Blind Eye; Silent Waters; Janus Effect

by Jan Coffey

  Matt handed him another bag.

  “And what’s this?”

  “Camera. Everyone who goes into the refugee camps takes plenty of pictures. If you’re going to write an article or a book, you’ll need a ton of pictures,” Matt told him. “Also, there are chocolate bars, some canned goods, first aid stuff. I called one of the American reporters who’s in Erbil and tried to get an accurate account of the stuff they carry with them. He’s the one that reminded me about the camera.”

  “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?” Austyn asked, impressed.

  “For your sake, I hope I have,” Matt said.

  “Now, what about Fahimah?”

  “She has everything she needs.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I duplicated her old papers and printed all the documents she would normally carry with her. She’s got a somewhat beat-up booklet that’s the Iraqi equivalent of our birth certificate, her university ID card, travel permits issued by the new government.”

  “But she was presumed dead after a bombing at the university,” Austyn reminded his partner.

  “There’s no way for them to know that. So many people die everyday in Iraq that they’re about two years behind in issuing death certificates, and a lot will never be issued. And you saw what we checked online. There isn’t even a reasonably functional website for the university. I tried to call the university yesterday. There’s no place to check information at all there. And why should they check anyway? She’s a Kurdish woman. No threat. Kurds are mostly respected in Iran. You’re the dangerous one.”

  Austyn realized that Matt was right. She’d probably be safer across the border than she’d been in the past five years, if not longer.

  “And she has those documents.”

  “I gave all of them to her this morning. We went over them. She should be all set,” Matt told him. “By the way, she returned the laptop to me. She didn’t think it’d be safe where you two are headed.”

  “The laptop isn’t safe but we are?” he smiled.

  “No,” Fahimah interrupted. “We won’t be terribly safe, either.”

  Austyn nodded his thanks to the other agent and stuffed the envelope into his bag.

  “Okay,” Matt said. “This is where I get out.”

  “This is the Brayati section of the city,” Ken told him, pulling over. “See that mosque there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “On the far side of it, you’ll find a bazaar where you can pick up a taxi. He’ll charge you a fortune, but he’ll get you back to the hotel, anyway.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Matt said. “Good luck to you guys. And don’t lose contact with me.”

  He climbed out and crossed the intersection without looking back.

  The day was warm, and the new vehicle had no air conditioning. Fahimah already had her back window open. Rather than staying in front, Austyn moved into the back seat with her before Ken pulled out into traffic.

  “You don’t mind playing chauffeur so that we can get some work done back here, do you?” Austyn asked Ken.

  “It doesn’t matter if I mind or not. You’re going to do it anyway,” the other man grumbled.

  “Exactly.” He patted him on the shoulder.

  “We have a hundred fifty miles to go before we reach Halabja,” Ken told them as he settled into the flow of traffic. “There will be a number of road blocks between here and there.”

  “Who’s manning the road blocks?”

  “Mostly Peshmerga, the Kurdish armed forces,” Ken explained. “There might be some others set up by individual villages. I told you, the people here are sick of violence.”

  “How about Americans?” Austyn asked.

  “There’s one roadblock, but that’s not a concern,” Ken said. “They know we’re coming. Most likely, we’ll be waved through.”

  “What do the Peshmerga look for at the road blocks?” Austyn asked.

  “Mainly Arabs.” Ken looked in the mirror at them. “I’m not exaggerating. There’s racial profiling to the max around here. The Kurds hate Arabs.”

  Austyn saw Fahimah look out the window. She wasn’t contradicting anything Ken was saying.

  “And what else are they looking for?” he asked. “Weapons?”

  “Maybe. They might search the car for god knows what…maybe something else that they’ll like and decide to keep.”

  “Will they check papers?” Austyn asked.

  “You never know. But that’s a possibility. They might want to know what you’re doing here and where you’ve been and where you’re going and all that. They could be as tough as the Iranian guards you face crossing the border. So you have to get your stories straight before we get to any of these road blocks.”

  Austyn pulled out the envelope Matt had given him and emptied the contents on the seat between him and Fahimah. She looked over, watching what he was doing.

  “Do you know what you’re going to tell them?” he asked her.

  She nodded. “I am a professor of political science at the University of Baghdad. My name is Fahimah Banaz.”

  “What are you doing here?” Ken asked her from the front seat.

  “I’m visiting family at Halabja. That’s where I am from originally,” she said. “Of course, I’ll answer all of this in Kurdish, and they’ll have no problem with it. My Argentinean colleague here could have a problem.”

  “Only if you tell them to pee in my tea,” Austyn said under his breath.

  She smiled and Austyn found himself distracted.

  “How about crossing to Iran? What are going to tell them if they stop you?” Ken asked.

  “The same thing. And I’ll tell them I’m looking for some family members that might be in one of the refugee camps across the border,” she said. “I’ll tell them I want to take them back to Iraqi Kurdistan with me.”

  “That’s the magic word,” Ken said. “I’ve heard they’re so overcrowded in the camps that any time you’re going there to bring someone back, they have no problem with it.”

  “What about if they ask for the name of your family?” Austyn asked her.

  “I can give them three dozen names...perhaps even more. I have many family members who went missing during Saddam’s campaigns of terror,” she said quietly. “I will also be speaking Farsi with them, so that’s another feather in my cap.”

  “That works for me,” Ken commented.

  Austyn replaced his own passport and documents with those establishing his Argentinean identity. “Where do you want my real passport?” he asked Ken.

  “There’s a slot that leads to a compartment under the rug behind your seat.”

  Austyn deposited the papers there and pulled the rug back over the slot. He opened the passport and studied his new name and information.

  “Someone might ask what you are doing with this guy.” Ken said. “What will you say?”

  “He contacted me through the university because I teach political science. He’s writing a book about Kurdistan and the refugee camps. I was going to Halabja anyway, so I offered to bring him along.”

  “And going over the border?” Ken asked.

  “The same thing. I’m serving as his translator. He doesn’t speak Kurdish or Farsi,” she answered simply.

  Austyn was impressed. She spoke with such authority that it was difficult to challenge what she said. He guessed she was an excellent teacher.

  “Won’t they find something major wrong with the fact that you’re an unmarried woman and traveling with a foreign male?” Ken asked.

  “No. Not at all,” she said confidently. “We are in Kurdistan, and I teach at the university. This will stop anyone from asking such a frivolous question.”

  “Well,” Ken said, interrupting. “This came up sooner than I thought.”

  Straight ahead, the traffic came to a stand still. Past the half dozen cars, armed Kurdish soldiers were checking every vehicle going in either direction.

  “They usually do this wh
en people are coming into Erbil, not leaving it,” Ken commented.

  “What are we doing traveling with you?” Austyn asked Ken.

  “I’m giving you a ride.”

  “Why?” Austyn asked.

  “I’m on leave for forty-eight hours. Sightseeing. Met at the hotel and, rather than let the two of you travel by bus, I offered to give you a ride.”

  “U.S. soldiers are instructed to travel in groups when on leave,” he pressed. “What are you doing alone?”

  They inched forward.

  “My girlfriend is stationed in Suleymaniyah,” Ken said smoothly. “I’m going there to meet her. I don’t need a crowd with me.”

  They moved ahead a little more. The soldiers were checking the car ahead of them.

  “Your girlfriend? Aren’t you married?” Austyn asked, testing.

  “I’m making up stories, remember?”

  The car ahead of them left the checkpoint, and a Peshmerga soldier waved them forward. The soldier looked in the van at Ken’s uniform and nodded.

  “IDs, please,” the soldier said in a thick accent.

  Austyn handed over his fake passport and Fahimah’s university ID. Another armed Peshmerga fighter circled the van, looking in.

  The soldier looked briefly at Ken and Austyn’s documents and handed them back. He glanced at Fahimah’s next and tapped on her window. She opened it. He looked at her ID again and stared at her face couple of seconds.

  “Jawerrwani,” he said, walking away and taking her identification. The soldier waved to two other soldiers, who moved in front of the car, blocking them.

  “What did he say?” Austyn asked.

  “He said to wait,” she answered.

  “We’re not starting out too well, are we?”

  “I don’t know what the heck this is about,” Ken grumbled, taking the phone out from under the seat.

  Fahimah tucked her hands under her legs and looked anxiously in the direction the soldier had gone. He was talking to someone sitting in a car across the road. Whoever it was, he seemed to be in a position of authority. A moment later, the soldier yelled something to the two Peshmergas blocking their path.

  “He said we need to pull to the side,” she translated in a thin voice.

  “Shit, what do they want?” Ken asked.

  “Do you have any idea what this could be about?” Austyn asked her.

  She shook her head.

  The Peshmerga in charge walked across the road to them. He was a younger man and had the strut of a bantam cock. He was wearing no uniform but was dressed in the traditional Kurdish garb of baggy trousers and a plain jacket with a colorful sash. His shoes set him apart. He was wearing new Reebok sneakers. Ken stepped out of the car.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  Austyn didn’t know if this was by choice or if Ken had forgotten to speak to them in Kurdish. He quickly got out of the car, as well.

  “Both of you…inside your vehicle,” the man said in fairly good English. He pointed to Fahimah. “But you, khanoom, you come with me.”

  Twenty-Five

  The research vessel Harmony

  The Atlantic

  David Link had spoken to the main office at Reynolds Pharmaceuticals before he’d come on board Harmony. The 10,000-unit shipment of Strep-Tester was ready to go out on Monday. On the phone, he’d given his input about suggested late changes in the regional shipping numbers. He was sure the numbers he’d okayed had been sent out by e-mail to the sales force by now. There was, no doubt, plenty of grumbling going on across the country. This was a good time to be away and incommunicado.

  “I think they should follow this trip with a week long excursion providing scuba diving instruction.”

  Realizing one of the mothers was talking to him, David turned away from the railing and focused on what was going on around him. Kids and parents were gathered on deck, helping the divers get ready to go over the side for the next collection.

  “That’s true,” David agreed, watching the buzz of activity.

  Doing chores was clearly a treat on Harmony. The kids fought over the opportunities to take responsibility for what was happening. Right now, half a dozen kids were working together, doing the last minute checks for the two men who were supposed to go down.

  Only one of the divers was on deck. Philip had not appeared yet.

  A lanky, blonde girl wearing a Phillies’ cap was connecting the underwater camera to the cables. Baskets and nets for the samples were tagged and nearly ready to go. Flags were bundled together. Other tools were put in a meshed bag and placed on the deck.

  Philip had explained to everyone over breakfast that they were collecting samples this morning at an active ocean disposal site. Apparently, there was currently some controversy between the EPA and the Army Corp of Engineers whether or not this specific location should stay open. The researcher had told everyone that he would be submitting a report with their findings about this location to both agencies. He was also going to include the names of all the people in the crew who helped with the report.

  The comments had definitely made everyone feel like professionals, including the parents and caregivers, though they had nothing to do with the actual work.

  David looked around. He hadn’t seen Philip come up yet, but he knew he would. He’d looked better during breakfast and seemed to be over the worst of whatever he was fighting.

  “Is there any way I can go down with them?” Craig’s son asked him. “I can hold the camera or be in charge of carrying the nets.”

  Every teenager on deck picked up on the request and started asking the same question. The woman next to David gave him a “didn’t I tell you” look.

  Craig’s firm “no” was to everyone. The scuba diving was to be left to the divers. Period.

  David realized that his son wasn’t one of the kids asking to go down with the divers. He moved away from the dive station, looking for him.

  Sally always said that she knew their children were getting sick before they got sick. Or she knew they’d be getting fever before their temperature went up. David, the girls, and Josh always laughed at her, but she was always right.

  On the far side of the boat, in sight of the divers’ station, Josh was sitting by himself on a bench, tying some ropes.

  David had woken up this morning with this feeling that he couldn’t explain—like there was something wrong with Josh. He figured Sally’s parenting skills must be rubbing off on him, finally. Of course, the twelve year old had denied feeling sick.

  David made a mental note to check Josh’s temperature, take a look at his ears, and listen to his lungs. The leukemia made Josh susceptible to illnesses. To help them keep track—and to help them stay calm—their pediatrician had armed the parents with all kinds of diagnostic tools. Of course, they’d had to learn that every cold or sore throat didn’t have to mean the child’s death was imminent. Still, the doctor agreed that in Josh’s case it wasn’t a bad thing for David and Sally to stay on top of his health and make sure they caught everything early.

  Kirk, the other diver, was pulling on his oxygen tanks with the assistance of a dozen willing hands. The wetsuit he was wearing today had a hood, and he was wearing gloves and foot protection, too. It had been explained that because this was an active dump sight, the divers would have to use extreme precaution to keep from exposing themselves to dangerous substances. There was still no sign of Philip, and Josh didn’t seem interested at what was going on.

  David worked his way toward his son. So far during the trip, he’d tried to give the twelve-year-old some space. He didn’t want to baby him, the way they usually did at home. Josh wanted to be one of the kids, to be normal. There was nothing David wanted more.

  He sat down on the bench next to his son, making sure there was a manly amount of distance between them.

  “A little bit chilly today, isn’t it?” David asked.

  The boy nodded.

  The boat had tied up to the yellow special purpose b
uoy that marked the site, but the gusts of wind were kicking up whitecaps and making the vessel rock. David looked up at the flags snapping in the wind.

  “Do you want me to go and get you a thicker sweatshirt?”

  “No.”

  “I wonder where Philip is?” David asked.

  Josh looked up from the elaborate knot he was making.

  “He should be up any minute.” He cleared his voice couple of times. “I was talking to him downstairs before I came up.”

  “You’re starting to sound kind of hoarse.”

  “It’s not too bad.”

  “Josh,” David drawled. He didn’t have to say more. The boy had been told many times the importance of being honest about how he felt.

  “It’s my throat. It’s sore.”

  The immediate panic of thinking how far they were from the closest hospital shot through David. He forced that fear to the background, though, and did a quick mental check of the medications the pediatrician had send along with them. Josh had a ten day supply of antibiotics, in case he needed it. They would be back on shore long before that ran out.

  David remembered the two Strep-Testers he’d brought along. He’d given one of them to Philip. He didn’t know if the program director had used it or not. But they still had one left, anyway.

  “How about if we go down to the fo’c’s’le, and I do a quick swab of your throat?” David asked. “How’s that, eh? Sounding pretty nautical, ain’t I there, matey? Fo’c’s’le…I’ll be saying ‘shiver me timbers’ next. Come on. It’ll just take a minute. I’ve got these new testers, not even on the market yet.”

  “No, dad. I’m fine.”

  “Josh, if you have strep throat, things will only get worse. The sooner I test it, the sooner we’ll know.”

  Josh looked around the deck reluctantly. “Not yet. In a little bit. Maybe after the dives are over.”

  Kirk was ready to go, sitting on the railing and waiting for Philip. With the help of the kids, he started lowering the video camera cage and the nets carrying their tools into the water.

  Just then, Philip went past them without saying anything. He was already dressed in his wetsuit with the hood up and the gloves and boots on. David thought he was walking awkwardly.