by Ethan Jones
“This is Chan’s position, of course, and I can’t do much in this situation. Javin, you know I’ve got your back, but this is way beyond my authority. If the minister or the prime minister wants you gone, well, you’re gone, just like that.” Bateaux snapped his fingers.
Javin moved the phone away from his mouth and cursed under his breath.
Claudia gave him a look of disappointment. She reached for the phone and, when Javin handed it to her, she said, “Thank you, Mr. Bateaux. We’re clear as to our purpose. Anything else?”
“Yes, listen, I want you and Javin to stay with the service. You have the talent and you’re perhaps the only ones capable of pulling this off. I’m just reminding you of the lines in the sand, drawn by others, before I even got here.”
Javin said nothing.
Claudia said, “Understood, sir. We’ll execute the op without stepping on Iraqis’ toes, political or otherwise.”
“Good. I’m glad everything is cleared up. Javin?”
“Yes?”
“You see the full picture here, right?”
“Yes, sir, I do.” His voice had taken on a grim tone.
Bateaux either did not notice or did not care to notice. “Again, I’m glad you get the message. Call me as soon as you have the next update.”
“Okay.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Bateaux,” Claudia said.
Javin waited until his boss ended the call. “Well, he does a great job being Chan’s messenger boy...”
Claudia pursed her lips and nodded. “It’s getting worse and worse, Javin. And you know what that means?” She gave him a small, tentative smile.
Javin cocked his head and gave her a curious glance. “I know what that smile means.”
Claudia stepped closer to Javin. “This is our chance to excel. They gave us an opportunity to come back, after the Geneva op. We took it, and we’re not going to squander it. We’re not going to let this Iraqi loudmouth, or Chan, stop us now, are we?”
Javin gazed deep into Claudia’s fiery eyes. Her intense look gave him the spark he needed to rekindle the fervor in his heart. “You’re right. Perhaps the governor or his cronies have ties to the terrorists. Or they’re afraid ISIS will return. The Iraqis want us to fail. We’ll prove them wrong.”
Claudia smiled. “That’s my Javin.”
He returned the smile. “Let’s go back.” He gestured toward the safehouse. “I’ll talk to the governor. Perhaps we can restrain him, so there are no more bad reports about what happened here.”
“I doubt it, but what’s done is done.”
“It’s worth a try. Let’s go make it happen.”
Chapter Nine
CIS Safehouse
Two Miles North of Mosul, Iraq
It turned out that no restraining was necessary. The governor was concerned and called to check on Javin and Claudia, considering the attack against their safehouse. He expressed his regrets about what had happened and offered his assistance.
Javin did not know what to make of the governor’s sudden change in behavior. The agent declined the governor’s offer to be moved to another, safer location. There was no such thing around here, he wanted to tell the governor, but he refrained from it, knowing the governor would not be pleased with the unflattering, yet fair, assessment. Javin also did not accept an increase of the Iraqi police force working with them. He suggested the governor instead focus those resources on investigating the safehouse attack and who was behind it. Reluctantly, the governor agreed and promised to inform Javin of anything of value. However, the governor again refused Javin’s request to interrogate any prisoners. The governor was more polite than the first time, but his response was still a resounding “no.”
After hanging up, Javin glanced at Claudia sitting across the rickety plastic table. They were in one of the smaller rooms near the back of the house, the area that had suffered the least amount of damage. Issawi was standing just outside the door to make sure that none of the other police officers or militiamen were eavesdropping. Javin and Claudia had spoken in low voices, just above a whisper, so that Issawi too was not privy to their conversation with the governor. “So, what do you think?” Javin said. “That’s quite the change.”
“Head-spinningly fast. Maybe he realized he pushed too hard.” Claudia tried to stifle a yawn.
“Or maybe he thinks we suspect something isn’t right.”
“He’s trying to cover up secrets.”
“Could be. He’s definitely not clean.”
Claudia shrugged. “He’s a politician in Iraq.”
“Say no more.”
A knock on the door interrupted their conversation.
Javin said, “Yes, come in.”
“Hey, buddies,” Tom, the CIA agent, said as he walked in. “I heard about the shooting and came as soon as I could.”
He was dressed in his usual flak vest and tan camouflage fatigues. He brushed his messy strawberry blond hair to the side and pulled up a chair.
“You missed a good party,” Javin said.
“So I heard. You all right?”
“As you can see.” Claudia said.
“As pretty as ever.”
Claudia grinned. “Thank you, Tom.”
“Who were those people?” He gestured with his head toward the door.
“Don’t know.” Javin slid the banknote with the numbers toward him. “Can you check these?”
“What am I looking at?”
“Phone numbers?”
“Maybe a bank account,” Claudia said.
“It could be coordinates, I’m not sure.”
“Whatever it is, I’ll find it.” Tom folded and took the banknote.
Javin said, “We also have our own people working on it.”
Another knock on the door, then Issawi popped his head inside the room. “The boys have made breakfast...”
“This early?” Javin said.
Issawi shrugged. “Anytime is the right time for scrambled eggs. I’m not about to complain, but if you want to, go ahead.”
“It’s going to be daybreak soon,” Claudia said.
Javin said, “We’re coming right away.”
In five minutes, they were all sitting on cinderblocks around a small gas stove in one of the corners of the main yard. Issawi had given each one of them a plate full of eggs, rice, and beans. Tom and al-Razi were across from Javin and Claudia, while two police officers had flanked Issawi, who occasionally leaned closer to the stove and stirred the pot of rice and the pan of eggs.
“Did you hear about what happened at the school in Shiliha?” said one of the two officers to no one in particular.
Issawi nodded. “Yes, I did. The Peshmergas are going crazy, killing everyone they suspect is Daesh...”
Javin cocked his head toward Issawi. “What’s happening?”
“What? You don’t know? Or you don’t think Peshmergas can do that?”
The Peshmergas were the best-trained Kurdish fighters, who had fought like lions against ISIS and terrorists of all creeds and flags in many parts of Syria and Iraq. The word “Peshmerga” meant “those who face death,” revealing the real nature of their fighting. Many Peshmergas had fought Saddam Hussein, the former Iraqi dictator, after being trained and armed by the CIA. Joint operations between the Peshmergas, US Special Forces, Iraqi Army, and Iranian-backed militias had continued during the long months of clashes with ISIS terrorists and now their scattered remnants. After the Kurdish authorities held a referendum that declared independence, a new conflict erupted on many fronts. Baghdad had rejected the referendum, and Iraqi government forces and militias had turned their weapons against their former allies.
Javin shrugged. “I think everyone is capable of violence. The question is why.”
The police officer said, “Issawi explained it. Peshmergas kill everyone they suspect was Daesh or helped the Daesh kill their brothers.”
“It’s payback,” Issawi said.
“How accurate are these reports?” Ja
vin said.
The police officer shrugged. “I heard it from friends, who heard it from others. That’s how word gets around about these things. It’s not like they’ll be on the media or there’s going to be a government report about it.”
“So this may not be true at all?”
“Or exaggerated?” Claudia said.
Al-Razi snorted. “Look, I know you want the Kurds to appear as heroes, fighting for independence, for justice, blah, blah, blah. But the truth is that there are no war heroes. Everyone who fought here has blood on their hands.”
“Everyone?” Javin tipped his head toward al-Razi.
“Yes, everyone,” he said, before realizing what Javin meant. Al-Razi thought about his reply for a moment, then nodded. “Well, it depends on the point of view and who you ask. In Iran, perhaps people see me as a hero. The Kurds and some Iraqis, they see me as the enemy.” He glanced at Issawi.
“I don’t see you personally as the enemy, but it’s true that Iran is interfering in our country’s affairs,” Issawi said.
Al-Razi said, “If by interfering you mean liberating Mosul and other areas, then you’re right.” His voice had turned loud and firm.
“Liberating? Really? We could have handled it all by ourselves, without you or the Americans.”
Al-Razi let out a peal of mock laughter. “You must have a very short memory ... Did you forget how the Iraqi army ran away like scared dogs with their tail between their legs when Daesh first took control of Mosul? The army had 30,000 troops, state-of-the-art weapons, and the support of the city population. What did Daesh have? Light weapons and perhaps 800 untrained fighters. Those were 40-to-1 odds.” Al-Razi’s voice grew strong, filled with anger. “Then Daesh took all the weapons, released hundreds of prisoners, and robbed almost a billion dollars from the city banks. Not to mention the thousands of residents killed and the almost total destruction of the city.”
“That’s not true at all,” Issawi replied with a voice equally enraged. “Some people were afraid and left their posts, yes. But the true Iraqi soldiers, like us, we would have taken the city without you.” He waved his hand around and pointed at the two officers. “And the destruction came from the Americans. They were too scared to send ground troops, so they dropped bombs all over the city, which razed everything to the ground and caused most of the civilian deaths.”
“Wrong again,” al-Razi shouted. “Americans dropped bombs because of the coordinates given by your army.”
Tom leaned forward and cleared his throat. “I can only speak for myself, but I was on the ground the entire time. And so were another dozen or so Americans. Some of us fought with the Rapid Response Division. Others were the first to push through to Khazer and Qaraqosh, as the Iraqi Army started the offensive. There were no cowards among those troops. Don’t you ever forget that.”
“Gentlemen, we’re never going to resolve these things here,” Javin said in a low, warm voice.
“Can I have more eggs?” Claudia said.
Issawi put a couple of forkfuls on her plate. “Rice?”
“No, thanks.”
The police officer who had mentioned the Peshmerga incident said, “All I wanted to say is that the Peshmergas are killing their prisoners. I know we have no business in the areas under their control, because of the ceasefire, but in case you or someone you know is thinking of going up north...”
“Yes, on the topic of prisoners, the governor has denied our request to talk to the men who have been rounded up. Needless to say, that doesn’t leave us many options in terms of gathering intel.”
Al-Razi nodded slowly. “That’s too bad.”
“It is.”
“Those would be good sources. They know a lot, and they also have the motives to cooperate.”
“That’s what I told the governor, but he has a different opinion. He said they’ve all been thoroughly interrogated, and have given up everything they know. So, he views this as a waste of time.”
Issawi said, “We’ll have to do what the governor says, whether we like it or not.”
“And that’s what we’re doing,” Javin said.
He reached for his coffee cup, but found it empty. “I’m going to make some coffee.” He stood up. “I’ll bring the pot out, in case others want some as well.”
Tom got to his feet. “I’ll go with you.”
“What’s going on?” Issawi said.
“Nothing.” Tom shrugged. “But since you want to know, I have to go to the little boys’ room...”
Issawi returned a grin.
When they were beyond the group’s earshot, Tom leaned closer to Javin. “I received a text message a couple of minutes ago. We’ve got a hit on those numbers on the banknote.”
“Cellphones?”
Tom shook his head. “No, account numbers in a Swiss bank.”
Chapter Ten
CIS Safehouse
Two Miles North of Mosul, Iraq
“What Swiss bank?” Javin whispered.
“Credit Bank of Geneva. Well-known for money laundering or accounts of dubious origins.”
Javin nodded. “The Swiss, always neutral, never ask questions.”
“Right.”
“Who owns the account?”
“Not clear, as we’ve just started to look into it. Like you said, the Swiss are very unlikely to cooperate. Even if they do, it will take some time as we’ll have to go through layers of paperwork and then a series of shell companies all over the Caribbean.”
“We don’t have that time.”
“And I don’t have the patience.”
Javin smiled as they entered the house. “So, we know what to do then...”
Tom nodded and headed toward the washroom near the back of the house.
Javin began to brew a large pot of coffee in the coffeemaker. He thought about Tom’s words and how the finding of the bank account changed their strategy. I’ve got to inform Claudia, then get Bateaux’s authorization, which shouldn’t be a problem. We’ll also need some backup on the ground from the Swiss police, especially if things go sideways.
The brewing cycle was only halfway finished when Issawi walked into the kitchen. He seemed surprised to see only Javin there. “What’s up?” Javin asked.
Issawi struggled for a reply. “Eh, nothing ... came in for a moment. Is the coffee ready?”
“Almost.”
“I’ll get a cup now.”
He pulled out the pot and filled his cup. The coffee kept dripping, splattering the machine and the countertop, but Issawi did not care. In a moment, he returned the pot back into its place, ignoring the hot coffee trickling onto the back of his hand.
Javin wanted to ask if there was something wrong, considering the deep frown on Issawi’s face, but decided against it. In a matter of hours, Javin, Claudia, and Tom would be heading for Geneva. Whatever Issawi’s issue was, Javin did not want to make it his own.
“Are you coming?” Issawi said.
“Once coffee’s ready. Two minutes tops. Am I missing something important?”
Issawi shrugged. “No, the Iranian is retelling his exaggerated antics, making himself a war hero.”
“Didn’t he just say there are no heroes?”
“Unless they’re Iranians.”
Javin shrugged. “Al-Razi is a dramatic storyteller.”
“Yes, he has a great imagination, making up things that never happened.”
“I’ll bring the coffee when it’s ready.”
Issawi shrugged and walked out the kitchen.
Tom entered the next moment. “What did crusty-face want?”
“I think he was wondering what we were conspiring about...”
“Will you tell him about—”
“Shhhhh.”
“He’s gone.”
“Doesn’t matter, and no, I’m not telling him.”
“Good decision.”
“Yes. And we’re definitely keeping the gov and all locals in the dark about this,” he said in a faint whis
per, leaning very close to Tom.
“Do you think he’s somehow involved?”
“I’m not sure, but I wouldn’t exclude the possibility.”
“Yes. His family didn’t build that mansion in Spain on his meager state salary.”
Javin nodded. He was aware of the great wealth of the governor. Like many former and current Iraqi politicians, he was swimming in riches. Billions and billions of dollars were being syphoned out of the country on a regular basis, with one estimate from the Commission on Transparency of the Iraqi Parliament asserting the mind-blowing amount of 320 billion dollars over the last fifteen years. Whether it was to pay for contracts that were never executed, bridges and highways that were built to extremely low standards, yet at an outrageous cost, or charges for endless layers of mediators and consultants, Iraq was bleeding petro-dollars from all sides. The former governor had been sacked on charges of corruption, and rumors about Mr. Khaznadar’s illicit activities abounded. “We’ve got to let Claudia know, then get my boss to approve the change of plans.”
Tom nodded. “My boss is already on board. He wants us to follow this wherever it takes us.”
“Do you have people in Geneva?”
“No active agents stationed there, but we have a few assets. And I can get more help, if we need it.”
“It will depend on what it will take to find the name of the person who owns that account.”
Javin glanced at the coffeemaker. “It’s ready. Let’s go.”
He picked up the pot and followed Tom outside.
Everyone took a cup, and there was barely enough for Javin. He shrugged and sat next to Claudia. She gave him a curious glance, but he could only return a small headshake.
They sat in the yard and chatted mostly about the region’s geopolitics and what the future might hold for Iraq and the wider area. Discussions grew heated at times, and Javin mostly stayed out of it. They’re all grown men that can and should handle themselves. Plus, the Iraqi society had a flair for drama, for animated and loud conversation, and for wearing emotions on the sleeve.
