Escape from Baghdad! (14 page)

“You think I'll sell you to them,” Xervish stared darkly at him and then shuddered. “Trust me. No one deals with Hassan Salemi and wins. There's death, and there's painful death. That's all he knows. Do you think a man like me could stand in front of him and
negotiate
?
They know about me. They'll know I helped Kinza escape.” He looked at Dagr with big bruised eyes, an appeal full of weakness. A man who would try to do the right thing and invariably fail, yet he was believable all the same, at least in the terror folded into every crease of his eyelids, the cable-taut muscle that pulled compulsively in his jaw. Dagr believed that much, that it wasn't a deliberate trap, and it gave him some relief, some hope that he might be able to slip through the cracks.

“They'll
come
for me sooner or later. Don't you understand that?” Xervish said, “You think Imam Salemi's just going to let it go? I'm finished, like you, like Kinza…my whole life here…gone. Kinza doesn't know what he asked for. You don't mess with these people. They don't let things go…”

“I know that,” Dagr said. “But Kinza doesn't accept consequences like normal men. He won't bend, you see. People like us get crushed in his wake.”
Sympathy for you? Yes, because we're probably both dead, unless one of us shops the other first, and even then, you're absolutely right. There is no winning with people like Salemi.

“I'll come to Mosul with you!” Xervish said, grabbing his arm. “I swear, you and I will take the next empty run to Mosul. I told you, they do it every month. We'll go together, get out of this damn city.”

Dagr looked at him with pity. “Sure we will.”

12: REPRISALS

T
HE STREET TOUGH CALLED
Y
AKIN, WHO HAD ONCE ESCORTED
Kinza to the home of the Lion, was now an important man in his small patch of Shulla. In the chaos following the death of Ali Salemi, there had been a power vacuum of sorts, which he had been able to adroitly fill, given his proximity to all the action.

The neighborhood did not know the details of the fatal occurrences of that night, and his quick thinking had given birth to a new truth. He, Yakin, had chased away the Lion of Akkad, that Druze criminal who had been plaguing them with impunity.
His
gun had ensured the safety of the people. After the midday prayers, he had taken everyone to see the Lion's hideout, pointing out the various places where they had fought. The people had seen the blood stains, the remnants of that pitiful hoard of loot, and taken note of Yakin as a man to watch.

In the following days, as it became apparent to Yakin that neither the Lion of Akkad, nor Kinza, nor Ali Salemi's lieutenants were going to return, he began to remember additional truths. He, Yakin, had sensed that Kinza was a criminal.
He
had alerted Ali Salemi of this fact. When Kinza had ruthlessly shot the poor imam's son in the street,
he, Yakin,
had shot at him and chased him off, probably killed him outright, because he certainly remembered winging him. Oh yes. The other two men who had been with Kinza were also dangerous criminals. The man called the professor had been a bomb maker, some kind of technical wizard. And the other man, that Hamid, had been one of the high ups of Saddam's regime, a most dangerous secret service type, who had murdered hundreds of Shi'a in the night.

In his feral youth, Yakin had learned that power was ethereal; in a vacuum, if the skin of power was donned quickly enough, if those first
few rivals were put down fast, if those first adherents did not falter, then it all became
real
.

Already, people in the street were greeting him differently, offering the
salaam
first, with the bowed head, and lately, he had stopped paying for all food and drink in return for making his rounds. Important for the first time in his life, his one anxiety was Amal. Day after day, he waited for the hammer to drop, for that grizzled shopkeeper to show up his lies.

He took to visiting Amal day and night, giving him the eye, making sure he had at least two or three thugs with him at all times. Amal, however, had trouble meeting his gaze. At first, with a gratifying flush of power, Yakin thought it was out of genuine fear. Later, upon reflection, he decided that this was unlikely. Amal had guns, after all. He had lived through loss and heartache and the worst of the war. Moreover, Amal knew exactly what had occurred that night, who had shot at whom. Drawn by fear, he took to hanging on Amal's doorstep, trying to elicit a reaction, to figure out how far Amal would let this play.

In the end, he learned another valuable lesson about the weakness of man. Amal, he realized, was actually
ashamed
. He had some kind of antiquated moral code. He believed in useless things like honor and debt—frivolous, intangible things—that possibly mattered once but no longer. The truth of the New Baghdad was far different. Freedom had a price, as the Americans loved saying. In the balance book of Yakin's mental list, it was evident that it was this fallibility of other men that was his primary asset, for other men couldn't commit to the primacy of self, to damn the world for a dollar in his pocket, to fuck all the tomorrows for one hour today. He was, he knew, a hyena on two legs, but no part of him regretted this.

Thus, it was near dusk on the seventh day of his reign that found Yakin sitting in his favorite chair outside the stylish Dervishes Café, smoking shisha and drinking coffee, the bulge of his revolver very evident in his waistband, although he had prudently taken out the chambered bullet, for he had heard countless tales of men shooting
themselves in the balls. His tobacco was first rate, the best blend of the Swirling Dervish, gratis, which was a good thing since he had never been able to afford it before. The coffee, too, was delectable, the best in Shulla, maybe the best in Baghdad, which was, in truth, the best in the world, for Baghdad was undoubtedly the birthplace of coffee, regardless of what those men in Seattle said.

Yakin was reasonably happy. He had money in his pocket. He had two companions sitting across him laughing at his jokes. Just this afternoon, he had met Saira in the room above the café, had kissed her and felt her up beneath her skirt, had extracted promises of more. So when he saw three men in Salemi clan scarves ambling up the road, he wasn't really surprised. In his experience, God waited for moments such as these to fuck him over.

Only seven days, for God's sake, he thought. I haven't even gotten laid yet
. His friends were melting away. The other café patrons hastened inside. He wanted to move, but he couldn't. Some deeply honed instinct, critical for bullies, told him he was outgunned and that it was better to sit tight and preserve some dignity. The revolver barrel felt hot against his crotch. He wanted to pull out the gun, but his muscles felt loose, disjointed. Too late.
Seven days
…He could see the black fabric bunched up around Saira's thighs, the thin shading of down going up, and the smell of her, still on his fingers…
it's not fair
.

All too soon, the three beards reached his table. They sat down without a by-your-leave—a studied rudeness that left no doubt in all the patrons of the Dervishes which way this conversation was going to be conducted. Saira was watching from the cash register. He could see the side of her face. The others, his neighbors, so respectful just this morning, were watching avidly, weighing him, no doubt mentally cancelling him out. It was intolerable. It was the story of his life.

“Salaam,” Yakin said, trying for that black stare, but his eyes faltered when he looked at the man in front of his face.

“Salaam, peacock,” the man replied. He was tall, in a spotless long coat, his beard neat and gray, his eyes also gray, but lighter and filled with dreadful intelligence. His scarf was tied around his neck with all
the care of a cravat and he sat easily at Yakin's table, as if he owned the café and was welcome to sit at any table. There were no weapons on him, and this, too was a palpable fact.

“I am Hassan Salemi,” he said.

“I know,” Yakin croaked. “Sir.”

“I have been waiting,” Hassan Salemi said, “for six days, for a visit from you. Hearing that you are a busy man, I have finally decided to come see you myself. Are you a busy man, peacock?”

“No, not so busy,” Yakin said, suppressing a shiver. “Sorry, sir. And please accept my condolences. I was on the verge of seeking an audience, imam, but I expected you were busy with the funeral.”

“Ah yes, my poor son,” Hassan Salemi smiled. “I told him not to play with guns. He was a fool. Don't you think so, peacock?”

“No, imam,” Yakin floundered. “It is a great loss to the…”

“Community, yes, a very great loss. The community will hardly survive without his posturing,” Hassan Salemi said. “He was decidedly a fool. But he was my son, nonetheless. No doubt he deserved what happened to him. But to be called out in the night and then ambushed and slaughtered like a dog in the street, that is somewhat insulting to me.”

“It was a tragedy, imam,” Yakin said. He's mad, he thought numbly. He doesn't care at all about his son, and so he's going to kill me too, without any remorse. Yakin's fingers trembled on his lap, and he thought wildly about going for his gun, about shooting this cold monstrosity in front of him. But his courage was gone, his body flaccid, and all he managed was to slump deeper in his chair.

“I need to know some facts, peacock. Just plain speaking, as if we were honest men,” Hassan Salemi said calmly. “First, who called my son that night?”

“Old Amal,” Yakin said, thinking frantically how much blame he could shift. “He spoke to your son on the phone.”

“Who else was there with him?”

“About ten or so others from the neighborhood,” Yakin said.

“Including yourself?”

“Yes,” Yakin said, afraid, reliving those fatal moments, remembering now that it had been his own idea, him and his friends', that Amal had disagreed at first. Madness. How much would Amal refute? Was it possible to silence him? No, even in the heyday of his power, gone scarcely ten minutes ago, Amal had treated him with only grudging acceptance—more as another burden, he realized now, rather than as an overlord. He had been blind,
blind
. Why hadn't he foreseen this day? Why hadn't he tidied up behind him?

“Now, what exactly was your collective intention here?” Hassan Salemi, who had been studying him, now broke through his panicked thoughts.

“Nothing,” Yakin stammered. “We wanted to hand over the fugitives. We thought we would get a reward.”

“A reward?” Hassan Salemi smiled. “You may yet get a reward.”

I don't doubt what sort of reward you have planned for us, Yakin thought.

“Now, dear peacock,” the Imam continued. “How did you come to meet these men, these killers?”

“Amal, it was Amal!” Yakin almost wept, cursing the old man. “He wanted them to kill the Lion of Akkad, but they failed, and instead they killed your son!”

“Ah yes, this elusive lion,” Hassan Salemi leaned forward. “Do you think I believe in fairy stories, peacock?”

There was the unmistakable sound of a pistol cocking, somewhere behind him, and Yakin knew they would not hesitate to blow him away in this very café, in broad daylight.

“Ask anyone,” he said, deadly still. “I would not lie to you, imam.”

“That remains to be seen,” Hassan Salemi said. “Now, where did these men come from? There were three of them, I believe.”

“They walked over from Ghazaliya. That's all I know.”

“Walked over from Ghazaliya,” Hassan Salemi said slowly. “Funny, I remember an American checkpoint across that ditch. I myself would have trouble walking into Shulla from South Ghazaliya. Yet these three men magically appear. Was one of them white by any chance?”

“No, of course not,” Yakin said sullenly. “They were like us, ordinary. One of them was a professor. It was his stupid idea to find the Lion. And the other two were thugs, regular gun men, I think, criminals probably.”

“Street thugs, you say?” Hassan Salemi frowned. “Men like that don't get past American checkpoints. Men like that don't shoot bullets at my son
in Shulla
. Are you merely stupid, peacock, or are you hiding something?”

“I don't know. I told you Amal found them,” Yakin said. “Ask him.”

“Yes, I think it is time to do exactly that.” The imam got up. His men pulled at Yakin's shirt, hauling him to his feet, deliberately shaming him. “Come, peacock. You live for a while longer.”

They shoved him down the street, making a show of it. The imam strolled behind them, unconcerned, letting his men have their fun. They wanted him cowed and beaten. Yakin was glad enough for the abuse; it meant they weren't going to shove him into an alley and blow his head off—not right away at least.

The old man was in his shop, as always, counting his rotten fruit. He looked up morosely at their noisy entrance, eyes drooping, resigned to the visit, it seemed. Yakin cast his mind back, remembering Amal's curious apathy throughout the week, and realized that the man had been expecting this visit, possibly anticipating his own death.

“Imam,” Amal salaamed deeply, the respect genuine. “I have been expecting you.”