Fox Hunter

by Zoe Sharp

  We were obviously not local, but we were not easy to pigeonhole, either. If we’d been Western men, I think they would have been more cautious, not to mention more openly hostile. But as Western women we took on a strange, almost sexless third gender. We mixed with the women without restriction, and the men treated us with exaggerated courtesy but gave us far more freedom of movement than if we’d been local.

  Yusuf’s wife welcomed us with cautious nods and smiles. She showed Dawson and me to a spare room containing narrow twin beds separated by a small table. The only other furniture was an empty wardrobe with an outlandish flat-screen TV hidden inside, as though they considered owning such a symbol of Western decadence something to be ashamed of.

  We were offered food with the family: mixed mezza—hummus and pita bread, rich eggplant baba ghanoush, tabbouleh salad—then a one-pot stew of rice and lamb cooked long enough to fall apart on the tongue. All washed down by copious quantities of thick black tea.

  Afterward, the men brought out hookah pipes and sucked down shisha tobacco until they’d all but disappeared in cloying clouds of smoke.

  I politely made my excuses and escaped upstairs. First to my room to grab my sat-phone, then up onto the roof. The night was colder now, the stars clear almost to the horizon. Karbala was considered a holy city. In the distance I could see the twin towers and dome of the memorial to Shia cleric Imam Husayn Ibn Ali, dazzlingly lit up against the muted cityscape. I vaguely recalled being told that Daesh regarded the Shia Muslims as heretics. If the insurgency spread this far, would the shrine meet the same destructive fate as much of the ancient Syrian city of Palmyra?

  Up there in the darkness, I smelled nearby hot meat, heard traffic, music, and rapid voices. I could have been in any city, almost anywhere. It was hard to remember that I was a few miles from a bitter war zone.

  I thought of the men downstairs. The forces fighting to take control of their country, and of Syria, did not look kindly on the hookah pipe, or cigarettes, if what I’d been told was true. They were burning by the truckload tobacco of all kinds. I wondered if local nicotine addicts simply lurked on the downwind side and inhaled.

  I couldn’t reach Parker on his office, cell, or even his home number. I rang the office main line, reached Parker’s majordomo, Bill Rendelson.

  Bill, sadly, had never been my biggest fan, nor Sean’s come to that. He agreed readily enough, although without noticeable enthusiasm, to check out Jahmir Lihaibi and report back. But when I asked to speak to Parker, he would only say that the boss was “in a meeting” and not to be disturbed by anyone, least of all me. “Any message?” he asked.

  “Just tell him we arrived safe and that he’s got until the morning, OK?”

  I disconnected before he had a chance to repeat any instructions that we were to stay put until further orders. The delays so far were making my teeth itch with frustration as it was.

  Uncle Yusuf made his move the following morning, before the heat of the day got a grip. I’d woken early, left Dawson sleeping in the next bed, and padded downstairs on bare feet. The ever-present samovar was steaming gently. I poured a cup of stewed black tea and took it to the sunny side of the courtyard, sitting under a brightly colored awning.

  I’d barely taken my first sip before I realized I was being watched. I kept the cup raised to obscure my face as much as possible, kept my shoulders soft and my eyes sharp. It wasn’t long before I glimpsed Yusuf lurking at the back of the shadowed doorway.

  In no mood for games, I sketched him a brief salute, and after a moment’s hesitation he crossed the courtyard toward me. His hands were empty, but that didn’t mean he was unarmed. I altered my grip on the cup in my left hand slightly, just in case I needed to use it as anything more.

  As he neared me, he faltered, as if he’d set out with a purpose in mind and was now losing the nerve to complete it.

  “Good morning, Yusuf,” I said sedately, touching my right palm to my chest. “As-Salāmu Alaykum.” (Peace be upon you.)

  Good manners compelled him to respond, even to someone who was so obviously non-Muslim. He bowed, mumbled, “Wa alaykumu s-salāmu wa rahmatu l-lāhi wa barakātuh.” (May peace, mercy, and blessings of God be upon you.) His eyes were everywhere but on my face.

  “My friend and I are very grateful for your hospitality, sir,” I ventured, playing for time to let him get his tongue unraveled. “Do you wish to speak with me?”

  He gave a twitch that could have been a shrug, nod, nervous twitch, or headshake. It was hard to tell.

  “You and . . . Mr. Sean . . . ?” he began. “You in . . . same business?”

  No surprises that Moe had brought Sean here, too, but were he and I in the same business any longer? That rather depended on what Sean was doing here in the first place, and the jury was firmly still out on that one.

  But I reasoned that any kind of denial would not get me anywhere. I found myself nodding. “Yes. We are in the same business.”

  He paused a moment, pursing his lips so the mustache bristled like fur along a cat’s spine.

  “This good,” he said at last. “Then, perhaps . . . we do business also, yes?”

  “What kind of business?”

  He smiled, and there was something sly about it. “Same kind.”

  Damn, no clues there, then.

  “Perhaps, if we are to . . . do business together,” I suggested slowly, “we should ask Moe to translate for us? So there will be no . . . misunderstandings.”

  He shook his head vigorously, scowling as he searched for the right words. They evaded him. Eventually, he let his breath out on an annoyed huff and gave a theatrical shrug, face filled with regret.

  I had no intention of getting into any kind of deal with the man, but the fact he assumed I might, solely because Sean had apparently done so, intrigued me.

  “Please, wait,” I said when he would have turned away.

  He stopped, eyes hooded.

  I pointed to my own eyes, swept my hands wide.

  “Can you . . . show me?”

  He hesitated a moment, then nodded, beckoning me to follow. We went through the house. I stopped, indicated my bare feet, and smiled apologetically. He caught on right away, folding his arms while I jogged up to our room for my boots. Dawson was still a huddled mound under the blankets.

  Briefly, I considered waking her, but we’d made a point of not revealing her facility with Arabic. To do so now would be to invite suspicion.

  And besides, if Sean was into something . . . awkward, shall we say, the fewer witnesses to that the better. I tiptoed around her and left her a hastily scrawled note on the bedside table.

  Then I descended and followed Uncle Yusuf through a side door into the street. Dawson had already proved herself a capable safety net, but I was hoping that this time I wouldn’t need to use it.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  WE DIDN’T GO FAR. JUST A COUPLE OF TURNS ALONG DEEPLY shadowed alleyways choked with rubble and bitter odors. Then Yusuf was fumbling with a padlocked door, the paint peeling to reveal the layers beneath like bark on an old tree. Inside was a long, low room with no windows, little more than a cellar, lined with sagging shelves.

  Yusuf beckoned for me to enter ahead of him. It might have been courtesy, but I felt this was a country where chivalry was a concept rather than a custom. My instincts told me to walk away.

  I went in.

  Yusuf reached sideways and clicked on a single low-wattage overhead bulb, half its output dimmed further by dust and fly shit. What light remained didn’t have the energy to reach all the way to the back of the room. It lost heart and petered out about halfway along the rows of shelves.

  What it did reveal was clutter. A stacked jumble of objects that at first sight wouldn’t have been out of place at a flea market or a yard sale. Brightly colored statues of crude design, fragments of rounded tablets covered with faint scratchings that could have been half-formed hieroglyphics, dumpy urns and vases that might have had a certain charm if it hadn’t
been for the lurid paint job they’d been given. There was also a smattering of gold coins far too shiny to be anything but fake. They were deformed at the edges, so I was tempted to pick one up and see if the outer foil unwrapped to expose melting chocolate beneath.

  A noise alongside me brought my attention back to Yusuf. He was chuckling at my reaction.

  “Is good, yes?” he demanded.

  “Is certainly . . . different,” I murmured.

  He reached down, picked up a small statuette of what was possibly a woman and child, but it was hard to tell. It had been given a layer of blue paint so thick it looked more like wax. Highlights—if that’s what they were—had been picked out in gold and red by someone who was clearly being paid on the quantity rather than the quality of the end result.

  He handed it over with a slight bow. Nonplussed, I turned the statuette in my hands, half expecting to see MADE IN CHINA stamped on the base. It was heavy enough to double as a doorstop. Maybe they filled them with sand? After all, this was a country not exactly short of the stuff.

  Yusuf seemed pleased by my lengthy inspection.

  “So . . . we do business also, yes?”

  I didn’t miss his use of the word “also,” or the emphasis he placed on it.

  Jesus, Sean, what in hell’s name were you up to?

  When I continued to stare, he heaved a theatrical sigh. “Take,” he said. And when I would have thrust the ugly object back at him, he flapped both hands, shooing away any objections I might make as if he was scattering chickens. “Take for duktur jamaeaa. Then we do business, yes?” He smiled. It was not reassuring. “Just like Mr. Sean . . .”

  Both Dawson and Moe were waiting for us when we got back. Moe was his usual smiling self. Dawson regarded me with narrowed eyes.

  “Got your note,” she said. “Strange how you couldn’t wake me, seeing as I’m a really light sleeper.”

  “Yeah, that is strange,” I agreed blandly.

  “So where did you get to? I thought you were in an all-fired hurry to get a move on this morning.”

  “I am, but Yusuf wanted to show me his . . . wares. And, as he’s our host, it would have been rude to refuse.”

  “Wares?”

  I shrugged, indicating the cloth bag slung over my shoulder. Yusuf had been at some pains that I should not walk the streets carrying my prize openly. On the grounds of taste alone, I was in agreement with him there.

  Dawson took a step forward, pulled back the edge of the bag, and peered inside with all the enthusiasm of a reluctant aunt getting her first peek at a particularly ugly new baby.

  “It’s . . . um . . .”

  “My thoughts exactly, but Yusuf seemed to be trying to tell me that he’d given Sean something similar to show to someone.” I tried to remember the exact phrase he’d used, failed to recall more than a fragment.

  Across the courtyard, Yusuf was talking to one of the other men who hung around the place. They were taking pains to act casual, but their eyes flicked constantly in our direction. Without moving my lips, I murmured, “I don’t like this.”

  “Me neither,” Dawson said around a fake smile. “What say you we grab our gear and head for the hills?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  We sauntered upstairs to the room we’d shared and I threw the few belongings I’d brought with me into my bag, giving her a rough précis of my excursion. Dawson had already packed, and she took the time to unwrap the gaudy statue Moe’s uncle had foisted on me so she could inspect it more closely.

  “Well, what it lacks in style it makes up for in pug-ugliness,” she said at last. “What do you want to do with it?”

  “Well, we can’t just leave it behind—I get the feeling Yusuf would be very offended, and who knows if we might need to make use of his hospitality again.”

  “Good point. S’pose there’s always eBay when you get home.”

  “I doubt I’d even get an opening bid. And like I said, he was emphatic that Sean had accepted one of these things, so . . .” I shrugged, thought suddenly of Bill Rendelson’s glowering features back in the New York office. “Could always give it away, though. I know just the right recipient.”

  Dawson grinned and handed me the statue. I shoved it in the top of my bag, wedged a T-shirt between it and the folded-stock AK so they didn’t clank together, and closed the zipper halfway.

  Without thinking, I hefted the bag off the bed with my left hand, sending a sharp buzz of pain through my forearm down into my wrist as the extra weight bit.

  Dawson raised her eyebrows at me briefly, but for once she didn’t press. I guess when it came to being physically below par, she didn’t feel she could make an issue of it.

  Downstairs we found Moe with his Uncle Yusuf and one of the other men, drinking tea. Moe was crouched on his haunches in that relaxed way men can manage more easily than women. They were on the shady side of the courtyard, sheltered from the already fierce sun. Yusuf and his pal regarded us as if they suspected we were about to make off with the furniture.

  Moe got to his feet, his face arranged into an expression of sorrow.

  “So, pretty ladies, tomorrow I go home. But today I can be of service to you, yes?”

  “Do you remember your uncle in Zubayr telling us about a man here he thought we should meet?” For some reason I was reluctant to mention names in front of the other men.

  “Of course!”

  “He also said you knew where to find him.”

  Moe spread his hands and smiled broadly at the suggestion that I might doubt his capabilities. “We go?”

  I nodded. “We go.”

  As if summoned by a hidden bell, Yusuf’s wife appeared with the children shepherded in front of her. The children shook hands with each of us, solemn concentration on their faces. Their mother bowed with a hand pressed to her heart. We thanked her profusely for her hospitality, and she bowed again but said nothing. I like to think she was pleased by the praise. It was hard to tell.

  Outside, as we climbed into the back seat of Moe’s Land Cruiser, Yusuf put his hand on the car door and said pointedly, “Ila-liqaa.”

  It was a standard form of good-bye, meaning, much like au revoir in French, ‘until we meet again.’ The emphasis Yusuf used gave it meaning far beyond the throwaway conventions, however.

  Knowing any vague promise would be taken literally, I opted for compromise. “When we have found Mr. Sean.”

  He scowled, from which I gathered that was not the answer he’d been hoping for. After that, the traditional words of peace and safe travel were somewhat grudgingly delivered.

  Then Moe cranked the engine, and the belch of smoke from the Toyota’s exhaust had Yusuf quickly stepping back.

  Dawson and I pulled scarves around our heads as we launched into traffic. I risked a last glance back toward Yusuf’s house. He was still standing outside, watching us, a cell phone pressed to his ear.

  He might have been booking his car into the garage or ordering takeout, but somehow I very much doubted it.

  TWENTY-SIX

  JAHMIR LIHAIBI WAS ONE OF THE FATTEST MEN I HAD EVER encountered. A fact which I might have been better prepared for, I reflected, had I yet received any report about him from Bill Rendelson.

  As it was, we had to walk into the meeting set up by Moe without any forewarning, which was never how I liked to approach things.

  Moe had been able to tell us only that Lihaibi worked at the university; he claimed to know little more than that basic fact. The man could have been the dean or the janitor for all I knew.

  I’d contemplated trying to contact Parker again, but I knew he’d tell me to postpone the meeting until we had reasonable intel on the man. And all the time I was aware of the head start Sean had on me, of how fast he might be moving, and that I had no idea of either direction or intent. It made me more willing than I might otherwise have been to take the risk.

  Now Moe ushered us into a private back room in what appeared to be an internet café set up in an o
ld store, not far from the university on the western side of Karbala. In some ways, the number of students occupying the place was reassuring.

  As I peered through the curtained doorway, I saw teenagers of both sexes, mixing with apparent ease. Nobody was armed, that I could tell. They were just ordinary kids. Although a few of the girls wore a headscarf with what was otherwise Western garb, some slouched in jeans and trainers like the boys. They wore T-shirts bearing the same slogans I’d expect to see on students the world over.

  Some drank tea from the traditional glass cups, but more were slurping Coke straight from the can, eyes fixed on the computer screens in front of them. A pall of cigarette smoke billowed around the ceiling fans. The music playing in the background grated on my ears, so I assumed it must be trendy.

  Moe caught my expression and grinned. “Is very modern, yes?”

  I nodded, admitted, “I didn’t think there’d be such free access to the internet here.”

  “Oh yes, we have much freedom now to say what we think.” His face dropped a little. “But . . . who listens?”

  The back room was high ceilinged, splashily painted the shade of magnolia usually found in army barracks. It was furnished with mismatched oddments. Half the lightbulbs were bare, making the ornate chandelier at one end seem more out of place. Moe had told us on the way over that it had come from one of Saddam Hussein’s looted palaces. It hung low over the single dining table, at which Lihaibi sat.

  He did not rise as we approached, but I realized such a maneuver would require notice and probably mechanical assistance. Instead, he ducked his head and offered a pudgy hand, fingers distended like the twisted balloon-animal of a children’s party entertainer.

  “Greetings, ladies,” he said, popping another date into his mouth and washing it down with turgid black coffee from a thimble-sized cup. “Please, be seated.”