by Fiona Quinn
“Mmm, not as much. Mostly the world community. When our troops withdrew, we told the Iraqi people that we were committed to increasing job opportunities. Unfortunately, especially given the numbers of widows in the country, those opportunities tend to go to bigger businesses and—”
“Men.” Blankenship scowled.
“Yes. Exactly,” Remi replied. “So the U.S. involvement is a harder message to pull off in a speech. But the resourcefulness and resilience of women, many of whom are now head of households, is inspiring. Particularly given the lack of education for many women.”
Diamond cleared her throat. “Not an ‘America did this for you twist.’ I agree. That’s a bad look. Maybe something else?”
Blankenship stabbed a finger into the air. “We’re not political fluffers.”
A fluffer was someone who prepared a porn actor for his scene by getting the guy hard. ‘Fluffer’ wasn’t a word that Remi had ever heard when talking to a politician. And it didn’t sync with the senator’s folksy reputation. Was this who she was behind the scenes?
This all felt off to Remi. She tried to adjust herself. She’d seen it enough times: The grandfatherly caring man on camera. Round belly, pink cheeks, white hair—a Santa stand-in. Then, one of Remi’s colleagues gets the goods on him. It turns out his computer is chock full of pedo-porn. Off to prison he goes, where the other prisoners extra punish the guy for preying on kids. As should happen in Remi’s mind.
Her phone pinged, and she looked down at the screen.
Jing-Wu: Remi, did you hear about Tariq?
Jing-Wu had added a URL. When Remi tapped it, the headline read: Tariq Sulfia, Pulitzer Prize-winning photojournalist from the Associated Press, was killed last night reporting on a battle between the opposition and the Afghan security forces.
Shit, Tariq!
She pulled a hand through her hair. The world around her oscillated fuzzily. Her breath was loud in her ears. She held on, waiting for the sensation to pass. She felt T-Rex’s eyes hard on her. Curiosity, but not in the titillating kind of way. He was in operator mode. He’d wonder if her reaction somehow upped the danger on this already nutso assignment.
Catching T-Rex’s gaze, Remi decided to let his threat level drop back down. “A friend was killed photographing a skirmish in Afghanistan last night.”
The look in his eye changed instantly. A shot of pain. A moment of compassion. Then back to stoic. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Remi turned her attention back to the senator and her assistant. She’d wait until she was back with her tribe, and they could mourn together. Lift a glass. Tell war stories. Solidify their memories since that’s all they’d have of Tariq now.
The senator tipped the rest of her scotch back. And Remi winced at the thought of the burning sensation, but Blankenship acted like it was water. “You got all that, Diamond?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m taking notes and recording. Oh, Remi, I’m recording. But it’s just so I can go back and check the details. I promise to erase it when I have the speech written.”
“Okay.” Remi paused while the senator swirled a finger over her empty highball, indicating to the bartender that she wanted another.
“So this is women helping women.” Remi shook her head with her hand over her glass when the bartender lifted the bottle her way. “It’s good for Iraqi women. The women in Afghanistan are involved, too. It gives women connections to the greater world. When they’re connected, there’s the potential to build relationships.”
“Which is good for…” Diamond prompted.
“Stability. Survival, really. These women are housing, clothing, feeding their families. Safe, stable homes and an opportunity for education are ways forward for the Middle Eastern women.”
“Emphasize that, Diamond.” The senator had lifted her glass and was peering through the amber liquid. “‘A Path to Survival.’ No. ‘A Path to the Future’… work on it to set the right tone.”
Diamon paused her pen. “What tone are you looking for?”
“Celebration and optimism. Yet—”
“Got it.”
“About the ‘yet,’” Remi said. “There’s been an escalation in violence over the last five or six months. Not as much in city centers, which are easier places for women to run their businesses, but out in the rural areas. It’s the magnetic bombs that are causing so much trouble.”
“IEDs?” Diamond asked.
“IEDs are not the same as magnetic bombs. They’re also called ‘sticky bombs.’”
The senator frowned. “Never heard of such a beast.”
“It’s been what, two-three days ago, a government official in Kabul Province had his SUV blown up. He died, along with his secretary. Two of his bodyguards survived but were badly hurt.”
“Kabul, Afghanistan, not Iraq,” Blankenship pointed out.
“No, ma’am, that example didn’t take place in Iraq. The magnetic bombs are in Iraq, too. Just… I was trying to give you an example to explain the damage that this new type of bomb could do.”
“Sticky bombs. Sounds like something I’d order at an upscale D.C. restaurant.”
“You wouldn’t want this, ma’am. And I’m sure your security detail is well aware of the risks.” Remi shot a glance toward T-Rex, who was listening intently even if he wasn’t looking their way. “It’s probably why your security team doesn’t want you on the ground in Iraq for more than forty minutes.”
“Can you tell me what happens? I don’t think it’s going to make its way into the speech,” Diamond said. “I’ve never heard of them before, is all.”
“Right—” Remi began.
“Now, you hold on right there.” The senator had drained her whisky again. This time she hugged the empty glass to her chest. “These are attacks in Kabul? That shouldn’t be. I sit on the committee. I reviewed the agreement the U.S. made with the various players. There should be no mass-casualty attacks. No truck bombings.”
Remi shrugged. “When has the opposition ever followed the rules?”
“I still don’t understand what we’re talking about here,” Diamond whispered.
“A magnetic bomb is constructed of plastic explosives and powerful magnets. They work efficiently in urban settings. You have someone like the deputy governor, who basically lives in a protective cocoon. Lots of security measures. It would be too difficult to get to him or his car at home. But you get choked up in the street, pinned in a traffic jam. The attackers are on mopeds or the like. Or even pedestrians. Though, the bikes are easier to get where you need to get. They simply drive up alongside, usually next to the gas tank, and they hold out the bomb. It’s then magnetized to the car, and the bomber scoots off to safety.”
Blankenship’s hand came up to her throat. “Terrible.”
Diamond noisily sucked in a lungful of air. “Wait!” She gasped out. “Is that why Ty was driving like that? Is that what was happening? They were trying to evade motorcycles and their magnet bombs?”
Magnetic bombs—but who cared what words she chose? “Your security is trained to prevent that from happening,” Remi said dispassionately.
Nothing bad had happened. It was all just potential. Remi had had so many brushes with violence that she’d learned that it was always a good day when you got home and could count all ten toes and fingers and no stitches to hold you together. No oxygen bag or stretcher.
Even Jean Baptiste, beaten and dumped. Better to be Jean Baptiste than Éloïse and Marie-Claude.
“Let’s go back and talk about women making strides in Iraq. Women aren’t encouraged to have power. They are constantly afraid that their business will be viewed as a threat to the men,” Remi said. “Then the women might anticipate a bomb, an arrest, a beating to teach the others a lesson.”
“What choices other than starting their own businesses do these women have?” Blankenship asked. “They won’t be hired, right? They can’t all beg in the street.”
“How do these women handle the threat?” Diamond asked.
“In conservative societies that prefer segregated spaces—men are with men, women with other women and the children, the women keep it—Diamond, I don’t think this part is a good idea to put in your speech. It might enrage the men, bringing harm to the women. Especially if it’s an American woman of power standing on Iraqi soil talking about this. Maybe scrap this idea for the speech.”
“I like this idea. We simply need to be diplomatic,” Blankenship said. “Diamond try to couch it as women doing women’s work. Instead of talking about the Texas tattoo artist with the baseball bat, maybe talk about women supporting women with women’s initiatives like oh… Let’s see… Maybe we can encourage women around the globe to support other women. Teaching dance class—uhm no. That might not be a good one. Dancing and music are problematic, right? Cooking, cleaning, clothes production, help with the disabled population…”
“I’ll research it and find three or four traditional women’s tasks that might be okay for them to do as a job,” Diamond said.
“So we talk about women’s entrepreneurship in supporting other women. Training opportunities,” Blankenship said.
Remi had enough. She wasn’t getting a story out of this. The senator was slurring.
And if she stayed here, Remi would start drinking for all of the wrong reasons—something she worked hard never to do. Remi looked across the bar at the row of alcohol bottles. Those bottles had the power to make her numb. To take away grief and fear. Pain. She wanted another drink. Bad. To feel the thick cool glass in her hand. To lift it to her nose and slowly pull the fragrance through her olfactory senses. To have the heat burn the back of her throat, making her cough up today’s thought pollution. The pessimism that crept in and wanted to lodge in her chest, she’d like to cough that all away and have the alcohol spread through her veins.
She didn’t feel a lot of willpower at that moment. And she knew the siren call of alcohol was every bit as destructive to war correspondences as those mermaids of lore were to the sailors who steered toward the mermaid’s song. Better to leave than to fall under the influence.
Sending a smile from Diamond to Senator Blankenship, Remi said, “Maybe I should head up for the night.” She looked at T-Rex. “We’re meeting down here to drive to the airport at zero five hundred?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Their eyes caught and held.
Remi hoped that when he was off duty, he’d come and tap at her door.
Chapter Twenty
Remi
Thursday, London, England.
It was lonely in her room. She looked at the king-sized bed, much too big for one person. Her thoughts traveled back to T-Rex standing there looking at her vibrator, thinking his lascivious thoughts. Yeah, she’d seen his body react. He was wearing a suit coat, and he probably thought he’d hidden his hard-on, but while he was standing, it was pretty obvious to her.
This is messed up, she thought with a shake of her head.
On to a new subject, Remi picked up the television control wand and zapped on the news to see what was up in the world. See what her friends were reporting on.
Right now, some talking head, sitting in a comfy newsroom, reading a teleprompter, was going on about a drone attack in the Persian Gulf.
Listening, Remi went to brush her teeth and get ready for bed. After the Oxford debacle, Remi had showered, washed her hair, and changed her clothes. A ritual for removing the garbage—physical and mental—from her day. Now, there was minimal to do to distract her from her T-Rex thoughts.
Lay out her clothes. Do some stretches. Rub arnica into her bruises and aching muscles, boom, she’d be done.
Her phone pinged.
Remi spat the toothpaste into the sink, then tapped the screen.
Liu: Your article will be page one above the fold in tomorrow’s paper.
Nice. Remi smiled. Well, at least today’s kerfuffle wasn’t for nothing.
She rinsed her mouth. She was tugging her tunic off when she heard. “The Associated Press is reporting tonight that Polish crime reporter Eryk Biela is fighting for his life in a Warsaw hospital. Biela is known for his aggressive reporting on crime families in former USSR countries, including the formidable Zorić and Prokhorov families. He was shot in the street in front of the capitol earlier today.”
Remi clutched at her chest. Man, but this had been a bad week for journalists. It was getting worse. Each week more and more of her colleagues around the world were suffering for their journalism.
“Three suspects were detained by police. One is thought to have been the shooter. No further details are available as the investigators are keeping their cards close to the chest.”
When Remi’s phone rang, she answered it on autopilot, eyes still glued to the television screen.
“Hey there.”
Remi had to pull the phone from her ear and look down at the name on display. Karen. “Hey.”
“Where are you in the world?”
“Oxford, England. You?”
“Me? South Africa for the next four months. England’s not your usual beat—is there a coup in play?” Karen asked with a chuckle. There was clattering in the background, and Remi assumed Karen had called while she did her dishes or maybe was cooking. “Not that I’m aware of. What’s up?”
“I heard about the FR3 folks. I was just wondering if you knew—”
“I’m on an assignment that gets me to Lebanon at least long enough to check on Jean Baptiste. He’s at St. George Hospital in Beirut. I promise to give you a call once I know something firsthand.”
“Anything on Marie-Claude or Éloïse?”
“Darn.” Remi frowned. “I was hoping you were calling me with an update. I have nothing.”
“I have next to nothing. I was talking to a friend of mine over at the FR3 office. A ransom demand arrived this morning. It’s in negotiations.”
A glimmer of hope. “At least France will comply if possible. If it’s money, they should get that. If it’s another attempt to get those folks out of prison after the Paris terror attacks, that’s not happening.”
“Agreed. There’s hope. Hey, have you talked to Sima in the last few days?”
“Sima Noori? Not in…months. Why?”
“Let me read this to you. Hang on.” Remi listened while Karen walked across the room. There was a rustle of paper. “This is a release from the U.S. Department of Justice. Ready?”
“No. Not really. I’m getting overwhelmed with bad news about my friends. Fr3, obviously. Yesterday, Jules lost his eye in a vulture attack while videoing—”
“What?”
“Yeah, a crazy bizarro scene out of a Hitchcock movie. Then I was down at the bar tonight and heard about Tariq.”
“Utter crap. Yeah. Tariq was covering a fight between the Afghan troops and the opposing forces. He was due to fly home today. They were inducing his wife. I need to check and see if the baby’s been born. I’ll send flowers and put both our names on the card.”
The line fell silent. That baby… Remi had forgotten that Tariq’s wife was expecting. Remi felt her body heat with anxiety and sorrow.
In a small voice, Karen said, “I interrupted you. You were ticking off bad news.”
“Eryk was shot and is fighting for his life.”
“Where is he?”
“Home,” Remi said. “So you’d think he was safe.”
“Not really, which is why I’m calling.”
“Okay,” Remi said after a moment. “I’m braced for it. Was Sima hurt?”
“No. But she’s the story instead of the reporter. The DOJ said that they indicted four men. Intelligence Officers on…reading now, ‘charges of conspiring to kidnap Manhattan-based journalist Sima Noori. They wanted to return Noori to her homeland so she could be charged and held responsible for trying to shift public opinion and affect regime change’.”
“But she’s fine? They didn’t get to her?”
“Shaken for sure. I talked to Sima over Zoom, and she’s got huge hive we
lts all over her. She’s heading to the doctor to see if they can’t give her a shot or something to calm them down.”
“I’m…trying to wrap my mind around that. They were caught, though. That’s going to heat things up between the U.S. and regional opposition.” Remi made a mental note to tell T-Rex about this. Remi was sure that he was plugged into the intelligence community, and they were monitoring the temperature in the Middle East. But this might be worrisome about the senator landing in Iraq. And there were always anti-west supporters to worry about.
“More importantly,” Karen said. “The reason I called to tell you about this is that you need to watch your back. You’ve written some pretty damning articles about the regime.”
“I travel too much for them to find me and act.” Though today in Oxford… Huh. Maybe she needed to think this through.
“It doesn’t take much to stick a bomb on your car.” Karen raised her voice over the running water.
Remi was up and pacing. “I don’t have a car.”
“Slap a magnetic bomb on the side of whatever vehicle you’re riding in, then.”
“Huh. Weird.”
“Weird in what way?” Karen asked with a bang and a clatter. The sound of water cutting on then off again.
“I was down in the bar, and the chick traveling with the senator was just asking me what a magnetic bomb was.”
“In London? That’s a stretch.”
“Read tomorrow’s paper. I got above the fold.”
“Wow. Kudos to you! Will you be in England for long?”
“We’re heading to a secret stop tomorrow, then Lebanon. I attached on to go see Jean Baptiste in the hospital. With Marie-Claude and Éloïse held prisoner, I’m having trouble keeping up with all the crap happening.”
“It’s a wide world with a lot of good in it. It’s our circle of friends who are wading into harm’s way. It’s expected that bad things happen in dangerous spaces.”
Remi exhaled. Yeah. She knew. She’d grappled with it since the start of her career. It wasn’t like she had a death wish. But she felt compelled to be there, to see it firsthand, and to tell the world, so they could step forward and make things right.
