Twelve Red Herrings

by Archer, Jeffrey

  It had been nearly five years since Saddam Hussein had dismissed him from the Iraqi cabinet, after he had held the post of minister of agriculture for only two years. The wheat crops had been poor that autumn, and after the People’s Army had taken their share, and the middlemen their cut, the Iraqi people ended up with short rations. Someone had to take the blame, and the obvious scapegoat was the minister of agriculture. Hamid’s father, a carpet dealer, had always wanted him to join the family business, and had even warned him before he died not to accept agriculture, the last three holders of that office having first been sacked then later disappeared—and everyone in Iraq knew what “disappeared” meant. But Hamid did accept the post. The first year’s crop had been abundant, and after all, he convinced himself, agriculture was only a stepping stone to greater things. In any case, had not Saddam described him in front of the whole Revolutionary Command Council as “my good and close friend”? At thirty-two you still believe you are immortal.

  Hamid’s father was proved right, and Hamid’s only real friend—friends melted away like snow in the morning sun when this particular president sacked you—helped him to escape.

  The only precaution Hamid had taken during his days as a cabinet minister was to withdraw from his bank account each week a little more cash than he actually needed. He would then change the extra money into American dollars with a street trader, using a different dealer each time, and never exchanging enough to arouse suspicion. In Iraq everyone is a spy.

  The day he was sacked, he checked how much was hidden under his mattress. It amounted to eleven thousand two hundred and twenty-one American dollars.

  The following Thursday, the day on which the weekend begins in Baghdad, he and his pregnant wife took the bus to Erbil. He left his Mercedes conspicuously parked in the front driveway of his large home in the suburbs, and they carried no luggage with them—just two passports, the roll of dollars secreted in his wife’s baggy clothing, and some Iraqi dinars to get them as far as the border.

  No one would be looking for them on a bus to Erbil.

  Once they arrived in Erbil, Hamid and his wife took a taxi to Sulaimania, using most of the remaining dinars to pay the driver. They spent the night in a small hotel far from the city center. Neither slept as they waited for the morning sun to come shining through the curtainless window.

  The next day, another bus took them high into the hills of Kurdistan, arriving in Zakho in the early evening.

  The final part of the journey was the slowest of all. They were taken up through the hills on mules, at a cost of two hundred dollars—the young Kurdish smuggler showed no interest in Iraqi dinars. He delivered the former cabinet minister and his wife safely over the border in the early hours of the morning, leaving them to make their way on foot to the nearest village on Turkish soil. They reached Kirmizi Renga that evening, and spent another sleepless night at the local station, waiting for the first train for Istanbul.

  Hamid and Shereen slept all the way through the long train journey to the Turkish capital and woke up the following morning as refugees. The first visit Hamid made in the city was to the Iz Bank, where he deposited ten thousand eight hundred dollars. The next was to the American embassy, where he produced his diplomatic passport and requested political asylum. His father had once told him that a recently sacked cabinet minister from Iraq was always a good catch for the Americans.

  The embassy arranged accommodation for Hamid and his wife in a first-class hotel, and immediately informed Washington of their little coup. They promised Hamid that they would get back to him as quickly as possible, but gave him no clue as to how long that might take. He decided to use the time to visit the carpet bazaars on the south side of the city so often frequented by his father.

  Many of the dealers remembered Hamid’s father—an honest man who liked to bargain and drink gallons of coffee, and who had often talked about his son going into politics. They were pleased to make his acquaintance, especially when they learned of what he planned to do once he had settled in the States.

  The Zebaris were granted American visas within the week and flown to Washington at the government’s expense, which included a charge for excess baggage of twenty-three Turkish carpets.

  After five days of intensive questioning by the CIA, Hamid was thanked for his cooperation and the useful information he had supplied. He was then released to begin his new life in America. He, his pregnant wife and the twenty-three carpets boarded a train for New York.

  It took Hamid six weeks to find the right shop, on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, from which to sell his carpets. Once he had signed the five-year lease, Shereen immediately set about painting their new Americanized name above the door.

  Hamid didn’t sell his first carpet for nearly three months, by which time his meager savings had all but disappeared. But by the end of the first year, sixteen of the twenty-three carpets had been sold, and he realized he would soon have to travel back to Istanbul to buy more stock.

  Four years had passed since then, and the Zebaris had recently moved to a larger establishment on the West Side, with a small apartment above the shop. Hamid kept telling his wife that this was only the beginning, that anything was possible in the United States. He now considered himself a full-fledged American citizen, and not just because of the treasured blue passport that confirmed his status. He accepted that he could never return to his birthplace while Saddam remained its ruler. His home and possessions had long ago been requisitioned by the Iraqi state, and the death sentence had been passed on him in his absence. He doubted if he would ever see Baghdad again.

  After the stopover in London, the plane landed at Istanbul’s Ataturk Airport a few minutes ahead of schedule. Hamid booked into his usual small hotel, and planned how best to allocate his time over the next two weeks. He was happy to be back amid the hustle and bustle of the Turkish capital.

  There were thirty-one dealers he wanted to visit, because this time he hoped to return to New York with at least sixty carpets. That would require fourteen days of drinking thick Turkish coffee and many hours of bargaining, as a dealer’s opening price would be three times as much as Hamid was willing to pay—or what the dealer really expected to receive. But there was no short cut in the bartering process, which—like his father—Hamid secretly enjoyed.

  By the end of the fortnight, Hamid had purchased fifty-seven carpets at a cost of a little over twenty-one thousand dollars. He had been careful to select only those carpets that would be sought after by the most discerning New Yorkers, and he was confident that this latest batch would fetch almost a hundred thousand dollars in America. It had been such a successful trip that Hamid felt he would indulge himself by taking the earlier Pan Am flight back to New York. After all, he had undoubtedly earned himself the extra sixty-three dollars many times over in the course of his trip.

  He was looking forward to seeing Shereen and the children even before the plane had taken off, and the American flight attendant with her pronounced New York accent and friendly smile only added to the feeling that he was already home. After lunch had been served, and having decided he didn’t want to watch the in-flight movie, Hamid dozed off and dreamed about what he could achieve in America, given time. Perhaps his son would go into politics. Would the United States be ready for an Iraqi president by the year 2025? He smiled at the thought, and fell contentedly into a deep sleep.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” a deep Southern voice boomed out over the intercom, “this is your captain. I’m sorry to interrupt the movie, or to wake those of you who’ve been resting, but we’ve developed a small problem in an engine on our starboard wing. Nothing to worry about, folks, but Federal Aviation Authority rulings insist that we land at the nearest airport and have the problem dealt with before we continue with our journey. It shouldn’t take us more than an hour at the most, and then we’ll be on our way again. You can be sure that we’ll try to make up as much of the lost time as possible, folks.”

  Hamid was suddenly
wide awake.

  “We won’t be disembarking from the aircraft at any time, as this is an unscheduled stop. However, you’ll be able to tell the folks back home that you’ve visited Baghdad.”

  Hamid felt his whole body go limp, and then his head rocked forward. The flight attendant rushed up to his side.

  “Are you feeling all right, sir?” she asked.

  He looked up and stared into her eyes. “I must see the captain immediately. Immediately.”

  The flight attendant was in no doubt of the passenger’s anxiety, and quickly led him forward, up the spiral staircase into the first-class lounge and onto the flight deck.

  She tapped on the door of the cockpit, opened it and said, “Captain, one of the passengers needs to speak to you urgently.”

  “Show him in,” said the Southern voice. The captain turned to face Hamid, who was now trembling uncontrollably. “How can I be of help, sir?” he asked.

  “My name is Hamid Zebari. I am an American citizen,” he began. “If you land in Baghdad, I will be arrested, tortured and then executed.” The words tumbled out. “I am a political refugee, and you must understand that the regime will not hesitate to kill me.”

  The captain only needed to take one look at Hamid to realize he wasn’t exaggerating.

  “Take over, Jim,” he said to his copilot, “while I have a word with Mr. Zebari. Call me the moment we’ve been given clearance to land.”

  The captain unfastened his seatbelt and led Hamid to an empty corner of the first-class lounge.

  “Take me through it slowly,” he said.

  During the next few minutes Hamid explained why he had had to leave Baghdad, and how he came to be living in America. When he had reached the end of his story the captain shook his head and smiled. “No need to panic, sir,” he assured Hamid. “No one is going to have to leave the aircraft at any time, so the passengers’ passports won’t even be checked. Once the engine has been attended to, we’ll be back up and on our way immediately. Why don’t you just stay here in first class, then you’ll be able to speak to me at any time, should you feel at all anxious.”

  How anxious can you feel? Hamid wondered, as the captain left him to have a word with the copilot. He started to tremble once more.

  “It’s the captain once again, folks, just bringing you up to date. We’ve been given clearance by Baghdad, so we’ve begun our descent and expect to land in about twenty minutes. We’ll then be taxiing to the far end of the runway, where we’ll await the engineers. Just as soon as they’ve dealt with our little problem, we’ll be back up and on our way again.”

  A collective sigh went up, while Hamid gripped the armrest and wished he hadn’t eaten any lunch. He didn’t stop shaking for the next twenty minutes, and almost fainted when the wheels touched down on the land of his birth.

  He stared out of the porthole as the aircraft taxied past the terminal he knew so well. He could see the armed guards stationed on the roof and at the doors leading onto the tarmac. He prayed to Allah, he prayed to Jesus, he even prayed to President Reagan.

  For the next fifteen minutes the silence was broken only by the sound of a van driving across the tarmac and coming to a halt under the starboard wing of the aircraft.

  Hamid watched as two engineers carrying bulky toolbags got out of the van, stepped onto a small crane and were hoisted up until they were level with the wing. They began unscrewing the outer plates of one of the engines. Forty minutes later they screwed the plates back on and were lowered to the ground. The van then headed off toward the terminal.

  Hamid felt relieved, if not exactly relaxed. He fastened his seatbelt hopefully. His heartbeat fell from 180 a minute to around 110, but he knew it wouldn’t return to normal until the plane lifted off and he could be sure they wouldn’t turn back. Nothing happened for the next few minutes, and Hamid became anxious again. Then the door of the cockpit opened, and he saw the captain heading toward him, a grim expression on his face.

  “You’d better join us on the flight deck,” the captain said in a whisper. Hamid undid his seatbelt and somehow managed to stand. He unsteadily followed the captain into the cockpit, his legs feeling like jelly. The door was closed behind them.

  The captain didn’t waste any words. “The engineers can’t locate the problem. The chief engineer won’t be free for another hour, so we’ve been ordered to disembark and wait in the transit area until he’s completed the job.”

  “I’d rather die in a plane crash,” Hamid blurted out.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Zebari, we’ve thought of a way around your problem. We’re going to put you in a spare uniform. That will make it possible for you to stay with us the whole time, and use the crew’s facilities. No one will ask to see your passport.”

  “But if someone recognizes me …” began Hamid.

  “Once you’ve got rid of that mustache and you’re wearing a flight officer’s uniform, dark glasses and a peaked hat, your own mother wouldn’t know you.”

  With the help of scissors, followed by shaving foam, followed by a razor, Hamid removed the bushy mustache that he had been so proud of, to leave an upper lip that looked as pale as a blob of vanilla ice cream. The senior flight attendant applied some of her makeup to his skin until the white patch blended in with the rest of his face. Hamid still wasn’t convinced, but after he had changed into the copilot’s spare uniform and studied himself in the toilet mirror, he had to admit that it would indeed be remarkable if anyone recognized him.

  The passengers were the first to leave the plane, and were ferried by an airport bus to the main terminal. A smart transit van then came out to collect the crew, who left as a group and sheltered Hamid by making sure that he was surrounded at all times. Hamid became more and more nervous with each yard the van traveled toward the terminal.

  The security guard showed no particular interest in the air crew as they entered the building, and they were left to find themselves seats on wooden benches in the white-walled hall. The only decoration was a massive portrait of Saddam Hussein in full uniform carrying a Kalashnikov rifle. Hamid couldn’t bring himself to look at the picture of his “good and close friend.”

  Another crew was also sitting around waiting to board their aircraft, but Hamid was too frightened to start up a conversation with any of them.

  “They’re French,” he was informed by the senior flight attendant. “I’m about to find out if my night classes were worth all the expense.” She took the spare place next to the captain of the French aircraft and tried a simple opening question.

  The French captain was telling her that they were bound for Singapore via New Delhi, when Hamid saw him: Saad al-Takriti, once a member of Saddam’s personal guard, marched into the hall. From the insignia on his shoulder, he now appeared to be in charge of airport security.

  Hamid prayed that he wouldn’t look in his direction. Al-Takriti sauntered through the room, glancing at the French and American crews, his eyes lingering on the flight attendant’s black-stockinged legs.

  The captain touched Hamid on the shoulder and he nearly leapt out of his skin.

  “It’s OK, it’s OK. I just thought you’d like to know that the chief engineer is on his way out to the aircraft, so it shouldn’t be too long now.”

  Hamid looked beyond the Air France plane, and watched a van come to a halt under the starboard wing of the Pan Am aircraft. A man in blue overalls stepped out of the vehicle and onto the little crane.

  Hamid stood up to take a closer look, and as he did so Saad al-Takriti walked back into the hall. He came to a sudden halt, and the two men stared briefly at each other, before Hamid quickly resumed his place next to the captain. Al-Takriti disappeared into a side room marked “Do Not Enter.”

  “I think he’s spotted me,” said Hamid. The makeup started to run down onto his lips.

  The captain leaned across to his chief flight attendant and interrupted her parley with the French captain. She listened to her boss’s instructions, and then tried a tougher
question on the Frenchman.

  Saad al-Takriti marched back out of the office and began striding toward the American captain. Hamid thought he would surely faint.

  Without even glancing at Hamid, al-Takriti barked, “Captain, I require you to show me your manifest, the number of crew you are carrying, and their passports.”

  “My copilot has all the passports,” the captain replied. “I’ll see you get them.”

  “Thank you,” said al-Takriti. “When you have collected them, you will bring them to my office so that I can check each one. Meanwhile, please ask your crew to remain here. They are not, under any circumstances, to leave the building without my permission.”

  The captain rose from his place, walked slowly over to the copilot, and asked for the passports. Then he issued an order that took him by surprise. The captain took the passports into the security office just as a bus drew up outside the transit area to take the French crew back to their plane.

  Saad al-Takriti placed the fourteen passports in front of him on his desk. He seemed to take pleasure in checking each one of them slowly. When he had finished the task, he announced in mock surprise, “I do believe, captain, that I counted fifteen crew wearing Pan Am uniforms.”

  “You must have been mistaken,” said the captain. “There are only fourteen of us.”

  “Then I will have to make a more detailed check, won’t I, captain? Please return these documents to their rightful owners. Should there happen to be anyone not in possession of a passport, they will naturally have to report to me.”

  “But that is against international regulations,” said the captain, “as I’m sure you know. We are in transit, and therefore, under UN Resolution 238, not legally in your country.”

  “Save your breath, captain. We have no use for UN resolutions in Iraq. And, as you correctly point out, as far as we are concerned, you are not legally even in our country.”