by David Rich
I expected to see Gill waiting for me in the lobby, but he was not there. I bought drinks at the bar and we carried them upstairs. Maya sat down on the desk chair and said, “I cannot read Johnny anymore. I could once. I thought I could.”
“I can’t read you.”
She smiled at that. “I was sixteen when I married Johnny. In England. He was famous among the Kurdish exiles for having helped smuggle refugees out after Saddam cracked down. Very dashing. Fancy suits and an eye patch.”
“And now you wonder if that’s fake.”
She almost backed out because her father pushed so hard for the union. She felt like she was being sold. But she loved Johnny. She grew up around intrigue and suddenly it all felt real. Gun runners over to the flat for dinner, telling wild stories of their narrow escapes and lucrative deals, and bankers listening patiently and nodding along like fans at a jazz club counting the beat. Then the Americans started showing up. Officers, even diplomats. And Maya knew it was getting serious because she was excluded from the talks and from the trips. But the King was excluded, too. Bannion trotted him out for show and then shunted him away from the serious conferences. “The nuts and bolts, darling; he wouldn’t know one from the other, would he?” Johnny would say when she protested the disrespect her father had to bear.
And Johnny’s cruelty became more apparent, or she grew up enough to notice it more. He always had a mean streak, a disparaging sense of humor, but that added to his aura and reinforced her belief that he was a man of action, the man of action, who would be the catalyst to her father’s ascension. But as she matured, the cracks became visible and soon the cracks were all she could see. He made trips to Iraq. She stayed in London. Even shut out, she could see that the cronies were mercenaries, the officers were traitors. She heard of murders. Johnny’s cynicism drowned her idealism. She left him. But her father did not leave Johnny Bannion. The King was like a gold prospector: A few glittering specks were all that was required to keep him knee-deep in the creek. Bannion had only to fail to return a call, miss a meeting, or let it be known that he was courting others, in order to bring the King to heel. Maya determined to free her father and to destroy Bannion. She wanted my help.
She shifted her focus to what a great leader the King would make, but I had heard it already and cut her off.
“Haven’t you left someone out?”
Her eyes clouded and she looked past me. “I told you the truth.”
“Part of it, maybe even most of it. But there’s your child. Your son.” It was a guess. I had seen the photo of a boy. There had to be an heir, someone to take up the banner the King had carried so feebly.
“Did Johnny tell you that?”
“Yes.”
“He’s at school in Switzerland.” She finished her drink and she finished talking about the boy.
“We’re right back where we were before,” I said. “Maybe Bannion just wants money, and you and your father are playing along. Maybe there’s another kidnapping in the works. Just Houston all over again. Maybe you have honorable reasons to do it. Why should I care?”
She stood up and came close to me. I struggled to keep my hands at my side. She reached up with her lips and kissed me. I didn’t respond. She turned and stepped back. “I don’t know what he’s planning.”
I’m sure there were a million good reasons not to believe her, but suddenly I could not think of any. She started for the door. I stepped forward quickly and caught her arm and turned her toward me and kissed her. I drew her to the bed. We kissed more. I held her and said, “You weren’t going to walk out that door, were you?”
“I was determined to stay.” She stepped away from me and turned off the lights.
She was as determined as she claimed. It wasn’t love and it was something other than just lust. It was as if we were contesting who was hungriest. I tried, but I don’t think I won. In bed, in the dark, in silence, Maya’s vagueness shattered. I understood a little about her for the first time: the need to leave the confining compartments and tight curves of intrigue and ambition; the use-it-or-lose-it fear that passion would wither; and the longing to just show off who she was.
While I was getting dressed, I considered playing along, agreeing to help, which really meant agreeing to kill Bannion. That is what she wanted. But she deserved better; at least I told myself she did. “I’m not a killer. I’m not going to kill him for you.”
I didn’t have to watch her to know she was reassembling her armor. “That’s not why I came here.” Her voice was direct but faint, not fully in place. The slight smile had formed. I no longer saw myself reflected, and seeing behind the smile no longer felt important. I was immune to the mystery. I just had to deal with the woman.
She got up and stood beside the bed, completely naked.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have slept with you until you did it.” Her voice was filled with mocking bitterness at the assumption I made. I still believed I had it right.
She moved close past me to reach for her clothes. Her scent hit me and made me want to linger in it. She turned the opaque, enigmatic gaze on me, the one I thought I had moved past.
“You don’t have to go back to him.”
She laughed and kissed me. “Such nobility. You’re as bad as Johnny. I don’t know where you’re going, but I bet you’re going out now. Yes?”
I did not care that she was a liar who would betray me with barely a nod. I wished she had stayed.
______
I called Major Hensel and identified Bannion as the puppet master. I told him about the meeting with the retired generals. The Major already knew about Garner, but not Tagliaferro. I told him that I kept hearing whispers about big doings set for tomorrow.
“A coup?”
“Bannion is certainly not going to try to put the King in charge. And he can’t take on the Peshmergas. I don’t see him attempting a takeover. Baghdad would come in and crush him.”
“Then what are those generals doing there?”
“I think it’s okay to assume Bannion is not leveling with them about his plans. They’re looking for paydays. They think he has money from the graves, other graves than the ones we know about, and is going to be using that, and they can grab a share.”
“And Bannion doesn’t have that money?”
“Not here.” The picture of Bannion’s fake beatific expression directed toward the safe floated in front of me. I asked the Major about Gill again. He said he had already checked, and found nothing. “Can you check for a soldier or Marine by that name who died in action?” I also told him the names of the seven goons Bannion introduced me to. Hensel said he would put Will Panos on it. I left out Victor Kosinski. I thought we were done.
The Major said, “Get Bannion and get out of there as soon as you can.”
“I want to find the money.”
“That’s an order.”
“I can get him anytime.”
“I’m not thinking about him. I’m thinking of you.”
As soon as I hung up, I called Will Panos. “How’s it going with the widow?”
“We’ll see,” he said.
“We’ll see is pretty good. Want me to ask you to go back to Montana on important business?”
“Yes.”
“Another time. I gave the Major a list of names. I don’t know what the common thread is other than they don’t belong to the men using them. And there’s another name.”
“I know. Gill. The Major already sent it to me.”
“Another name. But you can’t tell the Major. Give me your word.”
“Okay.”
“Victor Kosinski. There can’t be too many. This one might have been traveling as a Marine. I need to know every time he entered or left the country and where.”
“Where he went?”
“Where he entered or left from.”
I called Gi
ll’s room. He did not pick up. I called the front desk and asked if he left me a message. They told me Mr. Gill had checked out.
Then the gunfire started.
23
I grabbed a fat German in the lobby. “The Prime Minister has been shot,” he said in perfect English. “It’s a revolution.” He pushed his way to the elevators. The traffic was bumper to belly. Some wanted to hide in their rooms, some wanted to peek out the windows or shout at hotel employees for information or for help escaping. I wanted to get to Bannion’s. Between the bar and the front door, two Kurdish men in their thirties grabbed me by each arm. The one on my right said, “Come with us, Mr. Hewitt.”
“Where is that?” They did not answer. I relaxed my arms for a moment, then jammed both elbows down. The Asayish were caught off guard and I slipped free. I pushed away from them and clawed through the mass until I caught a wave that carried me toward the elevators. The cops were falling behind.
The stairs were empty. A valet rushed into the garage kiosk, grabbed a set of keys, and rushed to a Toyota. I grabbed the key to a Mercedes and found the car and drove out. At the top of the garage exit ramp, one of the cops was waiting. I steered toward him and made him jump away.
I did not get far. Cars jammed every inch of pavement. The drivers who stayed inside played their horns without rhythm, a frustrated toneless bleating. Pedestrians flowed toward the colored lights and the Citadel beyond. Everyone moved fast to reach the thick mass where movement slowed. I opened my car door and a man crashed into it. I tried to help him up. He shook me off and moved on. The Asayish kept coming.
The crowd was thick and fluid. The fastest way forward was to ride the current. The cops would not outpace it. Flashing their badges would get them trampled. The bridges sliced the crowd into wide lanes. Fountain mist swirled in pastels. I was pushed toward the left, toward the souk. Gunfire sounded in lonely bunches like neighborhood fireworks set between beers.
Strobed stills of the battle in the stalls of the souk between looters and merchants flashed as I slid past. The Asayish were out of sight. A skinny teenager emerged with a bundle of women’s scarves, which dripped from his grip as the crowd jostled him. A man in his sixties, dirty, with a beard and a red-checked ghatra raced to the edge of the souk and stopped to decide where to push into the flow. He held pistols in each hand like a cartoon cowboy. Two shots hit him in the back and he fell flat on his face and the guns clattered on the pavement. A kid bent to get one. But the shooter loomed over him. It was the gun merchant’s son.
The crowd flowed on. Only a few stepped on the body, just one wreck in a long-awaited cavalcade. Another, oozing more obvious agony, undoubtedly waited ahead. The proximity to violence sustained the feeling of release, extended it to the point of ecstasy. And the ecstasy foamed in a chain reaction, feeding on itself, surging, overflowing, devouring its own fascination.
A man spoke in Kurmanji, feedback screeched, the man began again, “My fellow Kurds, my people . . .” I recognized the voice: the King. A faint echo bounced around the plaza and fought with the thickness of the cheap sound system and the intermittent feedback. I scrambled and pushed and elbowed toward the Citadel, where the voice seemed to come from.
I could understand most of it and could fill in the rest since it was only a slight variation on every speech the King made.
“Our moment of destiny is upon us. The rights of the Kurdish people of all regions cannot be denied any longer. From Turkey to Iraq to Syria to Iran, we are uniting as one people. Now . . .”
On a bridge, approaching blue and green and red lights, the railing broke. People fell into the shallow pool and bathed more in faint color than water: too minor a catastrophe to earn any wonder. I was swept across. First I saw the huge Kurdish flag hung against the wall of the Citadel. Beneath it stood the King with a microphone in his hand, gripped lightly, the way a crooner would. He was standing uneasily on the top of the cab of a black pickup truck. Goons guarded the truck from the crowd and two stood in the bed with Zoran next to them.
“Peace with our neighbors that we might all prosper. Peace among us. Safety for non-Kurds . . .”
I moved to a spot on the left, in the lee of a column, and stood about two feet off the ground, on its base. For the first time, I realized how much the temperature had dropped. The pickup blocked the gate to the Citadel, causing the crowd to swirl away like smoke blown against a window. The goons were not scaring anyone. The King of all Kurds might have been a street performer for all the attention he received. His speech was background noise, part of the wall of sound essential to prolonging the exhilarating sensation of fear and danger.
“I am ready to assume my rightful throne, my ancient seat, my legacy. Our former glory can be restored only with the restoration of our glorious kingdom . . .”
To the right of the black pickup, on a low cinder-block retaining wall, the red-haired TV star stood tall and faced her cameraman on the ground below. She waited until he signaled, then she tore off her scarf with a dramatic flourish and began talking. The soundman struggled against the jostling to hold the mike close enough to her. She gestured her frustration. The cameraman swung around to catch the King. The redhead was yelling at him, but he had sense enough to document the better performance.
Hundreds of shots tore up the sky. Floodlights beamed from behind me, toward the Citadel. The King was caught in the glare, and as he moved, the microphone cord wrapped around his ankle. He stumbled. Maya stepped out from behind Zoran in the truck bed as if to steady him. He signaled that he was okay and resumed his speech. She stared adoringly. I saw more faces turned toward her than toward him.
Bullhorns announced, in Arabic, that the crowd should disperse. I looked behind, into the spotlights, where Peshmergas in riot gear made their way forward over the bridges. The crowd squeezed toward the Citadel. The cameraman jumped onto the wall next to his star and kept his focus on the King. A line of Peshmergas in the rear fired volleys again into the sky. Flares went up and their bright, cold light drenched the faint colors of the fountain lights. The crowd had nowhere to go. The vortex swelled with frantic energy. Zoran scowled at the crowd. His hands went up, palms out, as if he could push them away. The pickup rocked. The goons jumped down. Maya reached toward her father, still talking, though no sound came through anymore. The plug must have been pulled.
The pickup toppled over. The King went down the way a statue does: erect, stiff. The crowd rushed into the Citadel.
______
I jumped into the back of the taxi. “Go. Go.” I spoke in a desperate whisper. Dark stone two-story buildings lined the quiet street in the old city behind the souk, just about a half mile from all the tumult. Dueling tailor shops faced each other across the road. They both featured headless mannequins sporting dark men’s suits. A police cruiser came around the corner two blocks ahead and the headlights hit us. Both of us turned away from the light. I looked behind. The Asayish who had been chasing me appeared down the street. The driver started to put the car in gear. “No,” I said. “Wait. Pretend to sleep.”
I lay on the floor of the back, facedown, gun underneath me. I waited.
Footsteps. Men catching their breath. They spoke Arabic. “Oh, come on. Come on. Did you see a man running past?”
The driver apologized profusely, admitted to sleeping. “I cannot sleep at home. The children . . .”
The men ran on. After a minute, I asked, “Has the police car come past?”
“He turned around.”
I sat up and pulled five one-hundred-dollar bills and tossed them on the seat beside him. “If you can help me find anyone connected to the PKK, I’ll give five more of these.”
The mirror occupied him more than the road. He turned south through a run-down section, then west into a large park. We were the only vehicle. A black monolithic monument stood guard. A long lake ran on the left, and to the right a fatter one was dotted with fountain
s. Erbil liked fountains. Headlights hit us. Then others came from behind. The cabbie did not wait to find out who they were. He stopped in the middle of the road and pulled the money from his pocket. I stopped his hand. “Keep it and go.”
“Do not tell them, please.” He got out and ran.
I ran in the opposite direction. I did not get far.
24
The hood smelled of gas. Wherever we were smelled of rotting food. Cuffs dug into my wrists. I hung, my feet just barely touching the floor. The tall man’s torture chamber must have been occupied. I was stripped down to my underwear and I was cold. My feet were cold.
Fariz was more offensive than the odors or the pain. His cultured voice grated like a steady siren. “Diyar is a terrorist. Your own government calls him a terrorist. Yet you do business with him. How do you justify this? What is your relationship?”
I did not answer through the hood. Someone cuffed me around for a little while, but it could have been much worse. “Can you see my breath? It’s cold in here.”
The door creaked and slammed and no one answered, though they might have been there. They wanted what I did not have. That was the secret I had to keep. If I convinced them I was useless to them, they would want to get rid of their mistake. I wanted to extend our time together, though I knew I would like it less than they did. Again, Fariz spoke. “Why are you looking for Diyar?”
“You asked me to. I was trying to please you.”
Someone hit me in the gut with a stick. The blows were predictable, but each one held a surprise in its timing and location. The cold was worse. I did not want to give in to shivering, which would take over like an alien force once it turned on. Shivering on a mountaintop in Afghanistan came to mind, shivering in Big Bear, shivering in a closet the first time angry men came for Dan; I fought all those memories. It was easy to come up with sweating stories, but they did no good. The sun. I tried to bask in the light that shined on me.
“What are you and Diyar planning?”
