Escape from Baghdad! (27 page)

The waiters of the hotel, instructed to leave the crazed American alone, had done nothing to prevent his excesses. Sabeen, or more likely her grandfather, had some connection to the owners of the hotel, and an entire corner of the rooftop pool was devoted to them. This was no mean feat, as the infinity pool was not that large, and there were several other parties of guests wading around the other end, trying to ignore the Marine-issue eyesore.

Behruse was in a similar comatose state, except he slumped in the shade to protect his complexion, and unlike Hoffman, he had had enough decorum to maintain his clothing. Despite this being a nonsmoking zone, there were several lit cigars around his person. Their appointment with Sabeen had been at 2 pm for lunch, but she had been late, and Hoffman had unwisely chosen the hair of the dog as a means of combating his initial hangover from the excesses of last night.

All of which was most unfortunate, he thought, as a cool, slim hand slapped him awake. Hoffman, caught in psychedelic dreams where he was a snaky river fish, spluttered awake and gasped for air
through imaginary gills. He saw Sabeen staring down at him, a halo of light framing her head, an eyebrow raised in a perfect expression of inquiry, admonishment, and derision.

Hoffman tried to get up, flex his various muscles, and suck in his stomach at the same time. The dreadful Arak stymied all of this, and he just slumped hard into the chair. The napkin, thankfully, had not moved, but the sudden proximity of Sabeen was about to have a disastrous consequence for his modesty.

“Could you, babe, step back a bit and hand me my Marine-issue pants?” Hoffman mustered with great dignity. “And then wake up Behruse. That pig has made a shitsty of himself.”

“I'm awake, Hoffy.” Behruse loomed in front of him. Fully clothed.

“Yeah well, some punk has taken my clothes,” Hoffman said. “Give ‘em to me.”

“Actually, Hoffman, the waiter tells me that you threw everything off, ‘capered like a monkey'—his words incidentally, not mine, and then tried to sing some ‘West Virginia' song, before passing out,” Sabeen said.

“Well, yeah,” Hoffman said. “That would be
his
version.”

“What did the Big Man say?” Behruse, asked, retreating back into the shade.

Sabeen flicked away Hoffman's pants, and took a seat.

“He wants us to pick up Afzal,” she said. “He said that time is running out.”

“So easy, right?” Hoffman asked. “Just pick him up.”

“From the medical evidence, it appears that Afzal Taha has been lobotomized at least twice and subsequently recovered.”

“Something that is impossible,” Behruse said. “Imagine everyone growing back all the bits and pieces we've cut off over the years—the whole industry would just fall apart.”

“He has some special DNA that allows physical recovery. Partial regeneration, even,” Sabeen said. “The key is in trying to track his mental state from his medical history. Profiling him, basically, and then setting a trap.”

“Well, you doctors have been messing him around a bit,” Hoffman said. “Lobsterizing him and giving him shock therapy and shit. I wouldn't be too happy with you guys if I was him.”

“So he's going around looking for revenge?” Behruse asked. “You think he pushed that doc off the roof?”

“Probably.” Sabeen said.

“You guys think his brain grew back?” Hoffman said.

“It seems to have recovered some functionality, anyway.”

“But what about his memories?” Hoffman asked. “That shit doesn't grow back. He's been messed up, he's confused and shit, he's probably just blundering around trying to figure shit out.”

“What's your point?”

“Well, he ain't some kind of evil mastermind, is he? Sure he's got some fancy DNA, but what's he done so far with it? He ain't driving a Ferrari, is he? He ain't in the Caribbean drinking Mai Tais, is he? He's just blundered around in the same old hoods looking for some stupid shit and killing a bunch of random people.”

“So he's stupid,” Behruse said. His world was often black and white. “He's a big stupid fucker who doesn't remember what he's supposed to do.”

“To find him we have to think like him,” Hoffman crouched down into what he considered his “predator mode.” “We have to study his every move, like hyenas hunting gazelle.”

“Think like a guy with half his brain off,” Behruse laughed. “That's a good one for you, Hoffman.”

“Ha fucking
ha
,” Hoffman said. “You are so predictable, fat head.”

“We hit the streets,” Behruse said. “Give me the word, Sab,” the man cracked his knuckles. “Drum this guy out. We can get the old police commissioner up.”

“We have to be quiet,” Sabeen said.

“Quiet?”

“Other people might be interested,” Sabeen said. “We don't want a manhunt.”

“Hoffy can't you get the CIA to stick a drone up his ass?” Behruse asked.

“The CIA does not and never has operated any contraband drone-type objects in any orifice of any noncombatant,” Hoffman said. “Section 32 Subsection D: furthermore…”

“So you
are
CIA.”

“Not at all,” Hoffman looked aggrieved. “That psycho Bradley made me memorize the entire handbook. Then he made me take standardized tests, too!”

“How'd you do?”

“I don't know. I marked down all the c's,” Hoffman said. “Multiple choice. Everyone knows you gotta go for the c's.”

“Nobody,” Sabeen said icily, “can be as stupid as you pretend to be, Hoffman. It just isn't physically possible.”

“Well la-di-da.”

Sabeen threw down a sheaf of the medical documents they had gathered over the past few days.

“Look at Dr. J's bloodwork,” she said.

“I don't understand this medical crap,” Hoffman said, trying to shield his eyes from the sun.

“Look at the dates,” Sabeen seemed pissed off. “I can't believe we missed it. Grandfather had a field day laughing at me.”

“I don't see it,” Hoffman said.

“The date Dr. J's secretary accepted the blood is here. July 8
^th
. Dr. Sawad dated the vial when he took the blood sample; July 7
^th
. There is a gap of about a day,” Sabeen said. “Fine, that is normal. He took the blood from Taha, ran over to the clinic, twisted his old friend's arm, and got some sophisticated bloodwork done.”

“So what?” Behruse, too, was puzzled.

“Yeah, so what?” Hoffman hiccupped. “Hey, you guys want some sambuca?”

“Sawad
took
Taha's blood on Saturday the 7
^th
,” Sabeen said. “
Fresh blood
. But Taha escaped from the basement of Al-Rashid almost six months
before
that.”

“Woah,” Hoffman said. “Where the hell was he all this time?”

“Not in that prick's apartment,” Behruse said. “He'd need a strongroom to hold Taha. Shackles and chains at the least. Plus medical equipment I'd guess.”

“Not the apartment, no,” Sabeen said.

“His daughter?” Hoffman asked. “She seemed snooty.”

“Yeah, let's go bust up her house,” Behruse said.

“Hmm, I'm not sure she knew anything,” Sabeen said. “Sawad wasn't sharing Taha like that. No, he has a safehouse somewhere we don't know about. He kept Taha immobilized for six months. Probably worked on him too. And Taha got free, maybe. Now he's on the run, killing people. How long till he returns to the place he was held captive? We have to find this safehouse.”

“So Sawad had a place in the city,” Hoffman said. “Something close to where he lived maybe or on the way to his work, areas of the city he had access to anyways.”

“We check bank accounts, leases, apartment registers,” Behruse ticked off on sausage fingers. “Relatives, friends, any connections to the recently deceased.”

“Nurses,” Sabeen said. “He'd need subordinates to help him, especially if he was housing Taha off campus for six months. But he wouldn't trust another doctor. He didn't even trust his own daughter fully.”

“We need old hospital personnel files,” Behruse said.

“Back to the Al-Rashid then.”

“They aren't there precisely,” Behruse said. “When the hospital got sacked, old papers were moved to the ministry. The hospital was re-opened on emergency basis by presidential order, but the ministry still retains all of the old files. Personnel, patients, financial…”

“Ministry?” Hoffman blinked.

“Can your piece of paper get us in?” Sabeen asked mockingly.

“Ministry of Health?”

“Yes,” Behruse said. “It's Shi'a run. Sadr has a lot of men in there. Not long ago their militiamen were dragging Sunnis out of hospital beds and sticking knives in them.”

“I can get in anywhere,” Hoffman boasted. Then quietly to Sabeen: “And if you were to go out with me sometime, you'd realize that I actually have the keys to this city. I'm like frigging royalty over here.”

Sabeen stared at him disbelievingly. Hoffman had a crush on his poisoner.

26: DEATH BY KIBBEH

T
OMMY HAD JUST WON A BIG HAND AT POKER
. K
ING HIGH SPADE
flush on the turn, beating a guy with trips and another guy with pocket aces. They had chased him all the way, calling and raising, taking him for a mook. His first win yet, and it had been a princely hand. Those Iraqi police boys had been taking him for a ride all week; they were sharp players too, knew their odds, knew how to count cards. He couldn't quite figure out how they knew so much about Texas hold 'em. Apparently it was globalization.

Now, waiting in line for the postgame winners' dinner treat, he replayed each bet, savoring his fellows' reactions. The flushed face on the crop bearded Abu-Abu, his beady eyes flashing disbelief. The aces spilling from his hand…priceless.

They had been forced to congratulate him of course, to own up at last that
he
, in fact, was the main man, the alpha dog, the captain of the ship. He didn't quite know where this new tradition had come up from, of treating everyone to dinner, but they all insisted it was the rule, even his own squad mates. They brought up numerous vague instances that he did not recall, all the while chivvying him toward the kibbeh stand.

In the end, flush with victory, he didn't really care. Everything was perfect, other than Ancelloti, who was inexplicably still out foraging. The kibbeh vendor was excellent, the best food he had found on the streets. It wasn't that spicy like some of the kebabs, didn't make him sick with the runs. Waiting with his mates in line, acknowledging the respectful nods of the locals, a few called-out greetings from known regulars, he felt a wash of contentment come over him. This was the life, yessir, nothing like cold Michigan winters, freezing-ass lake winds hitting you at 100 miles per hour.

This weather was balmy. Yes it was. Hellish hot sometimes, to be sure, but hot was a lot better than cold, wasn't it? And this assignment was the best of all time. He had Hoffy to thank for that. Nothing but playing games and loafing all day. And once he'd made friends with the Iraqi police boys, well, the card games had started, and that was just fine with him.

There were plenty of things he didn't understand about this city, like why it had a goddamn huge river running through it or why they had those big ass swords crossed over the big highway. Didn't they know that swords didn't mean shit in a gunfight? He'd have torn down the swords and put up M64s up there. Giant crossed semiautos, that would scare the shit out of the camels. Still, it beat the shit out of running a junkyard in a dead beat town packed in snow, watching old people shuffling around drinking cheap whiskey and moaning about the car industry. Hell yeah, the car industry had moved. They'd moved all the way to fucken China, probably cos it wasn't so fricking cold all the time over there.

Tommy neared the kibbeh stand, just as the vendor started a new batch. He always watched him closely. This guy was an artist. Tommy almost knew the recipe by heart, it was so easy. He wanted to take this guy to Chicago and set him up in front of the Sears Tower. No way anyone would eat hot dogs if they had this guy out there.

The vendor was getting into his groove now, and more than one regular stood around, watching appreciatively. He started on the stuffing by cooking finely chopped onions in oil until they were soft and filmy. Then some ground beef, until it browned, and then draining it out, he mixed it together and mashed it into a fine paste, with a little bit of salt and pepper. With deft twitches he portioned out little balls of the stuff, pushing an almond, a couple of raisins, and a little bit of herb mix into the middle. This was the stuffing, good enough to eat on its own. It took him a few seconds to make each one, and within a minute, he had filled a bowl full.

The actual kibbeh came next. He had ground rice, premixed with ground beef. Many vendors used a wheat mixture for the shell,
but Tommy knew the inside scoop; rice was the best. Rice was the secret. The vendor made bulk quantities of this at home and brought ice cream boxes of the stuff to his cart every morning, gently thawing throughout the day. This, he had once explained, was also a secret. The one day old mash of rice and ground beef was a lot better than fresh.