand. Me? My son got killed in Iraq in George Bush’s war. Bush One. Remember it? Anyway, your boy was at a party seven months ago where a girl had an overdose of drugs. These drugs. Such a problem. Your son and two of his friends didn’t do nothing for her. They didn’t call 911. They didn’t take the girl to the hospital. She died. But your son made one call. He called you and you came. You paid his two friends a lot of money to take the fall and say your son wasn’t even there. They went to jail. Your son is back at college up in Boston. Lennie, Lennie, if you don’t take my offer, I’ll pay these boys much more to tell the truth and drag your son back into it. He’ll go to jail too, I think. There. That’s it. A very simple offer. You can see that I could have been a real bastard and offered you a lot less. As I’m thinking about it, if you take too much offense, I will drop the price and I will keep dropping it until you say, thank you, George, we have a deal.’
Stern looked like he’d lost most of his muscle tone. He went pale and could hardly speak. ‘How? Who the hell told you about this?’
‘Some people talk to little birdies. I talk to angels.’
‘That’s not fucking funny. Where did you get your information?’
‘Believe me or don’t believe me. I don’t care. All you need to do is tell me this, Lennie. Do we have a deal?’
Hamid lived in one of the premier buildings in Manhattan. When he was merely very rich he bought one of the penthouses and when he became a billionaire he bought a second one, combined the units, and did a gut renovation. His daughter was married now and his wife thought it was ridiculous for only two people to live in eighteen thousand square feet of space on two floors. Not Hamid. He had heard from the condo board chairman that another unit just below him was coming to the market and he wanted that one too. For the staff.
The apartment was so large that he didn’t bother calling out for her. It was pointless and she never cared to learn how to use the room-to-room intercoms. She was usually in the kitchen and that’s where he found her. She was as wide in the beam as he was, but it didn’t bother him. He wasn’t particularly interested in sex – nor was she – and he didn’t look for it elsewhere. His doctor had asked him about his libido once and wanted to check his testosterone, but Hamid had told him no thanks, he was fine. He also didn’t read books or watch much television other than Fox News, which was on mute stand-by in most rooms. What he did was work – sixteen hours a day – and pray frequently, not in a church, but in his own way.
‘How was your day?’ his wife asked in Arabic.
‘Good. I bought a building.’
‘That’s nice,’ she said in a way that showed she didn’t give a damn. ‘I’m going to the kids. They’ve got a dinner at Arthur’s boss’s apartment and I’m going to babysit.’
Their daughter was ten when they came to America. Her first husband was an American loser, in the opinion of her parents. They were happy there hadn’t been any children from that marriage and happier still that he was out of their lives. Her second husband was Iraqi-American, a Christian, and an anesthesiologist. It was all good except that his new son-in-law had zero interest in the real-estate business so, God willing, he would have to keep himself in the saddle until his grandson was ready to take the reins. Hamid’s only son was nineteen when he was conscripted into Saddam’s army just before the Americans invaded. He died in a bombing raid in the defense of Baghdad. When he fled Iraq in 1994, he had been forced to leave his elderly parents behind but before he could send for them a mob looted their clothing store and shot them dead, leaving anti-Christian slogans on the walls in their own blood.
‘I’ll have Tariq drive you,’ Hamid said.
‘I can take a taxi.’
‘Use Tariq. I don’t need him tonight. I don’t need Sara either.’
‘She left lamb in the refrigerator.’
‘I’ll be fine. Kiss the little ones for me.’
After he finished his supper, it was still light. His huge office on the upper floor of his apartment was through-to-through east to west, with one balcony overlooking the Hudson, the other, the East River. He had a smartphone app that allowed him, with the push of a button, to lower the window shades and once the space was all but blacked out, he went to a locked closet and opened it.
He had fled Iraq with only three suitcases for his entire family and one of the cases was half-taken up by the objects now in the closet. He had wrapped them in his shirts, trousers, and underwear. His wife had complained about leaving behind other possessions, but he would not budge. These things were more precious than anything else. He was only glad he didn’t have to choose between them and say, his daughter. He had sawn off the legs of the ceremonial table; new ones could be fashioned. The wax seals were the most fragile and required the most padding. His showstone, a small, pretty crystal ball, took up the least space. That went into his shaving bag cushioned by a Kirkuk Football Club T-shirt.
His routine was a well-worn one. After positioning the ceremonial table legs on the four small seals, placing the large seal on the table, and draping everything with a red silk cloth, he put his showstone at the center of the Sigillum Dei Aemeth and set his candles to cast their light on the crystal. His prayers to God were in Arabic. His calls were in angel language. He was aware that in the modern world of Enochian magic, no practitioner was said to have reached the second Aethyr. He had been a constant visitor to that exalted realm for forty years. He was discreet. Other than his wife and Tariq no one knew about his magic and he had no intention of ever widening the circle.
The angel was waiting for him standing on his golden chariot. Hamid greeted him in angel language like an old friend.
‘I have returned,’ he said.
The Archangel Selaphiel opened the conversation as he always did. ‘What do you seek?’
‘I seek truth. I seek enlightenment.’
Again, his standard reply. ‘You have come to the right place.’
‘What you told me about my rival, Leonard Stern, was true. I gained an advantage.’
‘I will always speak the truth.’
‘I know.’
‘Has this truth brought you peace?’
Hamid thought before answering. ‘It brought me more wealth. Wealth brings me satisfaction, not peace. Only one outcome will bring me that.’
The angel knew what that was. Hamid had spoken his mind before, many, many times.
‘You are the most powerful magician alive but nevertheless you cannot have what you desire.’
‘I almost had the black showstone but I am certain I will get it. I also seek the 49th Call.’
‘There were only two in the history of mankind who had the power to obtain the forbidden call.’
‘How did they obtain it?’
‘I gave it to them.’
Hamid was incredulous. The angel had never told him this. ‘Then why will you not give it to me?’
Selaphiel’s golden robe glowed brighter. ‘The evil that was set upon the Earth was too great. Such an evil must never be allowed to rain down again. I will not be the giver of the call. But hear me. You are not the only seeker.’
Hamid stiffened. ‘Who else?’
‘Calvin Donovan, the man who possesses the black showstone, and Eve Riley, a strong magician.’
Hamid leaned in until his face was only inches from his crystal ball. ‘Tell me more.’
‘They have scryed together. Her angel is Pothnir. He resides in the fourth Aethyr. There are powerful ripples moving through the Aethyrs. This man and this woman seek the forbidden call.’
‘Toward what end?’
‘They wish to stop you from possessing it.’
‘Do they know my intentions?’
‘They know only that you have a great evil in your heart.’
‘It is true, Lord Selaphiel. I cannot rest until I have gotten my full measure of revenge.’
FIFTEEN
On a hot and hazy day, Cal drove to Fo
rt Devens, about forty miles west of Boston. Ever since the closure of the army base, the FBI operated a firearms training center on the sprawling campus. Cal drove around lost until he found the place and presented himself to a guard. His name was on a list. Inside the range clubhouse Julia D’Auria was waiting in a pair of khakis and an FBI polo shirt.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ Cal said. ‘This place is a labyrinth.’
She looked somewhere between pissed off and cheerful. ‘No problem. Special Agent Nesserian got tied up. It’s just me. You ready?’
‘Absolutely. Thanks for doing this.’
He heard something that sounded like a grunt.
D’Auria was suffering the consequences for strong-arming the Cambridge police chief to not only approve but fast-track Cal’s conceal/carry firearms permit. Cambridge had one of the lowest per capita license rates in the state and the chief wasn’t thrilled about being pressured. His response to Nesserian’s call was basically, fine, if you’re such an advocate, personally certify that the applicant is competent in firearm safety and use. And that meant blowing a Saturday morning. When Nesserian got called into another case, the burden fell to D’Auria, who was in Massachusetts working the bookstore murder.
D’Auria took Cal over to an indoor range with eight lanes and asked him by way of the first lesson, ‘What do you need before we enter?’
‘Plugs and glasses.’
He got nothing more than a curt nod and figured she was either always like this or just in a bad mood.
She gave him soft earplugs and safety glasses. Seven of the lanes were taken with special agents doing mandatory recertifications. A haze of gunpowder was in the air. Even with earplugs, the pistol fire was loud. Their reserved lane was down on the far end.