by Tom Clancy
“No shit?”
“That’s right.”
“What was he, like a spy or something?”
“I really don’t know. Some kind of diplomat’s aid.”
Eli laughed. “Yep. Spy.”
She laughed with him. “I guess, maybe. Anyway, I don’t know what he does now.”
“I see.”
“So, Eli, are you going to stay in Israel or are you coming back to the States to get your degree?”
He took a sip of wine and said, “I’m thinking of going to Juilliard. I have an audition in the summer. I just have to get a visa.”
“Really? Juilliard?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So you won’t come back to Chicago?”
“I don’t think so, Sarah. But, listen, why don’t you come live with me in New York after you graduate? You’ve got one more year, right?”
The question took Sarah by surprise. “You want me to come live with you?”
“Sure. Why not? You like me, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah, but that’s… that’s like we’d be married or something.”
“No it’s not, silly. We’d just be living together.”
She was flustered. “I’ll have to get back to you on that one, Eli.”
“There’s plenty of time, I think,” he said. He reached across the table, placed his hand over hers, and lightly squeezed it. Sarah was taken aback by his show of affection. She had no idea that he cared enough for her to ask her something like that.
What would a future with Eli Horowitz be like? she wondered. As an English major she could probably get a job teaching somewhere in New York. She’d have to get a certificate from that state, of course. Or maybe she’d just stay at home and be a writer. That’s what she really wanted to do. Wouldn’t it be an idyllic existence? She a best-selling author and Eli a famous orchestra conductor?
Sarah turned over her hand so that she could squeeze his in return.
It just might work, she thought.
9
I set out in the Toyota Land Cruiser and head north from Baghdad. The Iraqi security forces stop me at two different roadblocks on the outskirts of the city. They’re very thorough. At the first one they ask to see my identity papers and passport. They ask me if I’m armed even though the papers indicate that I’m cleared with the Iraqi government to carry firearms. I comply by revealing the Five-seveN, but the SC-20K remains in the duffel bag. After a few minutes of suspicious looks and some frowns, they let me drive on. The second roadblock is much the same. They ask what I plan to do in Mosul and how long I’ll be there. I tell them what I think will appease them and they let me go.
The highway is a modern one — newly repaved after the beating it took during the war and subsequent months of unrest. The city was brutal with stop-and-go congestion on every major street, but here there isn’t much traffic. The open road feels good. I occasionally see military vehicles, even U.S. ones. Dilapidated pickup trucks and wagons carrying produce and other goods are fairly common.
The intensely bright sun beats down on the car, and I’m grateful that I remembered to bring an ordinary pair of sunglasses. The landscape is flat and barren. As I said before, it reminds me a little of southern Arizona. It’s a rugged, cruel country and I wouldn’t want to be stuck in the middle of the desert with no transportation. Thank goodness someone invented the air conditioner.
“Sam, you there?” Lambert sounds like what I imagine the Voice of Conscience to be. It’s tinny and small and is lodged deep within my right ear.
I take one hand off the steering wheel and press the spot on my neck to activate the transmitter. “Yeah, I’m here, Colonel.”
“How did everything go with Petlow?”
“Fine. He’s got his hands full, though. This is still a very rough place.”
“I know. Listen, I take it you’re headed up to Mosul?”
“I’m on the road now. I’ll be in Samarra in less than an hour.”
“Forget Mosul. You need to go to Arbil,” Lambert says. “That’s why I’m contacting you via the implant instead of with text. We’ve just received word that the Kurdish police there have captured a brand-new shipment of weapons. Nasty stuff, too. Lots of AK-47s, but a nice little pile of Stingers, too. They’ve made an arrest — the truck driver that was bringing them in. He’s not talking. The shipment is sitting in police headquarters in the town center. Since this is a fresh lead, I suggest you check it out before they move it. If you can determine where the arms came from, then you can follow the trail back to the source. Remember, that’s Kurdish territory. You have no authority there, so you’ll have to get in and out without the police knowing.”
“Right,” I say. “What’s the best route from where I am?”
“Our intelligence suggests that you continue on to Mosul and then go east from there to Arbil. The main highway from Baghdad to Arbil runs parallel to yours, and the connecting roads aren’t safe.”
“Roger that. Anything else?”
“That’s it for now. Good luck, Sam.”
“Roger that. Out.” I grip the wheel and keep driving. I eventually pass through Samarra and head toward Tikrit, the birthplace of Saddam Hussein. When I finally get through the roadblocks there, repeating the routine I perfected outside of Baghdad, I see nothing special about Tikrit. I’m happy to say there are no road markers proclaiming that “Saddam Hussein Was Born Here.”
Mosul is Iraq’s second-largest city. It’s just on the edge of what is considered Iraqi Kurdistan. From what I understand, we get the word muslin, the famous cotton fabric, from Mosul. Apparently that’s where it was first made. The ancient city of Nineveh is located outside of Mosul. I’ve heard there are a lot of archaeological ruins in the spot worth seeing if you’re in a tourist frame of mind, but I’m afraid I have business elsewhere.
Another roadblock, another song and dance with my identity papers, and I’m now driving east to Arbil. This is officially Kurd country, for Arbil is considered the Kurdish capital in Iraq. Both of the two main Kurdish political parties, the KDP and the PUK, have their headquarters in Arbil. Considered to be one of the world’s oldest cities, Arbil dates back past the Romans and Alexander the Great’s time to Neanderthal Man, whose relics have been discovered there. The modern portion sits atop a mound that’s been formed by successive building over centuries.
The scenery in Iraqi Kurdistan contrasts sharply with the rest of the country. Here there are high mountains and colorful, fertile valleys. The mountain ranges grow more impressive the farther north you go and are commonly referred to as “the Alps of the Middle East.” Throughout history the mountains acted as a natural barrier for a society that has been eager to preserve its culture. Ethnically, the Kurds have no relationship with Arabs. They were allies of the U.S. during the Iraq War, in theory at least. I wonder if I’ll be able to trust them.
The sun is setting as I approach Arbil. Lights up ahead indicate I need to slow down — another roadblock. Four men surround the Toyota when I stop. They’re dressed in Iraqi police uniforms, but somehow I get the feeling that something’s not right. Two men carry rifles and the third has a handgun.
As soon as I lower my window, the man with a handgun points it in my face. “We’re going for a ride, friend,” he says in Arabic. These guys aren’t Kurds.
“I have my papers if you want to see them,” I say in his language.
“Shut up!” he commands again. He waits until his three companions get in the backseat of the car. The guy with the handgun goes around the car and gets in on the passenger side. He keeps it trained at my head.
The man without a gun sitting in the backseat says, “Now drive that way,” pointing to a dark dirt road leading off the highway. There’s nothing I can do but obey. I put the Toyota in drive and follow their directions. The road moves off into the thicket. Were it not for the headlights, I wouldn’t be able to see a thing.
“Where are we going?” I ask in Arabic.
“You’ll
see,” the backseat driver says. “Just shut up and drive.”
Three minutes later we’re approximately a mile from the main highway. The man in back tells me to stop the car, leave the headlights on, and get out.
I have no choice but to comply. I open the door and step out, followed by all four men. It’s now very dark outside, but the car’s headlights illuminate the area well enough to see. The unarmed man, obviously the leader, roughly turns me around and pushes me against the car. “Get your hands up, on top of your head!” he orders.
I do so, but I’m getting pissed off. I’m not about to let these guys manhandle me. The asshole starts to frisk me. I’m thankful I left the Five-seveN in the glove compartment, but I need to think of a way to keep them out of the car.
“I’m with Interpol,” I say. “I have clearance with your government.”
“Shut up!”
The guy with the pistol grins at me. I see now that he’s missing three teeth and is the ugliest son of a bitch I’ve seen since I got to Iraq. “Where did you get the nice car, my friend?” he asks.
The one frisking me, apparently looking for money, demands, “Where’s your wallet?”
“I don’t carry one,” I say truthfully.
He grabs my shoulder and pulls me away from the car. All four of them are now facing me. The two with rifles hold their weapons across their chests, not aiming them yet. The guns appear to be Hakims. No-Tooth, though, has a Smith & Wesson 38 Special revolver. Probably a black-market item.
“I think we’ll take your car, then,” the leader says. The other three laugh. “We need it to move some boxes.” They laugh some more. “There we were, sitting and waiting for some friends to bring us a truck to help us move our things, but I think your big car will do fine. May we borrow it?” More laughs.
“Where are you from, my friend?” No-Tooth asks. He twirls his revolver around his finger as if he were in a John Wayne Western. “We don’t see many Westerners who speak Arabic.”
“I’m Swiss,” I say. “I’m a police officer with Interpol. I suggest you let me be on my way.”
“Oh, you suggest that we let you be on your way?” the leader mocks me as he takes a step closer. “Listen, I suggest that you get down on your knees and pray because you’re about to kiss the earth goodbye.”
Come on, I think. Move just another step closer.
“You want me to get on my knees?” I ask.
“That’s what I said!”
I look at the ground and point. “Right here?”
That does the trick. He takes another step and starts to say, “Yes, right th—”
Before he finishes I kick him fast and hard in the crotch. I don’t stop there, though. I move in like lightning, using an advanced Krav Maga technique to grab hold of his upper body and pull him toward me as the toothless guy fires his gun. The leader takes the round in the back, and then I shove his body at No-Tooth with such force that they both fall to the ground.
Before the guys with rifles can react, I grab the barrel of one of the guns with my left hand, place my right hand beneath the butt, and use a levering jerk to yank it out of the surprised man’s hands. Before the second rifleman can level his gun and fire it, I swing the butt of my new rifle around and clobber him in the face. He screams, drops his weapon, and falls to his knees, clutching his head. The first rifleman, now weaponless, growls, ready to rush at me. I slam the rifle butt into his nose and then use my right foot to kick him in the chest. Stunned, he stumbles away from me but doesn’t go down. I then toss the rifle in the air, giving it a slight twirl so that it swings around like a baton. I catch it with the butt against me and the barrel pointing the way it’s supposed to. I squeeze the trigger and the guy takes the round at point-blank range. He falls in his tracks.
I swing the Hakim around to No-Tooth, but he’s no longer on the ground by the dead leader. I see him running into the dark thicket. I consider raising the rifle and taking him out, but I decide to let him go lick his wounds. I really can’t imagine where he’ll go in this rough terrain at night. The leader and one rifleman are dead. That leaves the guy whose face I smashed in. He’s still on his knees, moaning. I think I broke his cheekbone.
“You,” I say. “Stop whining and talk to me.”
The man looks at me, wide-eyed. He can’t believe I overpowered four men. The right side of his face is already swelling, giving him a lopsided appearance.
“Who are you?” I ask. “You’re not the police.”
The man babbles something in Arabic, and I raise the rifle butt, indicating I might strike him again.
He tells me his name and the names of the other three men. All generic Arabic names that seem to be interchangeable in the Middle East.
“Where did you get the police uniforms?”
He tells me that the police hired them to act as militia. That story doesn’t ring true to me.
“Where are you from?” I ask.
Again, the babbling. This time I play rough. I ram the rifle butt into his shoulder. He cries out and falls back. I stand over him and ask him again where he’s from.
“Iran,” he tells me. He and his three companions are from Iran.
“What are you doing in Iraq?”
The man rolls over and clutches the dirt. I sense what he’s about to do and shut my eyes just as he throws a fistful of dirt in my face. He jumps to his feet, but I’m ready for him. He grabs for the rifle and I jerk it up and forward. Even with my eyes closed, I manage to ram the side of the Hakim into his chin. I open my eyes and thrust the rifle butt into the man’s chest. He falls to the ground, unconscious. It’s possible I broke his sternum and maybe stopped his heart.
Shit. There are three dead men here. I have no choice but to abandon them. I don’t like leaving bodies in my wake, but it can’t be helped. I’m not going to waste time trying to hide the corpses, seeing that we’re so far from the highway. If and when they’re found, it will just have to be chalked up to the fact that Iraq is a very rough place.
I toss the Hakim to the ground and get in the car. I drive back to the highway and on into the city, wondering what became of No-Tooth.
10
I drive into Arbil shortly after midnight. The streets are deserted and the town is deadly quiet. There isn’t much in the way of street lighting so the place is very dark and foreboding. Carly at Third Echelon had transmitted a town map to my OPSAT, so I find the police station with no problem.
I park the Toyota a block away, strip my outer clothes to reveal my uniform, don the headset, grab my Five-seveN, put on the Osprey, and I’m ready to go. I get out of the car and creep along the street, keeping to the shadows. No one is around, but in my business you can’t be too careful.
The Arbil Police Headquarters is small. It’s a one-level building with a parking lot in back. I find it odd that there are no patrol cars there. The windows are covered with a thick screen mesh, so it’s impossible to see inside. However, I detect illumination behind the windows in front. Either someone left an office light on or someone is inside. I go around to the back and quietly try the steel door. Locked, of course. It’s a basic cylinder lock, so I use my picks. It takes me seventeen seconds to get it open. Not bad.
I look through the door and see a dark corridor. I position the goggles and switch on the night-vision mode. I scan the upper edges of the walls to make sure there are no cameras, and then I slip inside and shut the door behind me. With my back to one wall I slink to a door in the middle of the corridor and listen. Silence. I carefully open the door and look in the room. It’s an ordinary office — desk, filing cabinets, a couple of chairs. I move on and come to a T. To the left is a door marked Secure Area in script I recognize to be Kurdistan. I’m not too familiar with the language. Arabic I can get by with, but Kurdistan — forget it. I recognize some words, but that’s about it. If I have to speak with a Kurd while I’m here it might be difficult, although many Kurds speak Arabic as well.
The light I saw earlier is coming from
the right. I inch along the wall and peer around the corner into a brightly lit space. It’s the front outer office. There’s a wall with a glass window that opens out to the reception area. On this side of the wall there’s a man reclining in a chair, his feet on the desk. He is snoring loudly. I switch off the night vision and raise my goggles to get a better look.
The man is wearing a police uniform, but it looks as if it’s two sizes too small. Something’s not right.
I move into the room and stand behind the man. He’s burly and has a Saddam Hussein-style mustache. I gently put my left hand over his mouth and pinch his nose. The policeman wakes, startled beyond belief. As soon as he leans forward, I grasp him in a “sleeper hold,” which closes off the carotid arteries until he’s unconscious. He falls forward and slides off the chair onto the floor. I figure he’ll be out for about ten minutes if I’m lucky.
I take a cursory look around the desk and find nothing of interest except for a key ring in the drawer. I take it and go back to the corridor. Sure enough, one of the keys works in the Secure Area door, which opens to another corridor. I listen for signs of occupation and check again for cameras. They only keep one guy on duty? Very strange. I suppose there’s not much crime in Arbil in the middle of the night.
I come to a locked door and try the key ring again. It opens on the third try. I’m conscious of my sharp intake of breath when I turn on the lights. It’s some kind of storeroom and it’s full of crates. One is open and sits on the floor three feet away from me. A pile of Hakim rifles overflows from the crate. I stoop to examine the weapons and see that they are clean and ready for use. I move to another crate, the lid of which has been previously pried open and replaced. I lift the lid and see more assault rifles — AK- 47s. Another crate contains Soviet Makarov PMs, 9mm handguns that date back to the 1950s. They’re also in excellent condition. Yet another crate is full of SVD Dragunovs, gas-operated sniper rifles.
There are sixteen crates in all, most of them still sealed. This must be the captured cache that Lambert told me about. What do the Arbil police plan to do with it? Aren’t they going to turn it over to the authorities, whoever they may be?
