by Jan Coffey
“You acted as liaison between our government and Saddam Hussein’s people during the Iran-Iraq war.”
Elizabeth ran her fingers over the white linen placemat. Average people were clueless about what their governments did. About what their military was capable of doing. The Agency recruited smart young people right out of college, trained them, and made them understand that the everyday life and death decisions of presidents and prime ministers and dictators had far more to do with power and profitability than with humanity. And that was true with every head of state. Elizabeth didn’t think the recruitment practices or the CIA’s purpose had changed over the past three decades.
“You’re named in these documents. You wrote some of these memos.”
“Of course, I did. That was my job.”
Elizabeth did what her job demanded. What happened to Thank you for your service? No, that would be far too much to hope for.
“I don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal out of this.” She kept her voice low. “So what, I never told you I worked with the government? What harm was done?”
“What harm was done?” Christina scoffed. “You were in Baghdad, and you facilitated the sale of chemical weapons to Iraq. You knew how and when Iraq would, and then did, employ gas warfare. It’s all here. In these pages.”
“Since when are you interested in politics? Or history?”
“I’m human.”
“You’re an American.”
“Don’t assume that everyone thinks like you and acts like you, just because of where we’re raised.” Christina’s cheeks were a few shades darker. She thumbed through the pages, her fingers running across the sections she’d underlined or circled.
“You informed senior US officials regularly about the scale of the gas attacks on Iranian troops and on civilians. And on the Kurdish people in northern Iraq.”
Elizabeth hadn’t realized how deep Jax’s hacks had dug into her past. She decided it was time to remain silent. She wasn’t about to offer anything more until her daughter was finished. She needed to know the extent of the information she’d need to deflect or deny.
Halfway through the pile, Christina nearly ripped a page in half as she yanked it out and slammed it on top.
“You personally facilitated the sale of anthrax, VX nerve gas, West Nile fever germs, and botulinum toxins, as well as germs that caused effects similar to tuberculosis and pneumonia.”
People at nearby tables sent them curious looks. “Keep your voice down.”
“It’s all spelled out. Right here. In black-and-fucking-white.”
Elizabeth leaned forward and slapped her hand on the page Christina was reading. The entire table shook. “This is not the whole story. Take off your rose-colored glasses. What I did, I was directed to do. I served my country. Our country.”
“Every guard at Auschwitz said the same thing.”
“Easy for you to judge.” Elizabeth paused until their server placed her salad on the table and left them alone. “You’re naïve. Sheltered. Clueless about foreign policy and the hard decisions that need to be made in the interests of our country. What do you know about that time? What do you know about what was happening over there?”
“You tell me,” she hissed. “Explain it to me.”
“Alliances were shifting. After the Shah fell and we lost Iran, we needed Saddam. We needed his oil. He was an important friend.”
“You bought him. And at what cost? He used those weapons against his own people.”
“We didn’t sell it to him.”
“That is such a lie. You used Dutch and German weapons dealers. It’s all here. You did it.”
“Policy decisions are made in Washington. The job of the Agency is to gather data and analyze it. Make recommendations about potential outcomes. It’s up to the military to engineer the strategies. Yes, we helped build up his weapons. But it was the Iraqis’ call on what to do with them.”
“So innocent people died. Men, women, children. And hundreds of thousands were driven out of their homes. You were responsible. This wave of refugees—”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Nothing is that simple. No one person is responsible for any one event. I followed orders. I did my job. I was one cog in a vast, complex machine.”
“Really? Your job? You’re saying everything you did was for our government?” Christina spread the papers and pulled another sheet from the pile. “You saw a chance to cash in. And you took it. You profited from that evil. You had no conscience. No heart.”
Elizabeth stared at the pages. She didn’t think any evidence was left of the incident. She thought of Jax again and the private arguments they’d had about selling Externus. He pretended to give in, but all this shit was proof that he wanted to screw her in the end.
“You brokered a deal on your own for the sale of equipment from Italy that would speed up the production of chemical-filled artillery rounds and bombs. And you got caught. By our government.”
“That’s not true. I was only suspected. But it wasn’t true.”
They couldn’t prove it. No one wanted to make her case public or even push it up the ladder. She wasn’t alone. Others were doing the same thing. Everyone was a mercenary in those days. That’s what wars do. They create a jungle where there is no law and order. Everyone makes a profit when they can.
As far as the U.S. government was concerned—as far as the Agency was concerned—there was too much dirty laundry. And the shit started flying when Saddam invaded Kuwait. Washington wanted it all to go away.
So she was out. She became persona non grata. Unacceptable. Unwelcome. They wiped her records. That was why she wasn’t in the consulate’s system today. That’s why no one would help her. But somewhere in the dark closet of the State Department’s records, she still existed. That’s how Jax, and now Christina, got hold of these memos.
“How could you do it?” The anger came through in her daughter’s voice, in the hard lines of her face.
Thank you for your service. The words reverberated in her head. How many times had she heard those words spoken to others? Addressed to some brainless, eighteen-year-old kid who never served overseas, who knew nothing of foreign policy or the military-industrial complex. People like Elizabeth and those she worked with were the puppeteers. They made kings. Took down monarchies. Destroyed governments.
She wanted her daughter to say those words to her.
“How can you live with yourself? How can you sit in front of me and pretend none of it matters? You’re ruthless.”
“You’re calling me ruthless?” Elizabeth leaned toward her. “Have you gone hungry for a single day in your life? Did you ever have to worry about dropping out of school to work? Or about how to pay your rent? All you’ve ever known in your life is comfort. Well, I can live with myself. I sleep perfectly well. Because I did it all for you. Whatever I made, I spent it all on you.”
“You can’t blame me,” Christina snapped.
“Oh, but I can.” Elizabeth pushed her chair back and stood up. “I blame everything that is wrong in my fucking life on you.”
14
Christina
Now
It’s 1:20 a.m. when I step out from the lobby to the street. There’s a wicker bench with cushions, flanked by two pots of flowers by the door. I’m too restless to sit. Lights from the streetlamps flicker and dance on the yellow walls of the old hotel. I breathe in the night air. The sky is black, and no stars are visible above the city.
The hotel doorman is keeping a watchful eye up and down the quiet street, and on me.
He greets me in Turkish and then says, “Taxi for you, madam?”
“I’ve called. I’m all set.” I show him the name of the car service on my phone.
This neighborhood and the hotel are intended to make the Western tourist feel safe and at home. All the staff speak some level of English. The doormen wear blue sport jackets and ties. The food is mildly seasoned, suited to the American palate. The comfort and servi
ce meet the five-star standard for any world-class hotel. But we’re in Istanbul and—just as my pharmacist friend said this morning—there’s so much more to the city than this neighborhood.
As I wait, I look up at the high walls of the hotel. I try to imagine this building during an earlier, much different period in history. What would a prisoner have to do to break free of an Ottoman jail? File off shackles? Scale a wall? Dig a tunnel? Create a diversion and walk past guards? I wonder if any succeeded in escaping.
I wish I could walk away from this hotel and my life, and become one with the city that stretches out over the hills as far as you can see. The culture and the four-thousand-year history are alive. When you walk through the neighborhoods, you can’t help but feel its heart beat.
On the front step of an art gallery across the cobblestone lane, two cats growl and argue. One darts down the sidewalk, and the other chases after.
Kyle’s flight gets in at three. He’s supposed to come directly to the hotel, but I’ve decided to go pick him up instead. We have a lot to talk about. My call to him this morning was brief.
“Elizabeth was robbed. She lost her passport and license. Will there be any problem with signing off on a sales agreement?”
“We’re putting the cart before the horse. There are preliminary offers, but we need to talk face-to-face with all the suitors. Let’s make the deal and worry about signoffs after.”
Maybe I’m more desperate than the others for this sale to be completed. The bonus check is my one-way ticket, the money gives me the ability to walk down this cobblestone lane into a new life.
Headlights shine in my face as a car approaches. A black Lexus SUV. It’s the same company we used when my mother and I arrived three nights ago.
The vehicle pulls up front, and the driver steps out. The doorman speaks to him in Turkish. Satisfied with the response, he opens the door, and I climb into the back seat.
The good thing about online bookings is that I don’t have to worry about the language. The driver knows he’s to take me to the airport, wait, and bring us back to the hotel.
Once I’m in, the car glides away from the curb. Classical music plays softly. The temperature is perfect. The man behind the wheel is older and, from where I’m sitting, I can see a thin white scar along his jawbone. With the exception of greeting me with Merhaba when I first get in the car, he drives in silence.
Settling back in the cool leather, I stare at the darkened store fronts. We pass a couple of scruffy-looking dogs sniffing around a pile of boxes on the curb. They startle as we go by. Another cat sits on a wall above them, watching.
The streets are quiet and free of the daytime congestion. Two young men who look more like boys are pushing a dumpster down the road. Behind them, a trio of ragged children follows at a safe distance. Their faces are dirty. Their skittishness is not so different from the two stray dogs. Their vulnerability pierces my heart. They’re barely older than babies.
I sail by them in my shiny black bubble—separate and sheltered.
I still mourn the loss of Autumn. I’ll mourn her every day of my life, I imagine. And yet, this city holds…how many lost children? Hundreds, thousands who have no roof over their heads. No parents to go back to. No one watches over them. They don’t know when or how they’ll get their next scrap of food. Or if the next person who offers help is an angel or a devil.
I press my forehead against the window to cool my flushed face and think of the argument with my mother today.
If you enable the devil, does that make you a devil too?
I’m no theologian, but I’d guess that in every faith, the answer would be yes.
She arranged the sale and manufacture of outlawed weapons, knowing how they would be used. Knowing that real people would die or be displaced. Knowing that children who were lucky enough to live would end up like these homeless waifs, hungry and begging on the streets. And then she sidesteps any responsibility. Just part of her job, she claims. But she also did it for profit.
And how complicit am I?
The car pulls onto the highway, and Istanbul’s lights become a speeding blur in my watery vision.
Elizabeth’s words sit heavy on my conscience. I didn’t grow up rich. We were middle-class comfortable. Elizabeth owned our house and she worked, and I reaped the benefits of it.
I never had to struggle to survive. As she reminded me, I never felt the desperation that goes with not having money. I never went hungry. I never searched through a trash dumpster.
Are my hands also red with the blood of all the people who have been affected by these wars?
Yes, they’re stained. Indelibly. I’ve benefited from the choices Elizabeth made my whole life. I’m no victim. I’m complicit in so many ways. And I feel guilty as fuck. I wipe tears from my cheeks.
I had dinner with Elizabeth on the rooftop lounge tonight. But she made it clear that we were done with that earlier conversation. Let the past stay in the past, she says.
I didn’t have much to say, but I thought of Jax and how he discovered all of this and never mentioned any of it to me.
To me, Jax was one of the truly good people I met in my life. Before working for Externus, I got to know him through Elizabeth and we hit it off. We shared the same politics, the same views, had similar interests. Later, after starting to work for him, I saw that his decisions balanced personal gain with social and environmental consciousness.
Digging further into his emails tonight, I’ve discovered he was also worried about Elizabeth’s connection to the defendants named in a civil lawsuit recently filed in Baghdad. She was part owner of Externus. Questions about the company’s liability are posed in vague, hypothetical terms in one of the emails he exchanged with the lawyer. References to “asset seizure” come up a number of times.
He was worried about his own complicity. But was he more concerned about securing his assets than what he’d discovered about his wife’s past career?
I don’t know all the answers. Nothing is clear-cut. Maybe I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did.
Life doesn’t consist simply of straight lines and primary colors. A person’s behavior is usually all over the place. We’re a mixed bag of good and bad, truth and lies.
That’s true for Elizabeth. The same goes for Jax. And I can sit on my high horse and look down my nose at everyone, but it’s also true for me. I’m still benefiting from the misery of others.
I think of Kyle and pull my forehead away from the window. How much do I tell him? Do I tell him anything?
As humans we’re hardwired to sense when someone is watching us. Our body reacts with a feeling of unease. We get that prickling sensation on the back of our necks. Our brains are good at picking up on potential dangers. The presence of another predator. It’s a survival instinct.
Right now, I know I’m being stared at. I look at the rearview mirror. The driver is watching me.
The dashboard displays numbers and gauges and gadgets, but the light doesn’t illuminate his face very well. He’s tall. The top of his head almost brushes the roof of the car. He’s wearing a black jacket over a white shirt and black tie. His salt-and-pepper hair is short and wiry.
And the dark eyes in the mirror keep coming back to me.
I didn’t tell Elizabeth I was going to the airport. Kyle doesn’t know I’m coming to pick him up either. I suppose after this guy abducts me and a few days pass, they can trace my steps…
I have to stop letting my imagination go wild. This is not the time to let paranoia paralyze me.
There’s nothing going on. My cell phone is in my hand. After what happened to my mother, I did think to ask the desk clerk about the Istanbul equivalent of 911 before leaving the hotel. 155. I punch in the numbers now, but I don’t hit the call button. There’s no reason to. All he’s doing is looking at a woman who was deep in thought a few minutes ago.
He’s been quiet. Not unpleasant. He’s a good driver. The soft music continues to play in the background. I
wish I could engage in some small talk for my own sake. I don’t know if he speaks any English.
He’s still watching me.
“How many times a day do you make this run to the airport?”
“How do you know her?”
My heart leaps. My thumb hovers over the green button. Press it and the call goes through to the police. “Know her? Who?”
“Tiam. Tiam Rahman.”
I shake my head, hoping he sees my look of confusion. “Is that a name that I should know?”
The car crosses two lanes and skids to an abrupt stop on the shoulder of the highway. The phone slips out of my fingers and tumbles to the floor. He turns and looks at me. His gaze is hard and frightening.
“How do you know Tiam Rahman?” he says again.
Part IV
I'm drenched in the flood which has yet to come.
I'm tied up in the prison that has yet to exist.
Not having played a game of chess, I'm already at checkmate.
Not having tasted a single cup of your wine, I'm already drunk.
Not having entered the battlefield, I'm already wounded and slain.
Like the shadow, I am and I am not.
—Rumi
15
Zari
Then
Celebrating birthdays wasn’t traditional among the Turks or Kurds in Istanbul. Most of the refugees that she’d befriended here over the years didn’t know what day they were born. Many had the first of January registered as their official birth date, for the sake of simplicity. Some even had the wrong year listed on their papers. If they had papers.
The registration process was a great relief to Zari. Using the January 1st date solved many of her problems. That was the date on Tiam’s residency documents.