Escape from Baghdad! (6 page)

“It can't be anywhere else if it's on this street,” Yakin said. “We know all the other people. It used to be a pretty good neighborhood. Most of the people still live in their original houses.”

“There was a small mosque there last year,” the second tough said. “A Sunni imam used to preach for true sons of Islam to rise up against the government. One Friday, he said something about Moqtada Al Sadr's birth. The Jaish Al Mahdi came and set fire to it, with a dozen people locked inside. I saw the whole thing. They barred the doors and windows and threw grenades in.”

“How charming,” Dagr said.

“No one has gone near it since,” Yakin continued. “The Americans came in a Humvee to investigate, but the JAM rigged the street with IEDs and snipers to drive them away. There was a running battle up
and down the street. No one ever came back. The bodies are probably still inside.”

“It looks about right,” Kinza said.

The mosque was a charred shell of partially collapsed concrete. It had once been a mean two-story house, with no dome and no minaret, little of the embellishments of a normal mosque. Blue tile work had once adorned its outside walls, the sole concession to beauty. Grenade shrapnel and bullet holes had taken care of that. Two tenement slums flanked the mosque, buildings slowly gone to ruin over the past few years, windows boarded and doors fortified. The Mahdi Army used many such buildings as rotating hideaways. The families who lived there had adopted a siege mentality; they neither looked out nor asked questions.

They approached the street cautiously, well aware that they were in easy gunshot range. A floor-to-floor search of the first apartment block revealed nothing. A few old women answered their doors, irate in the middle of the night, clutching weapons, professing no knowledge of Mahdi men or Akkadians or beasts of any sort. More than half of the apartments were empty, doors open or kicked in. Not many people wanted to live in a Mahdi safehouse.

“We need to try the mosque,” Kinza said finally. “It's the only place left.”

They picked their way through rubble into the main hall. The roof had partially collapsed, making the floor impassable. Under the masonry, there were the remnants of bodies: clothing, bones, a pair of glasses. The air was heavy with the overpowering smell of cats. A feline army had taken over the mosque, taking advantage of a grim banquet. They held court now, a large Persian preening on throne-like rubble, his fur plastered back, somehow leonine, no doubt the prized pet of some dead plutocrat. Tabby cats all around, frozen in the act of worship, all glaring accusingly at Dagr so that he almost dropped his gun in shock.

“He's here,” Dagr said, clicking. “I said he smelt funny. He smelt of cats. There must be an intact room somewhere.”

“The imam's room,” Yakin said.

“These cats ate everyone,” Dagr said. “Look how fat they are.”

“That's what you get for praying in mosques,” Kinza said.

They moved in, trying to figure the angles of fire, anticipating a rush out of darkness. They found the imam's room, still intact, door open. There was a bed, chair, table, a radio, an electric stove, a ransacked cabinet.

“He's gone,” Dagr was on the floor, looking at dirty bandages. “There is a lot of blood. He was wounded.”

The room bore the signs of a hasty exit. The silver candlesticks glittered on the bed, buried under a pile of canned food. A heavy ivory statue lay on the floor, broken in two. A line of books and old newspapers lined one wall, and more lay scattered on the floor, spine up, as if just laid aside by the reader.

“He left in a rush,” Kinza said. “He must have figured we were coming.”

“Interesting reading material,” Dagr said, flipping through the books. “History, philosophy,
math
? Nietzsche's morality. Old religious texts. His or the imam's I wonder?”

“The imam did not read,” Yakin said. “He was Al Qaeda, I think.”

“These are all about 11
^th
century Islamic history,” Dagr sat on the bed, reading absently. “Little-known authors. My friend did a thesis on Islamic alchemists and heretics. I recognize some of these writers.”

“A philosopher serial killer? He doesn't sound like your average thug.”

“Look, personal papers,” Hamid had been rifling through the room with professional thoroughness. “Hidden in these books. He forgot them. It's mostly notes on the history of Syria.”

“I'm curious to know his name,” Dagr said. “Look for any letters or anything.”

“This is garbage,” Kinza said, after some time.

“I found something,” Hamid said. “It's a watch. A very strange, broken watch. The front is glass. It looks complicated.”

“It's probably junk then,” Dagr said. “It looks old. Odd, here are some drawings of it in his hand. Diagrams and numbers.”

“It has a tourbillion I think,” Kinza said, examining the watch. “And what appears to be at least four complications.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I like watches. AP, Constantin, Dufour. I used to trade in replicas,” Kinza shrugged. “This is a mechanical watch. It
is
very old. Each set of these gears and wheels is a complication. They're supposed to give extra functions to the watch. But I don't see what they do. There is nothing on the dial other than the hour and minute hands. No second hand, no date function, no chronograph either. There is no maker's brand. It is strange. I thought I knew all the watch makers.”

“Is it worth anything?” Hamid asked.

“Probably nothing,” Kinza said. “It doesn't work. Look for the certificate or a case or something.”

“It bears a seal in the back,” Dagr said. “And an inscription.”

“Saying what?”

“There is a small star. Might be the brand. Five sided, five colors I think, though I can't be sure. Is that the brand mark?”

“I don't know. We'd have to consult an expert. A lot of old watch companies went bankrupt when the Japanese invented the quartz movement.”

“There's some writing here. It is one long word I think. Too faded to read. Not any language I have ever seen anyway,” Dagr frowned. “Wait, I can read the name.”

“What is it?”

“Fouad Jumblatt,” Dagr said slowly. “This is Fouad Jumblatt's watch.”

“Jumblatt?” Hamid said. “Jumblatt…Jumblatt, I've heard this name before.”

“The name's Lebanese,” Dagr said. “Wasn't he some kind of politician or something? Look, here's a book on him. He was the governor of the Chouf district in Lebanon.”

“I remember now,” Hamid said. “Fouad Jumblatt was the grandfather of Walid Jumblatt, the guy who runs some Lebanese political party. He is long dead. He cannot be the Lion of Akkad.”

“So why does this guy have Fouad Jumblatt's watch?” Kinza asked.

“Jumblatt was Lebanese,” Hamid said. “This is some kind of Lebanese conspiracy.”

“That's ludicrous.”

“Back in the day, we had some run ins with the Lebanese secret service,” Hamid said. “When this was a real country. They must be crawling around here again. The Lebanese are probably thinking about invading us too.”

“No, no, I don't think so,” Dagr said. He began to flip through one of the books. “Not Lebanese. Druze.
Druze
. Look here. The star is the star of Druze. The writing is gibberish because they have some kind of secret language. Ninety percent of their own tribe don't know their sacred texts. Fouad Jumblatt was one of their luminaries. This watch was either given or worn by Fouad Jumblatt. It would be considered an heirloom. This man is not Mahdi Army. He's not even Shi'a… He's Druze.”

“This makes no sense,” Hamid said. “Druze? There
are
no Druze in Iraq. Maybe he just stole it from someone.”

“He had it hidden away,” Dagr said. “He made drawings of it. It must have meant something to him. Otherwise it's just a broken watch. He must have forgotten to take it with him in the rush. Think about it. The Druze are known for keeping hidden. They must have a secret community here.”

“There is nothing else here. We need to go back,” Kinza said. “Tell the others that he is gone, probably for good. Take whatever you can.”

They found Amal waiting up in his store with a small knot of people.

“Did you get him?” The old man asked, shuffling forward. “Is he dead?”

“He fled,” Kinza said. He looked around. The shop was full of armed men, cigarettes and nerves. “What the fuck are you all doing here?”

“You brought this trouble on us,” Amal pointed his finger accusingly. “This is on your own head. You let the Lion get away, and now the JAM want you.”

Kinza drew his gun and pointed it at Amal's forehead. Weapons clicked into place all around them. “JAM? Why bring up those fuckers. You sold us to the Mahdi Army, you fucking traitor? After sharing salt with us? After begging us for help? I will put you down like a dog right now, I swear, I will kill every man in this room.”

It stopped them cold. There was a murmur of uncertainty. Some of the men lowered their heads, shamed, but the guns stayed up, circling the three of them, barrels shaking, small circles of pitiless dark hovering like angry wasps. In the street, Dagr heard the rumble of jeeps, the cackle of rifle fire popping in the air. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Yakin edging toward them, gun out, a gloating look in his eye.

Kinza swiveled his gun smoothly, the barrel locking onto Yakin's face. “Step back, and lower your weapon.”

Yakin faltered, sweat beading his forehead, transformed suddenly into a panicky shop boy caught with his hand in the till, facing a certain beating.

“They were coming. We had no choice. They would kill us anyway,” Amal wailed. “They're coming. They're here. What could we do? You never found the Lion.”

“We're leaving, now,” Kinza backed toward the door. “I'll take my chances against the Mahdi fuckers. Any of you step out of this shop, you'll get a bullet in the eye. Hamid get the door.”

The rumble of gunfire was incessant now. The street was bathed in fire and headlights, Koranic verses rapping out in between, the midnight calling card of the Mahdi. Dagr could hear the chants of soldiers, the roar of engines. Terror made him slow.

“Amal, he's Druze,” Dagr said, waving the broken watch, as Kinza pulled him back toward the door. “Do you understand? The Lion of Akkad is Druze. We found his watch! He has Fouad Jumblatt's watch! He can't have a brother in the Mahdi Army. He's not Shi'a at all. There won't be any retribution, Amal! He's not JAM, Amal. He's Druze!”

“Dagr!” Kinza shouted, shoving him aside. “Run.”

5: MAROON INVESTIGATIONS

“Y
OU KNOW WHAT THIS IS
, T
OMMY
?” H
OFFMAN ASKED
.

“No, Hoff.”

“This is a list of stuff I need you to get.” Hoffman was lounging in the passenger seat of his newly requisitioned Humvee, smoking a garuda clove cigarette that he had caged from his friend Marconas, the only Indonesian resident of Baghdad.

“Ten gallons of detergent?” Tommy was a slow reader. “Fifteen cases of shotgun shells? Two-dozen barbeque skewers? Ten cases of Skittles?”

“Yes, yes, and yes, my dear lieutenant, all of that and more.”

“I'm just a private, sir.”

“It's a figure of speech, Tommy. I am the president; you are my vice president. I am the captain; you are the first mate. I am the hero; you are the sidekick. I am the NATO Supreme Allied Commander, and you are the, er, Supreme Allied vice commander,” Hoffman said. “You get the picture? Now get your ass to the commissary and get our stuff.”

“Hoff,” Tommy said. “What should I tell him you want this stuff for?”

“Bargaining power, Tommy,” Hoffman said. “Bartering. See, I believe in the soft power of mutually beneficial trade over the brute force that has become, all too sadly, our only currency in this cluster-fucked region.”

“You want me to say all that?”

“Tell them it's for the secret mission, Tommy. Tell them it's for Col Bradley.”

“Are we leaving finally, then, Hoff?”

“Yes we are,” Hoffman said. “Were you getting impatient?”

“Not me, Hoff,” Tommy said. “It's just that Captain Fowler told me to report everything you do to him. And he's been getting testy.”

“I see,” Hoffman said. “And have you been reporting away?”

“I write things down in this notebook,” Tommy patted his right breast pocket. “He told me to write down stuff so I don't forget.”

“And?”

“And I'm supposed to call him from my sat phone every night on the down low.”

“I see,” Hoffman said. “That's a tough job, Tommy. All this remembering and writing and reporting.”

“Right, Hoff,” Tommy said, miserable. “And we ain't even left yet. I got nothing so far. The captain's getting kinda testy.”