A Cold Day In Mosul
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Authors: Isaac Hooke
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A Cold Day In Mosul
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A COLD DAY
IN MOSUL
A THRILLER
Isaac Hooke
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, organizations, places, events and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.
Text copyright © Isaac Hooke 2015
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9947427-1-1
ISBN-10: 0-9947427-1-1
Cover design by Isaac Hooke
Stock image © starekase / Fotolia
prologue
I
t was a cold day in Mosul.
Sam pulled the abaya tighter around her body with one hand. Though it was midday, the temperature hovered only a few degrees above freezing. Such weather wasn't uncommon in northern Iraq during the dead of winter.
Sam stared at the distant minarets, and the ominous cloud of smoke that issued from the neighborhood beyond it, rising like the pyroclastic eruption from some angry volcano. The work of the resistance, no doubt. She had heard the loud thunderclap of the shockwave from inside her apartment. Car alarms rang throughout the city.
The dark veil of her niqab dimmed the world like a strong pair of sunglasses. The black fabric felt extremely tight in that moment, seeming to compress the sides of her face and neck, choking her. The feeling was only partially rooted in the oppressive society around her.
The call to prayer abruptly issued, the haunting voice of the muezzin echoing throughout the city in defiance of what felt like the end of the world.
It wouldn't be long now.
She let the corner of the heavy canvas drop so that it draped the balcony once more, shielding Sam from the sun and the prying eyes of passersby. She returned inside and shut out the world, locking the balcony door behind her, and then she raised her veil, glad to be free of the thing.
After prayers, she went to the kitchen and held a pot under the tap. Cloudy water emerged. Well, at least there
was
water today. Ordinarily, an electrical pump that tapped into the main water supply filled the rooftop communal tanks, but given that the power was currently out and her building didn't have a generator, it was all too easy for the residents to empty the tanks entirely.
Even so, she couldn't drink the water directly. The pumping station purifiers had failed weeks ago, and basically piped water straight from the Tigris to the taps—drinking it without boiling first would result in a trip to the hospital. Sam would have preferred bottled water but it proved scarce these days. Any remaining bottles usually sold for exorbitant amounts, despite the warnings from the morality police who frowned on such price gouging.
She placed a towel over the pot and poured the dirty water through it into a kettle, letting the fabric filter the sediment. Then she heated the resultant liquid with kerosene, another precious commodity these days. The price of the distilled petroleum had already doubled in the week since her arrival, and finding the fuel was becoming increasingly difficult, so much so that many residents had given up entirely on boiling water, instead resorting to digging wells. Restaurants were shutting down because they couldn't afford the cost of kerosene, too. The few eateries still open had either kept stockpiles of the fuel, or resorted to wooden stoves.
When the kettle was steaming, Sam poured the water into a third pot. If she prepared the tea while the water was boiling, it would ruin the flavor. Though it probably wouldn't matter, given the taste of the water. She waited two minutes for the liquid to cool anyway, then placed it over the kerosene heater to bring it to a simmer once more. Then she grabbed a metal caddy and poured two tablespoons of loose tea into the pot.
She examined the caddy while waiting for the tea to simmer. Special Blend with Earl Grey, prepared by Ahmad Tea out of London. A favorite in the households of Iraq. It had been years since she'd had the blend.
After seven minutes she poured the tea into the slightly hourglass-shaped
istikan
, or serving cup. She added a teaspoon of sugar, stirred, and took a sip. She cringed at the acrid tang of contamination: a mixture of leafy tannins and... fermentation? It cut right through the pleasant flavor she remembered. It took two more teaspoons of sugar before the tea was palatable. She drank slowly, savoring the temporary warmth each sip suffused her body with.
When finished, she thrummed her fingers impatiently on the table. Where the hell was he?
On a whim, she dropped to the floor and started pumping out pushups, hoping the physical training would serve to distract her. Besides, she had three teaspoons of sugar to burn off.
As she performed the PT, she couldn't shake the feeling of dread from the pit of her stomach. Nerves were normal during any part of an operation, especially when it was carried out by another asset. Still, you were only as strong as your weakest link. Had she made a mistake in trusting the man?
It's only a trial assignment,
she reminded herself.
Of no import. What could go wrong?
Many things, she knew.
As a former government official and Baathist party member, Mahmud had proven a useful tool during the Hussein years. She had sporadically kept in touch with him since then, though in truth she felt uncertain as to how far she could trust the man. The loyalty of former Baathists was questionable, given that many of the ex-party members wished a return to the positions of power they held under Saddam. Her contacts had assured her that Mahmud was clean, however, so after the male operative she had come to the city with had departed to continue his own mission, she had hired Mahmud to act as her husband, paying him to rent an apartment near the center of town. Mahmud had left his own wife and daughter in his brother's custody so that he could act as Sam's chaperon for the duration of her stay.
They slept in separate rooms. She in the bedroom and he in the adjoining bathroom, which was lockable from the outside—she secured him in there most nights. She'd only let him out once so far, and the resulting intimacy they'd shared had only been to secure his loyalty, nothing more. The man hadn't even been able to bring her to orgasm.
She ceased the pushups at the fifty rep mark. She could have sworn she heard footsteps outside...
A gentle knock from the door.
She leaped to her feet with the grace of a gymnast and approached the foyer. Peering through the spyhole, she saw Mahmud. He was alone.
She twisted the deadbolt thumbturn counterclockwise; with each revolution a metallic clang erupted from the door, signifying the retraction of the threaded rods composing the floor-to-ceiling vertical deadbolt unit. After three turns, the door shifted slightly—the rods had completely retracted from the edge plates, so that the door was held in place solely by the deadlatch of the doorknob. She unlocked that, too.
Mahmud came inside and closed the door behind him. He locked the main doorknob, but failed to extend the deadbolts, she noted.
"It is done," he said in Arabic, setting down a plastic bag. That had to be the source of the barbecued fish scent wafting across the foyer.
Mahmud wore a gray winter cap, a brown leather jacket over a polo sweater, dark gray slacks, and suit shoes. His wheat-colored face possessed a day's worth of stubble. None of his features stood out—he had the bushy eyebrows, slightly-flat nose, and round face of a typical Iraqi. Someone who wouldn't draw attention to himself. Exactly what she was looking for.
He handed her a business card. On the front was the laser-printed logo and address of a print shop. On the back someone had scrawled a date and time.
Sam pocketed the card, and as Mahmud removed his sandals she drew the locked door toward her until it reached the limits of its frame, then she twisted the thumbturn clockwise three times, reengaging the floor-to-ceiling deadbolts. She was careful to keep Mahmud in sight the entire time.
Mahmud set his sandals aside and stood up.
"The footage?" she said.
He produced a small device from his breast pocket. A micro camera. He popped a micro SD card from the back and handed it to Sam.
She indicated that he should enter the kitchen ahead of her. He retrieved the white bag from the floor and did as she asked.
"When are you going to trust me," he grumbled. "Sometimes, I feel like a prisoner in my own home."
Sam said nothing.
In the kitchen, he set the bag on the table. "Your favorite." He opened it, revealing two paper food cartons.
The smell of barbecued fish became stronger.
"
Masgûf?
" Sam said, unable to hide the eagerness from her voice.
"Of course."
She forced herself to momentarily ignore the food. "Sit," she instructed Mahmud.
The man complied.
Sam sat down opposite him. Her laptop was already set up on the table; she opened it and inserted the micro SD card into the reader. She popped a wireless earbud into one ear and started the video.
As instructed, Mahmud had turned on the micro camera the instant he left the apartment. She watched from his point of view as he descended the stairs, and then, growing hungry, she turned her attention to the food.
She slid aside the flatbread and cut away a portion of the cooked carp below. Biting into the fish, she tasted the different ingredients used in the marinade—olive oil, rock salt, tamarind, turmeric—along with the mango chutney that had been spread on the inside.
She hit the fast forward button on the video and glanced at Mahmud. He was watching her, saying nothing. Oddly, he reminded her of a predator observing its prey. She was imagining it, of course.
She returned her attention to the video. "You're not going to eat?" she said casually between mouthfuls.
He broke off a piece of flatbread from the second carton, along with a portion of the slow-cooked carp, and stuffed them into his mouth, chewing loudly.
The video showed Mahmud entering a marketplace. He followed other men hurrying toward a mosque. He entered. The prayers passed in less than thirty seconds, with Mahmud bobbing up and down at 8x speed in unison with the congregation around him.
She switched to normal playback speed as Mahmud met up with an oily, big-nosed Iraqi outside the mosque. The man's eyes darted about, and he kept looking back as if worried someone eavesdropped. The audio was muffled, but she heard Mahmud asking about the resistance, telling him, "The Americans wish to meet Abu Othunan." That was the leader of one of the resistance cells.
The individual muttered some inaudible reply, handing him a business card. It was the same card Mahmud had given to her. Sam suppressed a smile. The oily Iraqi was another of her assets, albeit a fairly low level one. The whole thing had been staged to test Mahmud's loyalty. The print shop on the business card didn't even exist.
She fast-forwarded the video; she watched Mahmud halt beside a street vendor and purchase the masgûf. While he waited for the cook to collect and prepare the fish from the round metallic barbecue, she saw Mahmud's arms shift down and to the right, as if he was using some device beyond the view of the camera. It couldn't be a smartphone. There were no carriers: Asiacell had gone down earlier that week, followed by other local providers, including Korek, Zain, and Fanous. It was possible Mahmud was penning a note for someone by hand, however, tilting his body at just the right angle for the camera to avoid picking it up.
When he retrieved the packed food cartons, he tilted away a little fast, as if he was handing over a handwritten note that he didn't want seen on camera.
Perhaps Sam was being paranoid. But paranoia had saved her skin on more than one occasion in the past.
She cut away a fresh piece of carp and let the video play to the end; the screen blanked when Mahmud reached the door to her apartment. The timestamp was a perfect match to his arrival. He had not met or conversed with any other individuals along the way.
