Gulf Lynx

by Fiona Quinn

  “No, thank you, I’m fine. Just feeling around a new case that landed in my lap this morning.” I reached into my bag and pulled out the printout Zoe had given me with the medical data on the three children. “I got some information that has me perplexed. I’m wondering what you would make of it.” I handed her the sheet.

  Sophia took a moment to look it over. “Three young children. Each looks healthy.” She glanced up. “All in Iraq, according to the GPS coordinates.”

  “Yes, and it seems that they might all have the same mother.”

  “Oh.” Sophia’s lips drooped into a frown. Her finger traced down the medical information. “Are these all the medical records?”

  “Yes.”

  “The older children weren’t examined again?”

  “Not by this organization, at least. I was looking at the names of the children, hoping you might have an explanation about why each would have a different last name. I don’t know about Iraqi naming traditions. Or if that isn’t the explanation, maybe you understand what that could mean.”

  “She’s not Iraqi?”

  “American.”

  Sophia nodded and stared at the paper. With a deep breath and a long exhale, she said, “With such little data to look at, it’s impossible to say for sure. I would guess that she was captured and is a slave.”

  “A slave,” I whispered. Okay, it had crossed my mind that she was captured and held against her will somewhere in the world. Slavery hadn’t been my go-to in this scenario.

  “ISIS has kidnapped thousands of girls and women in Iraq and Syria. It’s not only allowed, it’s sanctioned. There is a fatwa—a ruling—put out by the ISIS financial chief back a few years ago.”

  “Wouldn’t that be an unusual thing for a financial chief to get involved?”

  “Not at all. You know from my work that ISIS is a money generating machine. One of the ways they make their money is by organizing the sale of conflict relics on the black market.”

  “Yes.”

  “Another way that they make a lot of money is through their slave markets. Slaves are a source for needed labor. Many of the ancient archeological tels that are being dug up and sifted through to find the relics for black market sales use slave labor. They not only use slaves to increase their revenue streams but also as rewards for their fighters. If you join ISIS, you get your very own sex slave. And the higher up the ranks, the more audacious your fighting, the younger and prettier your slave.”

  “The fatwa said this was okay?”

  “It’s fine as long as you follow the rules. And those rules might explain the children’s names. For example, you can only have sex with your personal slave. If your slave is pregnant you can’t sell her.”

  “After she gave birth, selling her would be okay?”

  “She could be sold, but then the old owner could no longer have sex with her. There’s also a ban on a member of ISIS having sex with a slave who was either pregnant or menstruating. If an ISIS fighter got his slave pregnant, he might use her for labor—cooking, washing, tending children or goats, and then procured a new slave to have sex with.”

  “What would happen with the children?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it? I know that a woman with children or dependents gets a lower price from the online slave auctions than a woman without. It could be that they sold her away from her child even though the fatwa says that the slaves are to be shown compassion.”

  “Are these rules that have a tradition in this region, or is this something that ISIS is making up as it goes?”

  “According to that document, it’s believed that slavery is an inevitable consequence of jihad. These particular rules were written because the fighters were violating Sharia law with their treatment of the women and children they own. ISIS has other documents that talk about how to deal with war spoils gleaned in their attacks in Iraq or Syria, such as the slaves, natural resources, and antiquities.” Sophia looked down at the paper for a long moment. “Calculating the time between births and the changes of the names, it looks like her owners waited for her to have given birth and nurse the baby a short while before they sold her or traded her.”

  “Why would they do that? Why not keep her?”

  She shook her head. “Perhaps their wives were displeased. Perhaps resources were tight. Perhaps someone of a higher rank noticed her and requested her. Or there was a debt that needed to be paid, which they could do after she gave birth. Maybe they lost her in a bet. Or maybe the

  fighter died, and they passed her on to another owner. It’s a volatile and dangerous place to be, especially if you’re female.”

  I rubbed my hands down my thighs. To be taken and sold. To be raped and carry that baby. To then be passed from one slave owner to another slave owner. And again, to be raped and carry his child. And a third time…that we knew about. “The same children are not documented in the subsequent locations. Beyond their having died, can we talk about possible explanations?”

  Sophia pinched her lips. “They weren’t there the day of the medical review. They were kept by the slave owner’s family. Like I said, a woman gets a higher price when she is sold without dependents. The child might be kept as a slave to be raised to do the farm work or to be used for sex.”

  My eyelids stretched wide. “These are babies.”

  “They have sex with young boys and girls, too. Seven-years-old is the youngest I’ve heard of. If the woman you are looking for was a young American woman, she would surely bring a higher price, especially if she was without dependents.” Sophia smoothed her hand over the paper as she thought. “It could be that the family kept the child as a bargaining chip should they need something to offer ISIS for mercy or to the Americans for leverage.”

  “Leverage how?”

  “What if American troops took a family member prisoner? The family would have something of value to the Americans to trade.” Sophia caught my gaze. “How do you know about the mother?”

  “Satellite images. An AI system thought it might have matched her face.”

  “We could try to find the children that way as well. I have the technology to do that.” She focused back on the papers and paused. When she looked up again, she said, “I would try, but I don’t see how that would be possible. We don’t know what these children look like. No, now that I’m trying to conceive of how images could help, I see that’s not possible with only this data. I’m afraid that if you’re trying to repatriate these children to the United States, it’s going to require someone going in, identifying the children, and bringing them out. And even then, how are you going to identify the children? It’s not like they come with a ‘made by a citizen of the USA stamp.’”

  Chapter Ten

  “Okay, slavery is on the table as a possible explanation,” I said.

  Sophia rubbed the palm of her hand into the worry lines on her forehead. “Is this a member of the military or the government?”

  “No.”

  She bit at her upper lip then sighed. Had it been the military or government some aspects of a rescue might be a little more streamlined, I understood that. But I also thought that from what I’d seen at a fast glance through the files, that resources were not the issue. Iniquus, FBI, CIA, NSA… all had continued the search.

  And it looked like the NSA just might have done the impossible. Kudos to them.

  “Slavery,” I started again, still a little shocked by the idea that that’s what had been happening to Kaylie over the past seven years. “Do you know how that would work? I get that an ISIS fighter might be offered a sex slave as a recruiting tool or as an incentive to fight. I can see how women and children could be snatched up when their homes are overrun and used in that way. But what if the slaves came from somewhere else. Does ISIS have a system for buying slaves? How would that transaction take place? Surely, they don’t just pull out a credit card and pay.”

  “Many of the slaves come in from Africa. Niger, for example, is a big provider of slaves to va
rious countries and not only to the Middle East.”

  I pulled out a pad and wrote: Check on slave trade out of Niger and Nigeria at the time of Kaylie’s disappearance. Check on connection between Niger and Nigeria and ISIS.

  I held my pen over the pad ready to jot down my next thought. “Earlier I was tasked with finding a woman who disappeared years ago. Now, I’m realizing that there are four Americans who need to be found. For the woman, at least, time is very much on the precipice. I’m wondering if the children’s last names might give us more information about her connections. And perhaps…this is a stretch, is there a way that we might be able to follow financial transactions given the names? Do slaves take their owners last names?”

  “I don’t think slaves do, no. I can ask my colleagues. The children, yes. Let’s start there. In Syria, and most of Iraq, the families follow Arab naming ways. The mother would keep her name when she marries. Their children take the father’s name. The family name, which is often based on tribe or geography, is seldom used, and looking at this list, it’s going to be really hard to identify these men.”

  I scooted over and looked at the list with her. It was typed out in English.

  “The person who did the intake listened to the people say their name and then transliterated the Arabic name into Latin letters. How well this person did depended a little bit on their own language skills. In Arabic, there would be a certain way to spell a last name. The information would have little use if they weren’t documenting all of the names in Arabic abjad, the Arabic lettering.” She picked up a pad and pen from the side table. “For instance, if I said my name was Hamid. You might also write it Haamid or Hameed. Nur might be written Nour or Noor. You see?” She held up the pad.

  I nodded.

  “When families are using their name in a country where a different writing system is used, they have to decide how they will write their name. They will typically try to find the easiest way for someone from a different language to pronounce their name correctly.”

  “I can see how that would be a mess.” I pulled out my phone. “Two seconds, do you mind?”

  “No.” Sophia waved her hand.

  I sent a quick text to Zoe.

  Me: The people who were filling out the forms at the medical sites, they wrote the person’s name in what alphabet system?

  “As a piece of information, most women in Iraq are illiterate,” Sophia said after I put my phone in my lap. “Over half. They wouldn’t have been giving anyone this information.”

  My phone buzzed, and I looked down.

  Zoe: The name is written in Arabic because of variances when translating it to our lettering system. There is a specific way that names are written in Arabic abjad, and we wanted to have record of their official names. It’s sometimes tough. The women aren’t all able to write their names. We have to depend on the males. If you need the three names in Arabic lettering, I can send them to you in a file. The civil status certificates (like our birth certificates) will be in the official names. If they have them. But they’d only have them if the babies were born in a hospital.

  Me: Thanks, I might need that later. I’ll let you know.

  That confirmed what Sophia was saying.

  A slave.

  The thought sent a shiver of horror through my system. I knew what it was like to be held prisoner. My sad tale was just nothing, nothing compared to what my imagination was playing out.

  I reached out and squeezed Sophia’s hand. “Thank you, for talking to me.”

  “Of course.” She lifted her other hand to her heart.

  “The names. You said the family name is seldom used.”

  “That’s right. The child has a personal name, followed by the father’s personal name, followed by the grandfather’s personal name. Sometimes they extend out to the great grandfather as well, especially if the father has prestige. It will link the child to their father’s success. The convention doesn’t include surnames like here in western naming traditions.”

  “Your name doesn’t follow that.”

  “I’m American born. My mom took dad’s last name. My father, Amad Sahla Abadi. Amad, his personal name. Sahla, his father’s name. Abadi, his grandfather’s name. My father decided to be called Amad Abadi, and Abadi became our surname in America. Had that not been true, then my name would be Sophia Amad Sahla. Sophia, my given name. Amad, my father’s name. Sahla, my grandfather’s name. You see? It might be hard to match up Amad Sahla Abadi with Sophia Amad Sahla”

  “You didn’t take your first husband’s name. Were you following the Arabic tradition?”

  “I needed my name to remain my name as it helps me with my work. My contacts have always known me as Sophia Abadi.”

  “I think these naming traditions might close a door.”

  “How is that?” She pulled at her earlobe.

  “Going back to the money. I thought perhaps there might be some kind of document trail. Banks for example.”

  Sophia stood. “Have you plotted these GPS locations on the map yet?” She walked to the dining room that she had converted into a home office where her computer screens were positioned in an array across the tabletop. “Are they near a hospital? A city center where a bank might be found?” She dropped into a chair and typed her password into the keyboard. “I’d find that surprising. But you never know.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I pressed the button to start my car just as my phone buzzed. Prescott. “I have information,” I said.

  “Hopefully yours isn’t as bleak as mine.”

  A frisson of fear raced up my chest and squeezed my heart. “Tell me.” One hand rested on my throat, the other on the top of my steering wheel. I looked out the windshield at the stop sign at the top of Sophia’s cul de sac.

  “The caravan that was making its way to the refugee checkpoint was attacked. The satellites tracked ISIS into the area. There are a number of dead. Most dispersed into the hills. We don’t know if that woman from our image is amongst them.”

  “Call her Kaylie,” my tone was terse, “and not that woman. It’s very possibly Kaylie.”

  “I got your message saying she’s alive.” His tone sounded braced, like he wasn’t willing to believe the information and wanted to keep it at arm’s length. “Did Zoe find her in the data bank? What exactly did you learn?”

  As I drove, I explained to Prescott what I’d discovered since we said goodbye earlier. I finished with, “When I get back to Iniquus and a secure computer, I’ll send you the GPS coordinates and the mapping file as well as the BIOMIST search data. Also,” I fell silent as I switched lanes, “Zoe would like to be read into the program, just the part explaining how her information was used to develop the mission and the outcome. She’s compiling data on the efficacy and usefulness of maintaining the BIOMIST system.”

  “Noted.” He paused. “It might take me a few minutes to wrap my head around this shift in status. Now we know Kaylie was alive in Northern Iraq eleven months ago.”

  I flipped on my turn signal and slowed for a stop sign. “It probably won’t settle in until you can see her with your own eyes.”

  “Let’s make that happen.”

  “Working on it.” I pressed the gas and slid into the gap between oncoming cars. “When you take a look at the maps, I’m wondering if you can share it with the Pentagon and find out how close our troops are to those areas. In particular, I’d like to know if they already have a rapport. Can we send someone in to get the kids?”

  “Get the three children out of Iraq?”

  “Well sure, they’re Kaylie’s kids. I’m not claiming any legal expertise at all. I just did a quick Internet search about foreign citizenship and what legal papers the children might have. It’s not a complete dead end. There’s the possibility that the kids had birth certificates and that it might list the mother and father’s names.”

  “Were the biomarkers processed in a city?”

  “Sadly, no.” My foot hovered over the brake, wondering
what this jerk on my right thought he was doing. I let him into my lane and then gave him some space. “I found an article that said there are nearly fifty thousand children who were born in Iraq who are being denied Iraqi citizenship because they were born in the areas held by ISIS before allied troops were able to push them out. Those children were issued birth certificates by ISIS, but the Iraqi government says they’re worthless. A, if that’s true, there might be an ISIS issued birth certificate with Kaylie’s name. B, if that’s true, abandoning Kaylie’s kids in Iraq would leave them stateless.” I pressed the gas to make my left turn, sliding along with the cars and just making it through the intersection before the light turned. “Living in Iraq without being a citizen of Iraq could mean her kids would be denied schooling, medical care, even the right to work or to marry once they’re grown. Since these children have an American parent, they’re American citizens. From what I read, their US citizenship status doesn’t depend on if Kaylie was married to the children’s fathers.”

  “Fathers, plural.”

  “The three children share the familial blood markers with Kaylie. Zoe says we can’t tell from the blood markers if they are all related to the same father without a sample of his blood or a close family members blood from his side. But the three children all have different names. In the Arabic tradition the children should have their name, then their father’s name, then their grandfather’s name. The children’s names all being different must mean that they are fathered by different men and these men were not brothers.”

  Prescott sucked air between his teeth. “Damn,” he said under his breath.

  “If Kaylie was in a succession of marriages then her children fall under the ‘birth abroad in wedlock to a US citizen and an Alien.’ This law says that since Kaylie’s a US citizen who grew up in America, if she’s the genetic parent, then they acquire US citizenship at birth. And if she wasn’t married, they’d still have rights of citizenship under a different law.”

  “Neither scenario bodes well for Kaylie.”