The Mirage

by Matt Ruff

  “Abd al Shakur is not here. Do you have a legal warrant for this package?”

  Samir, happy to have a focus for his own ill humor, leaned forward across the counter. “Why, are you a lawyer?”

  “My daughter is a lawyer,” the man said. “She works for the ACLU. Should I call her?”

  “No need for that,” Mustafa said, placing a hand on Samir’s shoulder. “We’re not looking to persecute any Christians, brother.”

  “Ah, so it’s a Muslim’s civil rights you want to violate. And I’m supposed to smile and say OK then? What kind of Christian do you think I am?”

  “I’ll tell you what kind of Christian you are,” Samir volunteered.

  “Please, brother,” said Mustafa. “Your respect for the Constitution is admirable, but this is a case where even a good Christian should want to help us.”

  “Even if I believed you, there’s nothing I can do,” the man replied. “If Abd al Shakur had set aside a package for you, it would be behind this counter, but as you can see there’s nothing here. That means it’s on a truck, and most of the trucks have already left.”

  “Well then, you’ll just have to call them back, won’t you?” said Samir.

  “That I cannot do, even if I wished to. The trucks have no radios.”

  “I thought they were all linked by computer,” Mustafa said.

  “They are, but it’s a one-way link. When a delivery is made, or attempted, the system sends a notification so that paying customers—not government thugs—can check the status of their shipments. But there’s no way for me to send an outgoing message.”

  “And in an emergency? What do you do if there’s a bomb on the truck?”

  “Trust to the mercy of Almighty God, whom all good men believe in.”

  Mustafa found himself liking this guy despite his uncooperative attitude. “In the spirit of God’s mercy, then,” he said, “can you at least tell us for certain whether the truck has left yet?”

  The man looked at him sourly, but because Mustafa had been polite he relented. “I suppose I could do that . . . Do you know where the package is going?”

  “Adhamiyah,” Mustafa told him. “The Republic of Saddam.”

  Amal meanwhile was in the reception area of her mother’s Baghdad office. The senator had flown in from Riyadh the night before to attend a fund-raiser and was due back in the capital this afternoon for an important vote. She’d squeezed fifteen minutes out of her morning schedule for her daughter, but as usual, she was running late.

  The wall across from where Amal sat waiting was hung with the obligatory Unity portrait of Gamal Abdel Nasser. This iconic image was what Aunt Nida had always privately referred to as the pre-assassination photo. If only Nasser had had the good grace to be martyred in the early ’60s, Nida said, the Party would have been spared the embarrassment of his second presidential term: the scandals, the abuses of power, the long, drawn-out impeachment process that had revitalized the Party of God and set the progressive agenda back decades. Still, embarrassment or no, Nasser was the Party patriarch, and respect had to be paid.

  To the right of Nasser’s beaming mug, almost as large, was a copy of The Moment. Other scenes from her mother’s life and career were displayed around the room, Amal herself appearing in some of them. She’d chosen her seat to avoid having to look at the most painful of these, a shot of her parents attending the ceremony where she’d been sworn in as an ABI agent.

  It was not an event her father had expected to live to see. If Saddam Hussein had been a real king, he surely wouldn’t have. But Saddam was only a king of the underworld, and even the fiercest mobster couldn’t slaughter police captains with impunity. Which is not to say he forgave and forgot. Of the men who stood with Shamal as leaders of reform, four later died in suspicious accidents. Another six were ensnared—framed, they all said—in a corruption scandal of their own; of these, three committed suicide, one went into hiding in Europe, and the remaining two were murdered in prison.

  Shamal, through a combination of caution, luck, and God’s grace, managed to avoid both accident and indictment, but within the police force he became a pariah, a marked man nobody wanted to get close to. The constant tension ate at him; by the time of Amal’s swearing-in ceremony, his hair had gone gray and his face was lined and careworn.

  Four months later while driving into work, Shamal had happened across a burglary in progress. Two men lugging a television out of a house whose owner was on vacation had been confronted on the street by an elderly neighbor. Shamal drove past just as one of the burglars backhanded the old woman. He screeched his car to a halt and jumped out, pistol in hand. The burglars drew their own guns. Shamal killed them both, but was shot several times in return and died on the way to the hospital.

  What appeared at first to be an unplanned tragedy became something more sinister when the burglars were identified as natives of Tikrit, Saddam’s hometown. Then when Amal went to reinterview the neighbor who’d interrupted the burglary, she couldn’t find her. Other neighbors said she’d moved away, though no one knew quite where: Some said Jordan, some said Kuwait. Some said Mauritania.

  Amal petitioned the Bureau to open an official investigation into her father’s death and was turned down. Her superiors acknowledged that she had reason to be suspicious, but still felt that the whole thing was most likely a coincidence. After all, as Amal herself had told them, her father had varied his route to work every day precisely in order to avoid being lured into a trap. Amal wanted to agree with this logic—a coincidence was easier to live with—but she also knew that the likelihood of a setup depended in part on just how patient the killers had been willing to be.

  Amal’s mother never doubted that Saddam was responsible. At the funeral she rose to give a speech—seemingly spontaneous, but in fact carefully crafted with the help of Aunt Nida—in which she asked those in attendance whether they really wanted to go on living in a climate of fear. In the following weeks she gave more speeches, in front of larger and larger crowds. Though she did not denounce Saddam Hussein by name, her listeners got the message loud and clear, and eventually so did Saddam, who sent some of his men to disrupt one of the speeches. The result was another photo, almost as famous as The Moment: Amal’s mother on stage, pointing towards a Baathist heckler in the process of being mobbed, the heckler’s expression shifting from arrogance to terror as he realized just how badly he’d misjudged the mood of the crowd.

  It was a nice bit of theater, enough to get Amal’s mother, after a few more twists and turns, elected to the mayor’s office. But whatever good works she’d been able to accomplish there, and whatever good works Amal had accomplished as a fed, two things remained unchanged: Saddam Hussein was still a free man; and Shamal was still dead.

  The outer lobby door opened and Amal’s mother came in, accompanied by Amal’s brother Ali, who was her chief of staff, and Amal’s brother Haidar, her head of security. As they crossed the room Amal’s mother spotted Amal, nodded, smiled, and gestured for her to follow, all without breaking stride or interrupting her ongoing conversation.

  A moment later they were in the inner sanctum. Ali and Haidar both excused themselves, Ali saying “Ten minutes,” and winking at Amal as he stepped back out of the office.

  “So,” Amal’s mother said. “I’ve been hearing good things about you lately. I’m told you saved another agent’s life.”

  “Yes, I did,” Amal said.

  “And shot a terrorist.”

  “Yes.”

  “But there’s been no press release,” her mother noted. “No public recognition of your heroism.”

  “There were some problems with the mission.”

  Her mother translated: “Somebody else screwed up and you saved his ass . . . All the more reason you should be lauded. Nobody needs to be embarrassed by it—they can leave the mistakes out of the official statement.”

  “I am being recognized,” Amal said. “In-house.”

  “ ‘In-house.’ ” Her moth
er rolled her eyes. “I know what that means.”

  “Mother, please. It’s not that I don’t want a public commendation, but—”

  “Well that’s good then, because you’re getting one.”

  “But this isn’t what I came here to talk to you about. I—”

  “Just let me put a note in my PDA. I have a meeting with the Deputy Director of Homeland Security on Wednesday, so—”

  “I got a call from Anwar.”

  Her mother paused, a hand on her purse. “Sadat, I hope,” she said.

  Amal told her the story. By the time she finished her mother was standing with her arms crossed, shaking her head.

  “Why would you agree to meet with him?”

  “He practically begged me to.”

  “So?”

  “Well, I didn’t want him showing up at the office.”

  “If he shows up at the office, you have security turn him away. My God, Amal . . .” Her eyes narrowed. “Who chose the restaurant?”

  “I did, why? . . . What, you think it’s a blackmail scheme? Hidden cameras? Anwar wearing a wire?”

  “It’s not a joke, Amal,” her mother said. “I’ve got the vote on the marriage bill coming up soon. And now, out of the blue, this man you had a sigheh with a lifetime ago decides to get in touch to ask a favor?”

  “You’re wrong,” Amal said. “The timing must be a coincidence.”

  “There are no coincidences in politics. Trust me on this.”

  “You didn’t see him. The way he talked about Salim . . .”

  “Oh, I’m sure it was heartfelt. He may not even know he’s being used, you know. It could be that some friend of his in Riyadh, someone he confides in, suggested that he contact you.”

  Some friend of his in Riyadh . . .

  “Bin Laden,” Amal said.

  “What?”

  “Osama bin Laden . . . Would Anwar’s father know him?”

  “I don’t know,” her mother said. “It’s possible. You think Senator Bin Laden might be behind this?”

  “If he is,” said Amal, “then you’re not the one they’re trying to get to.”

  “I would love for you to explain that statement to me.”

  “It’s probably better if I don’t.” Then she said: “So what about Salim?”

  “I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do for him. If the Post publishes a Page Six exposé about my daughter’s temporary marriage, that’s embarrassing, but not really damaging. But if they run a story about how I used my influence to get my daughter’s son out of America, while other sons—beloved sons—are still fighting and dying there . . .”

  “The Post.” Amal made a face. “You can stay a step ahead of Tariq Aziz, surely. You used to run rings around him.”

  “You know, when you try to flatter me I fear the worst . . . Tariq Aziz is one thing, Osama bin Laden is another. What have you gotten yourself into, Amal?”

  “I’m honestly not sure yet,” Amal said. “But will you do this for me, please? Whatever favor you were going to call in to get me a commendation, use it instead on Salim’s behalf.”

  Her mother shook her head again. “You don’t even know the boy, Amal.”

  “I know. But I don’t need to know him, to show him compassion. Anwar was right about that much.”

  They called it the Republic of Saddam: a patchwork of estates and commercial properties that collectively formed an outlaw nation, a separate country within the UAS. Most of it was in Iraq, but there were scattered outposts throughout Arabia—villas in Alexandria and Tunis, a hotel in Abu Dhabi, a gambling den in Casablanca, rat cellars everywhere.

  The Republic’s capital was of course Baghdad, where Saddam owned houses in each of the city’s major districts, with the notable exception of Sadr City. Back when Mustafa and Samir had worked for Halal Enforcement, Saddam had split his time between the Mansour lake estate that adjoined the Baghdad Airport and the downtown mansion in Karkh that many Baghdadis regarded as a shadow city hall.

  After 11/9, increased security around the airport had made the Mansour estate less attractive—the TSA really had a bug about people firing rifles into the sky. Then in 2003, a mysterious fire gutted the mansion in Karkh; rumors of the cause ranged from faulty wiring to Uday. Saddam had been trying to rebuild the place ever since, but the Baghdad City Planning Commission, on orders from a certain mayor-turned-senator, kept delaying the necessary permits, and in the interim squatters had invaded the property, turning it into a palace of the homeless.

  While Saddam’s lawyers tried to cut through the commission’s red tape, he had relocated the headquarters of his Republic to his compound in Adhamiyah. The walled estate occupied three hectares of prime riverfront property and had its own dock and helipad. It was patrolled night and day by a uniformed security force known colloquially as the Republican Guard.

  Having raced across town, Mustafa and Samir were now parked at the end of the street that led to the estate’s main gate. The package they were hoping to intercept had been sent standard overnight delivery, which meant that in theory it could show up anytime between now and 6 p.m., but Mustafa doubted they’d have to wait long. “Think about it: If you were a deliveryman and Saddam Hussein was on your route, would you keep him waiting until afternoon?”

  “I see your point,” Samir said, “but by that logic, couldn’t we already have missed him?”

  “Let’s give it an hour. If the truck hasn’t showed by then, we’ll give that helpful fellow at the airport another call.”

  They passed the time by speculating about the occupants of a jeep parked half a block behind them. Mustafa thought he’d seen the same vehicle at the APS hub; Samir was sure he had, but feigned uncertainty. “Who do you suppose they are?”

  “Al Qaeda, most likely,” Mustafa said. “Unless the Mukhabarat has taken an interest in us.” Mukhabarat was a nickname for the network of Iraqi private investigators who donated free labor to the Baath Union in exchange for police favors, in effect serving as Saddam’s personal intelligence bureau. “What do you think, shall we go introduce ourselves?”

  “You go right ahead.”

  Mustafa shot him another concerned look, but didn’t push. “All right,” he said. “You stay here, I’ll go talk to them.”

  But even as he opened his door, a brown truck rounded the corner, a familiar trademarked question on its side: WHAT CAN AL ARABI DO FOR YOU? Mustafa flipped out his ID and hurried to flag it down.

  “Your mother cannot help you.”

  There was a sculpture park adjacent to Amal’s mother’s office building. It was a popular open-air lunch spot, but at this hour of the morning it was empty except for a pair of elderly backgammon players and a few women pushing strollers.

  Amal sat on a bench alongside an enormous bronze jug. A hole had been cut in the jug’s side, making a window onto the miniature city within. The city’s outline and the river that bisected it suggested Baghdad, but a Baghdad from an alternate universe: The sort-of-familiar landmarks were all in the wrong place and the streets were laid out differently.

  Amal switched on her cell phone. She had two missed calls, both from Mustafa. She was about to check messages when a ninja sat down beside her and began speaking in Gulf Arabic. It took Amal a moment to realize the woman’s words were addressed to her.

  “I beg your pardon?” Amal said.

  “I said, your mother cannot help you.” The woman raised a hand and pointed to another of the park’s sculptures. “You see that globe over there? It models the world as the Abbasid cartographers knew it. If you walk around to the other side, where the Western Hemisphere should be, there’s nothing. No Americas. The lines of latitude and longitude don’t meet. From this angle, though, it looks almost whole. A tourist might even mistake it for the Unisphere.” The woman chuckled. “Your mother’s authority is like that. Hollow and incomplete. A trick of perspective . . . A mirage.”

  Amal slipped her cell phone into her pocket and turned to face the woman fully. �
��Who are you?”

  “A servant of a true servant of God. Someone whose power is real. Someone who can guarantee your son’s safety.”

  “Osama bin Laden,” Amal said nodding. “And should I take it as an insult or a compliment, that he sends a woman with his message instead of Abu Yusuf?”

  “It is a sign of respect.” The ninja sniffed behind her veil. “Perhaps you are unfamiliar with proper decorum.”

  “Perhaps you are unfamiliar with the penalty for threatening a federal agent.”

  “I do not threaten. I speak the truth. Salim bin Anwar will not be saved by Anmar al Maysani—or by Amal bint Shamal. But the man I serve can remove him from harm’s way.”

  “In exchange for what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Do nothing. Mustafa al Baghdadi has chosen a path to self-destruction. Do not follow him. Do not help him. Do not interfere.”

  “You expect me to just sit on my hands?”

  “Ask to be taken off the investigation. Your mother’s name is good for that much, at least.”

  “That’s your idea of nothing, is it?” Amal laughed. “And once I’ve made it clear to my colleagues that I can no longer be relied upon, then what? Just wait and see whether the senator holds up his end of the bargain?”

  “Give me your word that you’ll ask to be reassigned and Salim will be on his way home in forty-eight hours.”

  Amal fell silent, still skeptical but also not wanting to believe it.

  “Here, let me show you something.” The ninja took out her own cell phone. “The other day on your computer you looked up Abu Salim’s file, but you didn’t look up the boy’s. That’s understandable, but before you decide his fate you really should see his face.” She passed the phone to Amal, who accepted it reluctantly. “He is a handsome boy,” the woman continued. “A good Sunni Muslim, strong and intelligent. He should have a bright future, if—”

  But Amal, suddenly livid, cut her off: “Is this a joke? Are you mocking me?”