The Great and Terrible

by Chris Stewart

  The leader was a short man with a thin neck whose head strained awkwardly when he looked up to talk. Though he had a dark beard, his dome was bald and shiny and it reflected the light of the single bulb overhead.

  “Why is he willing to pay so much for this girl?” the short leader demanded, his voice thick with sha, the opiate tea he drank every day.

  The store owner frowned. “I don’t know,” he replied defensively, many years of resentment boiling in his thick voice. A former army officer, he was not used to being questioned, and his eyes flashed with anger, his brow furrowing into a deep scowl.

  The leader gritted his teeth. “I don’t like it,” he sneered. “You can buy a girl, any girl, I don’t care how young or beautiful, for ten thousand American dollars. He is paying two times the market. Something is going on.” The leader stared at the shop owner, who hunched his shoulders and scowled. “Who is he? Where did he come from? Why does he want her so much?”

  The shop owner stood square, staring into the young leader’s face. “I’ll tell you why he wants her! Because she is young and beautiful, and he is American. They think they can buy anything! Twenty thousand dollars! That may be little more than a month’s wage to him! I don’t know. I don’t care!” He swore bitterly. “Who are you to question when I make a good deal? If I had sold her for ten thousand, you would be angry too. I bring you a deal with enormous profits, and you are worried because I don’t know who the buyer is! Do we know any of our buyers? No. Not a one. Now, are you going to get the girl, or should I go somewhere else!”

  The smaller man stared defiantly, glaring into his subordinate’s eyes. There were issues here, he could see that, issues he could not ignore, but he would deal with them later. There was always time to make adjustments in the attitudes of his men. Working in Saddam’s political chambers had taught him many things.

  He took two deep breaths, then frowned and nodded toward the wooden door that led into the shop. “The whitey is out there?” he asked.

  The other man nodded yes.

  “I will talk to him,” he said, walking toward the door.

  * * *

  The American was waiting beside the counter near the front of the nearly empty store. Emerging from the back door, the Iraqi leader walked toward him; the American turned and waited until the two men stood face-to-face. This was the Iraqi’s land, his neighborhood, and he stood with confidence, not intimidated by the American’s money or wealth. Whitey was the stranger in this part of the world, and the Iraqi stood too close, knowing it would make him uncomfortable. He studied the stranger, making a swift appraisal of him. Soft hands were a sign that a man could not take care of himself, and he glanced down. This man’s hands were dark and hard. Many days in the sun. A long way from soft, and certainly not manicured. The Iraqi grunted, a little surprised; most of the whities he had dealt with were soft-padded poodles from the city who couldn’t change a flat tire or load a weapon if their lives depended on the result. He moved his eyes up to the man’s shoulders, which were broad and strong. Many Americans strengthened themselves—part of how they worshipped their bodies—and there was nothing unusual about the strength of his arms. But there was something lean in the muscles. They were taut and quick. These were the muscles of a fighter, not a fool who spent his time mindlessly lifting weights.

  The Iraqi felt the first stab of fear.

  Then he studied the face, the shaggy hair and hard eyes.

  There was something about this American, something familiar. He had not seen this face, but he’d seen that look before.

  The Iraqi bit his lip, even more uncomfortable. “You came to discuss the girl?” he snorted in barely understandable English.

  The American nodded toward the shop owner, who was standing near the back of the store. “He said he could get what I wanted, but it would take ten days. Things have changed. I want her now.”

  The Iraqi was suspicious. “What’s your hurry, good master?” he asked.

  The American glared. “Does it matter?”

  “No, my Sayid,” the Iraqi answered sarcastically as he bowed. “But these things can be difficult . . . ”

  “Can you do it? Yes or no?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. It’s just that . . . ”

  “I’m leaving the country in three days. Can you get her by then?”

  “Oh, no, my Sayid. It will take longer than that.”

  “How long?”

  “At least a week. She is inside Khorramshahr, which you must know is a U.N. refugee camp. If she were in Iran or a village under Iraqi control, I could have her tonight. It would be easy, my friend. But the refugee camps are much more difficult—you must know that is true. Perhaps I could interest you in another one of our . . . ”

  “No,” the American snapped. “I only want her.”

  The Iraqi stepped back and forced a smile. “You must be buying for a very, ah . . . how do you say in your language? . . . a very particular buyer.”

  “Who I buy for doesn’t matter. All I want to know is, can you get her by Saturday? It’s a simple question, Mr. Zubaida.”

  The Iraqi scowled with anger. How did this man know his name?

  He shook his head. “Very difficult. Maybe, if we were to pay the right people, pull a few strings here and there—but it will be much more expensive. Our cost would go very high. I will say we can do it, but it might cost another five or six thousand dollars.”

  The American leaned toward the Iraqi, his eyes bright and intense. “Then you will take it out of your profits, which were already very generous, my friend. I will come back in three

  days, and I want that girl. Have her here, we are all happy. Disappoint me, and I shut you down.”

  “Shut me down!” the Iraqi scoffed as he turned away. “Don’t make me angry, you American fool! You cannot touch me, not here. If we were in Baghdad, in the American sector, then maybe, but this is not your world, my friend.” He snorted again. “Shut me down! What an idiot! What are you going to do!”

  The American took a step forward. “I did not mean shut down your business, my friend.”

  The Iraqi took another step back, glancing anxiously toward his partner, who was standing quietly near the back door. Who was this American? His gut tightened up.

  The American moved his hand, flipping aside the open flap on his jacket. The Iraqi saw the weapon and glared angrily.

  “There are things I could do,” the American said through clenched teeth. “Things you are familiar with. Things you have done too.” His eyes glinted in the dim light, and the Iraqi saw that look once again, that look he had seen too often before.

  “You and I are the same,” the American hissed. “We understand each other. You know that we do. Now, I’m coming back on Saturday, and I want that girl.”

  The Iraqi pressed his lips together and nodded.

  The American turned and walked out the front door.

  The Iraqi cursed at him, keeping his head down until he heard the door close.

  Oh, how he hated the Americans. How he hated them all!

  Khorramshahr Refugee Camp

  Iraq/Iran Border

  Twenty hours later, the former Baathist party leader was escorted through the front gates at Khorramshahr. The camp looked like any other he had been to, and he kicked his feet through the dirt and dead grass, not noticing the few trees and wildflowers along the fence on the east.

  The man wore dark pants, white shirt, and black turban. He didn’t remove his dark glasses, which he wore to hide his red eyes. He waited impatiently on the wood porch of the administration building, listening carefully to the sounds of the camp. It was afternoon, and the sun was hidden behind a thin haze, enough to soften his shadow and reduce the afternoon heat but not enough to keep him from sweating profusely, a steady stream of perspiration beading on his heavy brow.

  The administration building was built on a small hill overlooking Khorramshahr. A ten-foot barbed-wire fence surrounded the camp, but it was in disrepair and g
enerally unnecessary, as none of the camp’s occupants had anywhere to go. To the north were the cafeteria and improvised school. Rows of identical plywood huts had been built on the flats to the west, and south of them were rows of multicolored tents, which housed the newest refugees. The stranger stared at the tents, hoping to get a glimpse of the girl. Behind him, up near the trees, some refugees were burning the contents of the latrines, an inky black smoke drifting from the fifty-gallon drums.

  A little after 3:00, Mr. Raule, special assistant to the camp administrator, came out on the porch where the Iraqi was waiting. “The administrator will see you now,” he said. The Iraqi followed the pasty-looking French officer into the building.

  The admin building was simply laid out, with small cubicles lining both sides of the tile-covered room. Little furniture, no decorations, a small clock on the wall. Four larger offices took up the space at the back of the building, and Mr. Raule led the Iraqi to the largest of them.

  The camp administrator was a French career civil servant, a man who had spent his entire professional life working through the monstrous bureaucracy that was the U.N. He had finally, and proudly, reached a place where he owned his own kingdom, and he exuded an air of smugness that was almost tangible. He was an overly neat man, small, with a tightly trimmed white mustache and a hairline that had receded past the midpoint of his head. His office was sparse, clean, and all business: metal desk, metal cabinets, metal wastebasket, metal chairs. A single window looked out on the camp, but the blinds had been closed. As the Iraqi was escorted into the room, the U.N. administrator stood and moved quickly from behind his desk, every motion efficient. He had little time.

  The men shook hands, but the French administrator did not invite the Arab to sit down. “What can I do for you?” he wondered, getting right to the point.

  “I’m looking for someone. A young girl, about fifteen, maybe a year or two older. Pretty. Long hair. She came here from the western mountains of Iran.”

  The Frenchman studied the Arab, noting the sunken cheeks and rough skin, the dark and lifeless eyes. He wanted to step back from him. “We have many young people here,” the administrator replied, offering little help.

  “She is my master’s niece. She was recently orphaned, and my master has reason to believe she might have come here. He has sent me to find her and bring her back to her family in Pakistan.”

  “What is her name?” the administrator asked.

  “Azadeh Pahlavi.”

  “Have you checked with the front desk?”

  “No, my Sayid.”

  The camp administrator turned to the door and called. Raule appeared almost instantly. “Azadeh Pahlavi. Young girl. See if she is here.”

  Raule didn’t move. “She’s here,” he said.

  “You are certain, Mr. Raule?”

  “Yes, sir, I am. She in-processed no more than a few weeks ago.”

  “Really?” the administrator said. “Just curious, Mr. Raule, but how can you be so sure?”

  Raule blushed and dropped his eyes. “I helped her with some of the paperwork when she in-processed. She’s . . . I don’t know. I remember her. I’ve talked with her a time or two since then.”

  The administrator stared, a curious look on his face. “Very well then, Mr. Raule.” He nodded to his Iraqi guest. “This gentleman, Mr. Ishameil, has come for Miss Pahlavi. He works for her uncle. He brings good news for her. He wants to take her with him.”

  Raule shook his head and answered, “Sir, that can’t be.”

  “And why not?” the administrator questioned. The Iraqi frowned.

  “The young woman that I’m talking about had no next of kin. Her father had been recently killed. Her mother died in childbirth. She said she had no family. No brothers. No sisters. No one, she said.”

  The camp administrator cocked his head to the Iraqi and raised a curious eyebrow. “Perhaps we are talking about two different people,” he offered.

  The Arab shook his head and pulled out a picture, dropping it on the desk. The Frenchman picked it up, then handed it to his assistant, who looked at it carefully as he nodded his head. “Yes, that is her. I remember her very well.”

  The administrator extended his hand, asking for the picture again. It showed a close-up of Azadeh’s face but no background or other identifiable feature that would give context to where the picture had been taken or how long ago. “This is a recent photograph?” he wondered.

  The Arab shook his head. “Perhaps a few months old. Her father sent it to my master sometime last winter, I believe.”

  The administrator turned to his assistant. “Mr. Raule, are you certain she said that she had no kin?”

  Raule answered quickly, “Oh, yes, quite certain, sir.”

  He lifted the picture and shook it. “And you are certain this is her?”

  “Very certain, sir.” Raule shot a glaring look at the stranger.

  The administrator leaned against his desk, took out a cigarette, and placed it between his lips. But he didn’t light up, sucking on the filter instead. “It seems, Mr. Ishameil, that we have a discrepancy here. Either your master is a liar, or this girl has an uncle that she is not willing to claim.”

  The Arab’s shoulders slumped. So insulting. So demeaning. His eyelids drooped with hurt.

  His act wasn’t particularly convincing, and the U.N. officer pressed his lips together.

  “Sayid,” the Arab pleaded, “my master is an honorable man. He has sent me at great expense, and he is not a wealthy man, my Sayid. He sent me to find this girl. He only wants to help her. He has her interest at heart. And it may not be surprising the girl wouldn’t mention her uncle, for my master has lived in Pakistan his entire adult life. It has been many years and, though I can’t say for certain, it seems possible Miss Pahlavi and my master may never have met.”

  The administrator finally lit the cigarette and pulled in a long drag of smoke. He had heard so many stories, most of them filled with grief, that it was difficult to tell him something that he wouldn’t believe. This was certainly possible, yet it just didn’t ring true. In his gut, he knew the Arab was lying. But he didn’t how he could prove it. And he didn’t much care.

  “Do you have papers proving relationship?” he asked quickly, ready to move on to his next task.

  “Of course, Sayid.” The Arab pulled out three stapled forms and handed them to the administrator, who immediately passed them to his aide, Mr. Raule.

  “Now, my Sayids,” the Arab went on as Raule scanned the documents. “I would love to spend the afternoon discussing my master’s family tree, but I know you are busy, and frankly, I am as well. If you would sign the papers and release forms, I will take custody of the girl. And of course, I also have a copy of a signed U.N. form 12—22.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out another neatly folded form. “I believe that is all you will need,” he concluded confidently.

  The administrator eyed the forms as he smoked. “It seems, Mr. Ishameil, that you might have done this before?” His voice carried just enough sarcasm to show his disdain.

  “Oh, no, my Sayid,” the Arab shot back. “But as I said, my master is very anxious. The news of his brother’s death has been very hard on him. They were . . . not friendly. Estranged. There was a bitter divide in their family, and my master is hopeful that his brother’s death, in Allah’s mercy, may have the power to bridge the divide. My master believes that caring for this young girl is part of his penance, and he means to make good. So he has taken great care to find out what has to be done. Thus, I have my instructions: find his orphaned niece and bring her back to him.”

  The administrator pulled another drag, then turned toward Raule, who lifted his eyes. He had studied the documents. They were in order. He reluctantly nodded his head.

  The administrator knew then that, despite his suspicions, he could not stop the stranger from taking the girl. The camp directives were clear: U.N. officials were to make every effort to repatriate underage refugees to their
families. No exceptions to the rule. Families had precedence. And no agreement was required from the underage refugee to go. Even if minors didn’t want to go back to their families—and the administrator knew there were many good reasons some of them did not want to return—they had no choice. If a family member appeared with proof of relationship, the camp directors had to release the minor to that person’s care.

  The Frenchman knew that some of the young women he released from Khorramshahr ended up in very bad circumstances: prostitutes in Iran; sex slaves in India, Pakistan, and Thailand; suicide bombers in Gaza; prisoners in forced labor camps. The list of places they could be sent was as long as the list of sins. But worrying about the children who left Khorramshahr was not what the U.N. paid him to do. Such concerns fell under the Office of Children’s Advocate on the twenty-first floor of the U.N. building, which was eight thousand miles to the west.

  Eight thousand miles from Khorramshahr. A very long way, indeed.

  He glanced at the photograph of Azadeh. She was beautiful and smiling. Beauty was a dangerous thing, he knew. He turned to the Arab. Did this man really represent Azadeh’s uncle? He had serious doubts. Would she end up in a brothel in Karachi? It was certainly possible.

  Would he spend even five minutes worrying about her once she had been taken from Khorramshahr? Not a chance in this world.

  He had other worries than one more lost girl.

  He walked back behind his desk, sat down, and began to sign the release forms. The Arab smiled as he watched the administrator work through the papers.

  Without looking up, the administrator asked Raule, “Do you know which living quarters Miss Pahlavi has been assigned?”

  Raule hesitated, shooting a look at the stranger, who was watching him now. The two men locked onto each other with unblinking eyes. The hostile moment lingered.