Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 (61 page)

The Iraqi felt the first stab of fear.

Then he studied the face, the shaggy hair and hard eyes.

There was something about this American, something familiar. He had not seen this face, but he’d seen
that
look before.

The Iraqi bit his lip, even more uncomfortable. “You came to discuss the girl?” he snorted in barely understandable English.

The American nodded toward the shop owner, who was standing near the back of the store. “He said he could get what I wanted, but it would take two weeks. Things have changed. I want her now.”

The Iraqi was suspicious. “What’s your hurry, good master?” he asked.

The American glared. “Does it matter?”

“No, my
Sayid,
” the Iraqi answered sarcastically as he bowed. “But these things can be difficult.”

“Can you do it? Yes or no?”

“Yes, yes, of course. It’s just that—”

“I’m leaving the country in three days. Can you get her by then?”

“Oh, no, my
Sayid.
It will take longer than that.”

“How long?”

“At least a week. She is inside Khorramshahr, which you must know is a U.N. refugee camp. If she were in Iran or a village under Iraqi control, I could have her tonight. It would be easy, my friend. But the refugee camps are much more difficult—you must know that is true. Perhaps I could interest you in another one of our—”

“No,” the American snapped. “I only want her.”

The Iraqi stepped back and forced a smile. “You must be buying for a very, ah, how do you say in your language? Ah yes. A very particular buyer.”

“Who I buy for doesn’t matter. All I want to know is, can you get her by Saturday? It’s a simple question, Mr. Zubaida.”

The Iraqi scowled with anger.
How did this man know my name?

He shook his head. “Very difficult. Maybe, if we were to pay the right people, pull a few strings here and there—but it will be much more expensive. Our cost would go very high. I will say we can do it, but it might cost another five or six thousand dollars.”

The American leaned toward the Iraqi, his eyes bright and intense. “Then you will take it out of your profits, which were already
very generous,
my friend. I will come back in three days, and I want
that
girl. Have her here, we are all happy. Disappoint me, and I shut you down.”

“Shut me down?” the Iraqi scoffed as he turned away. “Don’t make me angry, you American fool! You cannot touch me, not here. If we were in Baghdad, in the American sector, then maybe, but this is not your world, my friend.” He snorted again. “Shut me down! What an idiot! What are you going to do?”

The American took a step forward. “I did not mean shut down your business,
my friend.
”

The Iraqi took another step back, glancing anxiously toward his partner, who was standing quietly near the back door. Who
was
this American? His gut tightened up.

The American moved his hand, flipping aside the open flap on his jacket. The Iraqi saw the pistol and glared angrily.

“There are things I could do,” the American said through clenched teeth. “Things you are familiar with. Things you have done too.” His eyes glinted in the dim light, and the Iraqi saw
that
look once again, that look he had seen too often before.

“You and I are the same,” the American hissed. “We understand each other. You know that we do. Now, I’m coming back on Saturday, and I want that girl.”

The Iraqi pressed his lips together and nodded.

The American turned and walked out the front door.

The Iraqi cursed at him, keeping his head down until he heard the door close.

Oh, how he hated the Americans. How he hated them all!

The former Baathist party leader was escorted through the front gates at Khorramshahr. The camp looked like any other he had been to, and he kicked his feet through the dirt and dead grass, not noticing the few trees and wildflowers along the fence on the east.

The man wore dark pants, white shirt, and black turban. He didn’t remove his dark glasses, which he wore to hide his red eyes. He waited impatiently on the wood porch of the administration building, listening carefully to the sounds of the camp. It was afternoon, and the sun was hidden behind a thin haze, enough to soften his shadow and reduce the afternoon heat but not enough keep him from sweating profusely, a steady stream of perspiration beading on his heavy brow.

The administration building was built on a small hill overlooking Khorramshahr. A ten-foot barbed-wire fence surrounded the camp, but it was in disrepair and generally unnecessary, as none of the camp’s occupants had anywhere to go. To the north were the cafeteria and improvised school. Rows of identical plywood huts had been built on the flats to the west, and south of them were rows of multicolored tents, which housed the newest refugees. The stranger stared at the tents, hoping to get a glimpse of the girl. Behind him, up near the trees, some refugees were burning the contents of the latrines, an inky black smoke drifting from the fifty-gallon drums.

A little after 3 p.m., Mr. Raule came out on the porch where the Iraqi was waiting. “The administrator will see you now,” he said. The Iraqi followed the pasty-looking French officer into the building.

The administration building was simply laid out, with small cubicles lining both sides of the tile-covered room. Little furniture, no decorations, a small clock on the wall. Four offices took up the space at the back of the building, and Mr. Raule led the Iraqi to the largest of them.

The camp administrator was a French career civil servant, a man who had spent his entire professional life working through the monstrous bureaucracy that was the U.N. He had finally, and proudly, reached a place where he owned his own kingdom and he exuded an air of smugness that was almost tangible and repugnant. He was an overly neat man, small, with a tightly trimmed white mustache and a hairline that had receded past the midpoint of his head. His office was sparse, clean, and all business: metal desk, metal cabinets, metal wastebasket, metal chairs. A single window looked out on the camp, but the blinds were closed. As the Iraqi was escorted into the room, the U.N. administrator stood and moved quickly from behind his desk, every motion efficient. He had little time.

The men shook hands, but the French administrator did not invite the Iraqi to sit down. “What can I do for you?” he wondered, getting right to the point.

“I’m looking for someone. A young woman, about eighteen, give or take a year or two. Pretty. Long hair. She came here from the western mountains of Iran.”

The Frenchman studied the Iraqi, noting the sunken cheeks and rough skin, the dark and lifeless eyes. He wanted to step back from him. “We have many young people here,” the administrator replied, offering little help.

“She is my master’s niece. She was recently orphaned, and my master has reason to believe she might have come here. He has sent me to find her and bring her back to her family in Pakistan.”

“What is her name?” the administrator asked.

“Azadeh Pahlavi.”

“Have you checked with the front desk?”

“No, my
Sayid.
”

The camp administrator turned to the door and called for Raule, who appeared almost instantly. “Azadeh Pahlavi. Young girl. See if she is here.”

Raule didn’t move. “She’s here,” he said.

“You are certain, Mr. Raule?”

“Yes, sir, I am. She was processed no more than a few weeks ago.”

“Really?” the administrator said. “Just curious, Mr. Raule, but how can you be so sure?”

Raule blushed and dropped his eyes. “I helped her with some of the paperwork when she was processed. She’s—I don’t know—I remember her. I’ve talked with her a time or two since then.”

The administrator stared, a curious look on his face. “Very well then, Mr. Raule.” He nodded to his Iraqi guest. “This gentleman, Mr. Ishameil, has come for Miss Pahlavi. He works for her uncle. He brings good news for her. He wants to take her with him.”

Raule shook his head and answered, “Sir, that can’t be.”

“And why not?” the administrator questioned. The Iraqi frowned.

“The young woman who I’m talking about had no next of kin. Her father was recently killed. Her mother died in childbirth. She said she had no family. No brothers. No sisters. No one, she said.”

The camp administrator cocked his head to the Iraqi and raised a curious eyebrow. “Perhaps we are talking about two different people,” he offered.

The Iraqi shook his head and pulled out a picture, dropping it on the desk. The Frenchman picked it up, and then handed it to his assistant, who looked at it carefully as he nodded. “Yes, that is her. I remember her very well.”

The administrator extended his hand, asking for the picture again. It showed a close-up of Azadeh’s face but no background or any other identifiable features that would give context to where the picture had been taken or how long ago. “This is a recent photograph?” he wondered.

The Iraqi shook his head. “Perhaps a few months old. Her father sent it to my master sometime last winter, I believe.”

The administrator turned to his assistant. “Mr. Raule, are you certain she said that she had no kin?”

“Oh, yes, quite certain, sir.”

He lifted the picture and shook it. “And you are certain this is Miss Pahlavi?”

“Very certain, sir,” Raule shot a glaring look at the stranger.

The administrator leaned against his desk, took out a cigarette, and placed it between his lips, sucking on the filter instead of lighting up. “It seems, Mr. Ishameil, that we have a discrepancy here. Either your master is a liar, or this girl has an uncle that she is not willing to claim.”

The Iraqi’s shoulders slumped.
This is so insulting and demeaning
, he thought. His eyelids drooped with feigned hurt.

His act wasn’t particularly convincing, and the U.N. officer pressed his lips together.

“
Sayid
,” the Iraqi pleaded, “my master is an honorable man. He has sent me at great expense, and he is not wealthy, my
Sayid.
He sent me to find this girl. He only wants to help her. He has her interest at heart. And it may not be surprising the girl wouldn’t mention her uncle, for my master has lived in Pakistan his entire adult life. It is likely Miss Pahlavi and my master have never met.”

The administrator finally lit the cigarette and pulled in a long drag of smoke. He had heard so many stories, many of them unlikely, and it was difficult to tell him something that he wouldn’t believe. What the man said was certainly possible. Yet it just didn’t ring true. In his gut, he knew the Iraqi was lying. But he didn’t how he could prove it. And he didn’t much care.

“Do you have papers proving relationship?” he asked quickly, ready to move on to his next task.

“Of course,
Sayid.
” The Iraqi pulled out three stapled forms and handed them to the administrator, who immediately passed them to his aide, Mr. Raule.

“Now, my
Sayids
,” the Iraqi went on as Raule scanned the documents. “I would love to spend the afternoon discussing my master’s family tree, but I know you are busy, and frankly, I am as well. If you would sign the release forms, I will take custody of the girl. And of course, I also have a copy of a signed U.N. Form 12-22.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out another neatly folded piece of paper. “I believe that is all you will need,” he concluded confidently.

The administrator eyed the forms as he smoked. “It seems, Mr. Ishameil, that you might have done this before?” His voice was carried just enough sarcasm to show his disdain.

“Oh, no, my
Sayid,
” the Iraqi shot back.

“Never?” The Frenchman lifted a derisive eyebrow. “You seem very knowledgeable. Which makes we wonder, why would a man like you be familiar with the custodial process for a young woman—a very pretty young woman—from my refugee camp?” His voice dripped with contempt.

The Iraqi forced a painful face.
So the administrator was going to make it difficult. Fine. I’ll play along. When this is over, the bureaucrat will give me what I came for and never think about me or the young woman again
, thought the Iraqi. “As I said,” he started, “my master is very eager. The news of his brother’s death has been very hard on him. They were not friendly. Estranged. There was a bitter divide in their family, and my master is hopeful that his brother’s death, in Allah’s mercy, Blessed be the Name of His Holy Prophet, may have the power to bridge the divide. My master believes that caring for this young girl is part of his penance, and he means to make good. So he has taken great care to find out what has to be done. Thus, I have my instructions: find his orphaned niece and bring her back to him.”

The administrator pulled another drag, and then turned toward Raule, who lifted his eyes. He had studied the documents. They were in order. He reluctantly nodded.

The administrator knew then that, despite his suspicions, he could not stop the stranger from taking the girl. The camp directives were clear: U.N. officials were to make every effort to repatriate minor or female refugees to their families. No exceptions to the rule. Families had precedence. And no agreement was required from the female refugee to go. Even if she didn’t want to go back to their families—and the administrator knew there were many good reasons some of them did not want to return—they had no choice. If a family member appeared with proof of relationship, the camp directors had to release them to that person’s care.

The Frenchman knew that some of the young women he released from Khorramshahr ended up in very bad circumstances: prostitutes in Iran; sex slaves in India, Pakistan, and Thailand; suicide bombers in Gaza; prisoners in forced labor camps. The list of places they could be sent was as long as the list of sins. But worrying about the children who left Khorramshahr was not what the U.N. paid him to do. Such concerns fell under the Office of Women’s Advocate on the twenty-first floor of the U.N. building, sixteen floors below his superior’s offices and eight thousand miles to the west.