Escape from Baghdad! (3 page)

In the evening, they walked along a boulevard of garbage and open sewage, traversed by lines of people who looked neither left nor right, hurrying along to their bolt-holes. There were calls for prayer from the mosque nearby, a building wrecked by gunfire and mortar from a desperate battle two weeks ago. They walked in single file, Hamid in the middle, Dagr leading the way because he was Shi'a, and had once lived in the area and people trusted him for some reason.

He recognized a few people but did not hail them as he would have in the old days. It was not certain who was who anymore, which camp, which informant, how many dead in each family, and by whose hand. As night fell, the streets rapidly cleansed themselves of civilians and took on a wholly different breed of walkers. Men with guns circled each block, Insurgents, or civil guards, or JAM militia, or even
men who were bewilderingly all three, Iraqi army during the day and everything else at night.

Men with guns lounged in pools of light, unwilling to leave that hazy, pathetic safety, the fear a palpable fog streaming into Dagr's eyes and nose, making him stagger along like a marathon runner. The night belonged to the Ghazaliya dogs, bald and mad, shrapnel marked, barking through garbage. Their shadows capered against the walls, three men on a solitary path, marked by the hopeless stoop of their shoulders.

“We are being watched,” Kinza said, as they moved into a wrecked alley. “Be prepared, Dagr.”

A short surge, and two men came out of the rubble, guns out, faces wrapped in checkered scarves. At the same time, an old Fiat pulled up behind them.

“Shi'a, Shi'a!” Dagr said, hands raised. “Don't shoot for God's sake.”

“Take your hands out of your pockets,” the leading gunman said.

Hamid was already on the floor, shielding his face. Kinza stood still, his jacket zipped to his neck, hands jammed into pockets, every line of his body uncompromising.

“Hands out, you.”

“You don't want me to do that, friend,” Kinza said softly.

“Get your fucking hands out!”

“Kinza, for God's sake,” Dagr said, shaking. “Just do as he says.”

Kinza shrugged, raised his hands. There was a grenade in his fist. Dagr could see the tension on his thumb, as it pushed down on the pin. Iraqi army standard shrapnel grenade, used to clear rooms in house to house fighting. Somewhere on the checkpoint was a very careless soldier.

“What the hell?” Dagr felt his voice rising sharply.

“You wouldn't.” The lead gunman swiveled his pistol from head to head like a metronome, fingers tight and trembling, the gun held lopsided in an amateur grip. Behind him, his partner began to edge back surreptitiously. “You wouldn't.”

“Come and find out,” Kinza said.

“Let's all relax,” Dagr tried to soothe the fever out of his voice. “Look, what do you want?”

“We saw you coming past the checkpost,” the gunman said, eyes darting wildly from face to face. “With the American.”

“We are just going north, to Shulla,” Dagr said. “We don't want this trouble.”

“Trouble?” the gunman laughed. “Nobody wants trouble. Trouble comes by itself. Do I want to be like this? We need help. There is no one to help us. You help us, and we'll take you into Shulla.”

“Funny way to ask for help,” Kinza said. “With guns.”

“Is there any other way?”

“Kinza, let me handle this,” Dagr slowly lowered his arms. “What makes you think we can help you? We're just ordinary men. I am an economics professor at…”

“You might be normal,” the man said. He pointed a stubby finger at Hamid and Kinza. “But those two are jackals. It's them we want. We need beasts to hunt a beast. Plus, you are cozy with Americans.”

“Listen, let's talk like reasonable men. What is your name?”

“My name is Amal.” The gunman unwound his scarf to reveal an ugly, grizzled face. “There is a man here, called the Lion of Akkad. He is a murderer. We want you to make him go away.”

“Go away?”

“The American who helped you cross,” Amal said. “Have him deal with it.”

“We cannot do that,” Dagr said.

“Then have your army friends arrest him,” Amal said. “Or you three kill him. We don't care.”

“I thought the Jaish Al Mahdi patrol these streets.”

“They have been pulling back,” Amal said. “And recently they were beaten badly in the south, by the SGD. They're back in Shulla now.”

“So, you have guns,” Kinza said. “Are you cowards?”

“His brother is in the Mahdi Army, they say,” Amal hawked and spat. “If he finds out we did anything, they will kill us all, and our families.”

“And we don't have families?”

“You do not look like family men.”

“The Lion of Akkad?” Kinza laughed. “What the hell, we'll do it.”

“Sit down, Hoffman.”

“Sir!”

“Hoffman, we are in a quandary.” Captain Fowler's office at the SS Thresher was a textbook military room, no rings on the desk, no overflowing ashtrays, no sticky joysticks, not a file out of place, a room so alien to the rest of the base that even the air seemed crisper, standing to attention, air that was on the constant verge of saluting.

“Sir!”

“It appears, Hoffman, that the investigation into your misconduct has hit a snag.”

“Snag, sir!”

“Yes, a snag,” Fowler said. “It appears that all of the potential witnesses have disappeared.”

“Disappeared, sir!”

“Poof.”

“Sir!”

“Hoffman, it is unnecessary to yell at the top of your voice every time I say something,” Fowler said.

“Sir!”

“Well, Hoffman, what do you suggest I do with you now?”

“Permission to suggest, sir!”

“At ease, soldier,” Fowler said. “Speak your mind.”

“Requesting an immediate return to patrol duty, captain!” Hoffman said. “The streets are pretty frisky these days. Something
evil
in the air.”

“Hoffman, surely you know that you have been accused of over-fraternizing with the locals,” Fowler said, “and specifically, with known criminals. Returning you to regular duty is exactly what I am determined not to do.”

“I was gathering intelligence, captain,” Hoffman said, offended. “Building bridges with the community. All there in our handbook, captain.”

“Hoffman, we've received reports of a certain black-market mastermind brokering heavy weaponry for the local insurgent groups,” Fowler said. “A man called Kinza. What do you know about him?”

“A few words here and there, whispered in back alleys,” Hoffman said. “He's like a ghost. No one even knows what he looks like. The insurgents think of him as some kind of hero. The JAM find him pretty useful too.”

“Is he a ranking member of Al Qaeda in Iraq? Is he Sadr's man in Ghazaliya?”

“No idea, captain.”

“Something to investigate further,” Fowler said wisely. “We need this man instantly, Hoffman.”

“Captain, he's a merchant who plays both sides,” Hoffman said. “Sunnis or Shi'as themselves will kill him sooner or later if we sit tight. Even the atheists might get him.”

“I have noticed that you understand these A-rab sects,” Fowler said. “More than the average soldier. Is that a fair statement?”

“Sir.”

“I have noticed that you hang around with these A-rabs during off-duty hours. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir, gathering vital intelligence, sir.”

“Hoffman, are you a homosexual?”

“No, sir!”

Fowler frowned. “Queer? Gay?”

“No, sir!” Hoffman said. “I was married once, sir! She left me for a taxidermist, sir.”

“Right,” Fowler said. “So what is it you do with these A-rabs, Hoffman?”

“We drink tea and smoke, sir!” Hoffman said. “Good American cigarettes.”

“Right,” Fowler said.

“And gather intelligence, too,” Hoffman said quickly.

“And you can tell the difference between all of them?” Fowler asked, “These Sunnis and Shiites?”

“Mostly, captain,” Hoffman said. “Can I ask what this is about?”

“We have an immense opportunity here, Hoffman,” Fowler said. “And despite my misgivings about your character, you appear to be the man for the job.”

“It is an honor to serve my country! God bless America!”

“Listen closely, Hoffman. We have intel from our informants in Sadr City,” Fowler lowered his voice. “It appears that the JAM have been tracking a certain high level member of the A-rab Republican Guard.”

“High level?”

“Lunching with Saddam Hussein kind of level,” Fowler said. “Now the JAM boys had lost this character, going by the name of Col. Hamid, in a skirmish; they have reliable evidence that he was smuggled into south Ghazaliya by the insurgent Arabs a few days ago. Are you following me, soldier?”

“Yes, sir!”

“The name Kinza has been mentioned. He seems to be harboring this high level A-rab,” Fowler said. “It is imperative that we capture these two immediately.”

“Right, captain, we need to comb the streets for them,” Hoffman jumped up. “I can get a squad together immediately!”

“Hoffman, sit down.”

“Sorry, sir,” Hoffman said.

“Why am I telling you all this?”

“I don't know, captain.”

“Hoffman, I have been directed by HQ to take any steps necessary to apprehend these two deadly insurgents. Gigantic steps! Extrajudicial steps!”

Hoffman, unable to resist, relapsed back to his modus operandi for dealing with high officials. “Extraordinary, sir!”

“I am transferring you to a special command, Hoffman,” Fowler said. “You know the streets; you seem to know how these A-rabs think. Capture these two miscreants, and I'll get you a purple heart.”

“Right, captain,” Hoffman said. “Serve and protect.”

“Sign these papers here, soldier,” Fowler thrust out a sheaf of high quality paper, wrapped in blue and red military ribbon. “You are now officially part of the Special Forces Unit, Section: Greater Ghazaliya. You report directly to me and my superior, Col. Bradley. I am sure you have heard of Col. Bradley.”

“Col. Bradley, sir!”

“The man has single-handedly tamed the wild A-rabs of Baghdad,” Fowler said, his eyes glazing over. “You do not want to disappoint Col. Bradley, Hoffman.”

“No, sir.”

“SFU intelligence indicates that the JAM are desperate to get their hands on Hamid. They think he carries valuable information,” Fowler tapped his nose. “And what is valuable to Mr. Sadr is valuable to Col. Bradley. Valuable information, Hoffman. This man Hamid was with all the high ups of the old regime. This could be it, Hoffman. This could be our golden goose.”

“The big fish, sir.”

“Hoffman, what do you think this Hamid knows?”

“Er, weapons of mass destruction?”

“Precisely, Hoffman,” Fowler scowled. “Col. Bradley believes they exist, the president believes they exist, and God himself believes they exist.”

“Semper fidelis!”

“Hoffman, get a squad together and get your ass out there,” Fowler said. “You find us these two and some WMDs, and I'll personally make sure there's a Nobel Peace Prize in it for you.”

3: THE LION OF AKKAD

A
MAL OWNED AN AUTOPARTS SHOP IN THE STREET OF
N
AKAF, IN
the very heart of the Lion's territory. He sold tires, rims, and filters, as well as an assortment of used and new batteries. Sometimes, he had engine oil, depending on supply. The Amal empire had not prospered in the war. He had once been a rich man. He had owned two car showrooms, four spare parts dealerships, and stock in an insurance company. One of the showrooms had been obliterated by tank shells during the American liberation. The second had been mistakenly raided as a bomb factory by the Americans and subsequently looted. With profits sliding, his hitherto loyal managers had ransacked three of the four spare parts shops, absconding with the revenue and leaving behind a host of unpaid suppliers.