Retrieval

by Ethan Jones

  Javin offered a somber nod. “That would be devastating.”

  “Yes, for Iraqis first and foremost, but also for the rest of the world.”

  Liberty took another sip of her coffee. “Now, unless you have other questions...”

  Javin shook his head and stood up. “No, we’re good. This was extremely helpful. Again, thanks so much for your help.”

  Liberty nodded and shook Javin’s hand. He noticed the soft skin and wondered how he had missed it earlier. He held her hand a moment longer than necessary, then smiled at her.

  Liberty said, “Keep those PRESS jackets on at all times, so camp security knows you’re not random strangers poking around.” Then she shook Claudia’s hand.

  “We’ll do that,” Claudia said.

  “All right. All the best then.”

  Liberty walked them to the door of the trailer, then closed it after they had taken a few steps toward their car. It was a battered gray Nissan, so the team could keep a low profile and blend in better in the area.

  Javin said, “Well, that was very useful. We got some fresh intel.”

  “And made a new friend ... or should I say girlfriend?”

  “Claudia?”

  “What?” She gave him a curious glance. “Am I making things up?”

  Javin did not reply right away. He thought about the episode and his interaction with Liberty. She was friendly, kind, and pretty. He shrugged. “I don’t have time for a new relationship—”

  “That’s what you said when you met...”

  Claudia’s voice trailed off, so she would not mention Steffi, Javin’s late wife. She had died about five months ago. Javin had been able to find some closure only recently, after he had discovered the truth about her accident.

  Javin flinched as bittersweet memories of Steffi flashed through his mind. “You’re right, but that was a different time. I ... I wasn’t in Iraq, chasing terrorists. I, we, we were both correctors.”

  Claudia nodded. “Times have changed.”

  “We have changed too.”

  “We have. Look, Javin, perhaps this is a good thing.”

  “What?”

  “You and Liberty. Who knows ... maybe there’s something there.”

  “What did I just say about the lack of time?”

  Claudia smiled. “Oh, you’re an industrious guy. I know you can find or make time. Perhaps come back tomorrow to the camp for more ‘interviews’ and another cup of coffee...”

  “You’re hilarious, you know that?”

  Claudia shrugged. “I do what I can. Liberty is a good woman, and it’s clear she likes you. Just don’t let Mila find out about Liberty.”

  “Mila who?”

  “Oh, come on, Javin. Your Russian girlfriend...”

  Javin frowned and shook his head. “Mila’s not my girlfriend.”

  “Not yet. But she’ll give up half of Moscow’s secrets to be that special one.”

  Javin said nothing. Mila Kuznetsova worked as a special operative for the SVR—Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki—the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service. She was smart, and tough, yet she had always been passionate about Javin, even when he was married. Perhaps she viewed him as a conquest, something to be obtained at any cost. And she was very close to succeeding. The last time they had met, Mila had planted a deep, passionate kiss on Javin’s lips. It was the price he had to pay for her cooperation. His mind went to their next meeting in Prague in four days. What will she ask next?

  “Javin?”

  “Yes?”

  “You look lost in thought...”

  He shrugged. “It’s nothing. It will be okay. Now, let’s go and talk to that ISIS widow. Perhaps we can find out why she’s almost untouchable.”

  Chapter Three

  UNHCR Hasan Sham Refugee Camp

  Twenty Miles East of Mosul, Iraq

  Javin waved at Tom, the CIA operative who doubled as their driver. He was standing outside the Nissan, talking to one of the uniformed police officers. That man’s name was Najib Issawi, and he belonged to the Fifth Division of the Iraq Federal Police. They were tasked with clearing the Old Town and parts of west Mosul from mines, unexploded mortars, and other improvised explosive devices planted by the extremist fighters during their retreat. Progress had been slow and had come at a steep price of lives lost. Many areas were still not safe for residents to return to their houses and shops.

  Issawi was assigned to Javin’s team along with Murtada al-Razi, an Iranian-born member of the Shia militia who had been crucial in liberating Mosul and a large swath of Iraq. Issawi was a Sunni, and while not long ago the Sunnis and the Shias had lived together in peace, sectarian violence had driven a deep wedge between the two groups. Issawi did not particularly hate al-Razi, but they found it difficult to work together, second-guessing or outright objecting to each other’s ideas about tactics to carry out the operation.

  In this particular case, al-Razi had criticized the decision to come to the camp. He said it gave them unnecessary exposure, considering the refugees were hostile to authorities in general and the police in particular. Besides, extremists’ supporters were reported to be visiting the camp, in an effort to foment hate and violence among the residents. If Javin was looking for intelligence, there were other ways, more efficient and persuasive, to secure that information.

  Issawi, on the other hand, had disagreed, noting the importance of gathering intelligence from all sources, especially the unlikely ones, who might know and be willing to exchange what they knew for what they wanted. As it happened in these situations, Javin had cast the deciding vote. He tried to appear as reasonable and impartial as possible, aiming to side with al-Razi and Issawi at fairly equal times.

  Tom waved back at Javin, then said, “We have the green light?”

  “We do. It went well, and Liberty is quite friendly.”

  “That’s good. I like friendly people.”

  A group of giggling children ran around them. One of them, a boy no older than four, maybe five, waved at Javin and gave him a bright smile. The boy’s hair was messy, and his face was dirty. He was running barefoot and seemed to have a slight limp.

  Javin waved back as one of the older boys pulled the younger one by his arm. They ran up ahead and stopped for a moment near an old woman who had set up a rickety table and was selling what looked like dried fruit. The woman tolerated the group of children, all seven or eight of them, for perhaps a couple of seconds, then began to shoo them away. The little boy’s eyes were glued to the dates, and reluctantly he was the last one to shuffle away.

  A thought crossed Javin’s mind, and he stepped toward the woman.

  Claudia said, “Javin, where are you going?”

  “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  He reached for his wallet from one of his vest’s front pockets as he greeted the woman in Arabic. “Salam alaikum.” Peace be with you. “How is business?”

  The woman gave Javin a curious glance, apparently not expecting him to speak her native tongue. He always found that surprising, although he blended in quite well because of his look and his mastery of the Arabic language. However, once in a while, there was something about him that people were able to put their finger on and identify him as someone who did not belong. “It’s not good. Many poor people in the camp. No jobs, no money. But you’re a journalist. You have money. You want to buy?”

  “Sure. How much are the dates? And the figs?” He gestured at the merchandise placed neatly in small heaps over the blue plastic tablecloth.

  “A thousand, no, two thousand dinars for ten dates or figs. Same price.”

  Javin knew he was being taken advantage of, but it was not the right time to haggle, especially over such a small amount. Plus, it was all for a good cause. “How much do you have?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How much do you have?”

  “How much are you buying?”

  Javin looked at the group of children who had stopped close to the next tent and wer
e looking at an old man fixing what appeared to be a large metal water bucket with a hammer and a set of tools spread out on the ground. “All of it.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. How much do you have?”

  The old woman reached under the table and brought up a couple of large bags, one with dates and the other with figs. She weighed them in her hands, then made some quick calculations. “Twenty, no, thirty thousand for the dates.” She gathered the heaps of dates, threw them into the bag, then handed it to Javin. She weighed the bag of figs, which was a bit smaller and said, “Twenty-five for this one, so fifty-five thousand for both.”

  Javin gave the woman a small headshake, followed by a smile. “I’m buying everything. You can go home to your family, or buy a lot of food for yourself with all this money.” He pulled out a few banknotes and showed them to the woman.

  “Fifty, then.”

  “Sure, you’ve got a deal.” He handed her the money and picked up both bags.

  The little barefooted boy who had first caught Javin’s attention turned his head. His eyes doubled in size when he saw the bags. Javin tilted his head toward the boy, then called out at him, “Come here. Yes, you. And your friends as well. Come, everyone.”

  The boy timidly took a few steps. When he was close enough, Javin crouched down, so he could be at eye level with the boy. “Which ones do you like better?”

  The boy hesitated for a moment. It seemed he was uncertain on whether to pick dates over figs. Or maybe he was not sure if Javin truly was going to hand over the goodies.

  Javin picked up a few dates and said to the boy, “Open your hands. Yes, palms up.”

  He dropped four dates, which almost filled the boy’s little hands. Then he put two figs, which were now precariously stacked at the top. The boy said, “Can I have another one, or two? For my sister.” His voice was timid, but rang with a sliver of hope.

  “Of course. Here, how about we do this? Hold your shirt like this, yes, to form a pouch.”

  The boy smiled as Javin filled the pouch with maybe ten dates and about half as many figs. When he looked up the group of children had surrounded him. Javin thought it was larger than he had expected, and he knew it was only going to grow. I’d better cut down on the shares.

  “Thank you,” the boy said and gave Javin a bright smile.

  Javin returned the smile. He handed out most of the fruit, filling as many small hands as he could. When there were about a quarter of the bags left, he stood up. “That’s all, folks. That’s it.”

  One of the little girls, whose hands were full, was still eyeing the date bag. Javin’s eyes caught her gaze. He knew that he should not do it, but he reached in the bag and put another couple of dates on her hands. The girl smiled and ran away.

  When Javin returned to his team, Claudia said, “You’re done playing Santa Claus?”

  “Want some dates?” He offered the bag to Claudia.

  “Sure. I love Shahani dates.” She picked two and bit into the first one. “Hmmmm, so sweet. Oh, I love it.”

  Javin waved the bags at Issawi and al-Razi, but both men shook their heads. It was one of the few times they had agreed on anything.

  Javin said, “Tom, dates? Figs?”

  “No, I’m okay,” he said.

  Javin tied the bags, then whispered, “We’ll take these to Ghanem. A gift that perhaps might make things smoother.”

  Al-Razi said, “I doubt it. There are other, better ways to make her talk.”

  “We’ll try the soft approach and see where it takes us. As per our original plan, Claudia and I will go to do the interview. Make sure the area around the tent is secure, with no one eavesdropping,” he said in a hushed voice. “We’ll stop at a couple of other tents before we get to hers, so that it’s not obvious why we came here, in case someone is watching.”

  “I haven’t seen anyone,” Issawi said. “And we’ve all been very careful.”

  “There are always people watching. Daesh is not dead,” al-Razi said.

  Javin shrugged. “Let’s keep our eyes open. We’re journalists and that fact alone draws attention.”

  “And your gifts didn’t help,” Issawi said.

  “Let’s go,” Javin said.

  He nodded at Tom, who stepped in front of them. “Which one is the first?”

  “Let’s go for this one.” He pointed at the top of the list.

  The team spent fifteen minutes interviewing a middle-aged man, then a young woman with three children. They did not have much useful information and none of the intelligence that the team could use in its operation. Then, Javin and Claudia moved toward the tent of Ghanem, the promising ISIS widow. Her tent was one of the cleanest, and it seemed it was also slightly larger than the ones next to her. They were all white sun-washed canvas with the UNHCR blue logo on the side. A woman was talking to a couple of children near the entrance to the tent. It sounded like she was scolding them, then took away from one of the children a date and a fig. The woman sniffed at the fruit, then sent the children away. Once they had disappeared around the tent, the woman plopped the date into her mouth.

  At that exact moment, Javin stepped closer to the tent. He gave the woman the customary Muslim greeting, then said, “Excuse me, we’re journalists, and we’d like to talk to Ms. Huda Yusuf Ghanem, if that’s possible.”

  The startled woman almost choked on the date. She swallowed it quickly, then said, “She doesn’t want to talk to journalists, so go—”

  “Actually, I want to talk to them,” a loud angry voice came from inside.

  “Is that you, Ms. Ghanem?” Javin stepped closer to the tent.

  The woman shook her head and stepped in front of Javin. “She doesn’t want—”

  “I think she said something else...”

  “Yes, let them in, right now.”

  Javin shrugged at the woman. “She disagrees.”

  The woman gave Javin and Claudia a stern frown and moved away from the tent’s entrance.

  Javin removed his shoes and placed them next to the others lined up outside the entrance. He ducked his head and entered the tent. It had a plushy red-and-brown carpet with a flowery motif. A woman, whom he recognized as Ghanem, dressed in a black abaya and niqab, was sitting cross-legged on a blue mat near the opposite corner of the tent, across from a small tube television set. She hurried to cover the front of her face with the fold of her headdress, then continued to tend to a small child. He was the boy who had received the largest portion of the dates and figs. His shirt was covered in dirt, and he had streaks of tears along his face.

  “What ... what happened to him?” Javin asked after greeting Ghanem and introducing himself and Claudia.

  “A group of older rascals beat him and took the fruit a generous man had given him. Take a seat.”

  “It’s good to meet you.” Claudia sat next to Javin, opposite to the woman.

  The child turned his head toward Javin, and his eyes sparked with recognition. He whispered something to his mother, who cocked her head in surprise. “It was you.”

  “Yes. A small gesture—”

  “Of stupidity. Didn’t you think of what would happen if you treat some people differently than the rest?”

  Javin blinked back his surprise. What happened to “a generous man?” “I was trying to be helpful. Of course, I can’t give dates to everyone. But that’s not a reason to not help the ones I can.” He placed the bags of dates and figs near Ghanem’s feet. “Like in this case. A gift for you and your family.”

  She studied Javin’s face for a long moment as he gave her a genuine smile. Then Ghanem took a handful of dates from the bag and gave them to her son. He devoured one as Ghanem asked him to leave them, but not until after he had turned on a small fan near the television set. The fan began to move the hot muggy air around.

  Ghanem winced as she shifted her body weight, trying to get more comfortable on the mat. She seemed to be leaning more on her left side and moved her right arm very little.

&n
bsp; Javin asked, “What happened to you?”

  Ghanem shrugged. “What do you mean?”

  “The injury. How did that happen?”

  Ghanem gave Javin a sideways glance. “You’re very attentive, Mr. Pierce.”

  “What can I say, I’m a journalist.”

  “What do you want to ask me?”

  You never answered my earlier question. “We’re working on a reportage about life in Mosul, in the camp, how things might get better now that there is no ISIS.”

  His words drew out no reaction from Ghanem. He was not expecting one from the hardened woman. She sighed and said, “Things are actually worse than when our husbands and brothers were caring for us, providing us with food and a home.”

  “When was that? When ISIS was in power in Mosul?”

  Ghanem nodded. “Yes, that was when Allah granted them the power to bring his glorious law into our city and land. Before the infidels and the apostates killed, and wounded, and displaced so many of us innocent people from our homes.”

  Ghanem spent the next few minutes complaining about the situation in the camp. She made constant comparisons to the high standard of living and the freedom everyone enjoyed when ISIS had established the caliphate and had put in place the Sharia, or the Islamic law. Ghanem said that people were happy; there were plenty of jobs and opportunities for everyone. She lamented that now life was so hard.

  “And do you think ISIS will return to Mosul and Iraq?” Javin asked.

  Ghanem offered a nod and she seemed to smile, although Javin could not be certain because of the veil across her face. “The fighters never left. They are still here, around, and inshallah, they will once again give us back our city and our lives.”

  “Do you happen to know any of them?”

  “I saw many of them when we lived in Mosul. My husband, he worked with them.”

  “He was a fighter?”

  “No, he worked as a mechanic. He was fixing the new government’s cars and sometimes generators and other equipment.”

  “He never fought the enemy?”

  Ghanem thought about her answer for a moment. “He did, near the end, when we were all threatened with being killed if we did not fight back to defend our lives. That’s ... that’s when he ... he died.” Her eyes began to well up. “Now, without him, our family has no money, no hope, no future.”