Spoils

by Brian Van Reet

  His hands flexed on the knobbed wheel like he’d intuited my train of thought.

  “Are you a good Muslim?” I said, gentler now. “Good with God?”

  “Who knows,” he said. “I make the prayers.”

  “Then you have nothing to be afraid of. If we’re with God, death cannot touch us. Or don’t you believe that?”

  It was as much a provocation to myself as to him, and it went unanswered by either of us. We drove the rest of the way without talking. He slowed when we sighted the base, concrete blast walls erected around it like a palisade. I went into my pocket for another twenty dollars. “I may not be so poor as I thought. This one is for your time if you wait here. And another, when I get back, for the return fare to Fallujah.”

  He agreed to the deal. I got out of the cab and took my crutches but not the satchel, which, having no better option—and being more worried about losing the vest than the cash—I’d placed on the floorboard and shoved behind his seat in hopes he wouldn’t notice it. I approached the base. It was obvious the Americans hadn’t built their garrison themselves but had repurposed it. I saw a faded sign painted in orange and red on the tallest building behind the blast walls. It advertised a defunct brand of Iraqi cigarettes; buoyed by the Valium and my audaciousness in coming here, I chuckled to think the place had maintained its essential function—manufacturing dependency, death, vice—even while changing ownership so dramatically.

  Two Iraqi police officers stood guard. I told them the reason for my visit and was patted down and let through the first gate. Inside an American base for the first time, I was struck by its mundanity: there was nothing so remarkable about this supposedly elite force. Aside from its strange location in the old cigarette factory, it looked like similar-sized Russian installations I’d observed in Chechnya. Drab, utilitarian, everything careworn and a little faded, men with the expression of yoked beasts performing manual labors of both the colossal and tedious varieties.

  At a second checkpoint, a team of guards searched me more thoroughly. I feigned to speak no English, and the soldier in charge asked me through one of the Iraqis how I’d been injured. Although I’d told the cabbie the truth, this time I did not. The American spent some time on the radio with his supervisor before blindfolding me and leading me deeper into the base, my arm around one of his men for support, a second soldier carrying my crutches. Eventually I found myself in a bare room with a desk and chairs, where the blindfold was removed.

  A man who introduced himself as Captain Brugone arrived to conduct my debriefing. Our discussion was facilitated by a young Iraqi in Western dress who never did give his name. I assume he was, until recently, a student at Baghdad University, although that’s conjecture. I’ve heard that those fluent in English and who’re at all sympathetic to the occupation—and some who aren’t—have found work as translators. It’s now one of the best-paying jobs in Iraq, unless one is lucky enough to sit on the Puppet Council or otherwise find himself poised to skim the fat off a government ministry.

  “Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?” Brugone asked, his translator relaying the courtesy, and all of our following exchanges.

  “No, thank you. As long as I can keep my leg up, it’s all right.”

  “After we’re done talking, I’d like to have one of my medics take a look at that.”

  “I would be in your debt.”

  With pleasantries out of the way, Brugone launched into the formal part of the interrogation. I was fingerprinted and photographed. He scribbled on a yellow legal pad as I gave my name (false) and occupation (farmer). He asked where I was born; I claimed al-Sadhan, a village outside the city. Throughout the course of these introductory questions and answers, the translator regarded me circumspectly, so shrewdly and warily, I grew convinced he knew, or at least strongly suspected, I wasn’t born anywhere near Fallujah. I’d tried to disguise my accent but am no great actor and now, doubting my abilities, was sure he could tell I was lying through my teeth.

  I prepared for him to challenge me, but to my relief, as the interrogation progressed, the translator did not raise objections over my testimony. He simply did his job, not interjecting his own opinions: he might’ve been instructed not to while the interview was ongoing, or maybe he simply didn’t care enough to complicate it. If he were to raise a cloud of doubt over me, it would only make the session longer and more involved, more work for him.

  “Show me on the map where this happened,” Brugone said, interrupting my story of how, while tending rice fields on my family’s land, I’d seen a group of armed men traveling into the marsh on several occasions.

  I studied his map and pointed to a place not far from the water treatment plant, where the events I had reported could have reasonably happened. Brugone circled it with his pen.

  “There,” I said. “Like I told you, I saw them on the canal road. I kept working, minding my business. I’m just a farmer and didn’t think they would care about me. But this time they spotted me and came over. They began asking questions. What was I doing there? Why was I always watching them? I told the truth—I was just working—but they accused me of lying and beat me. You can see what they did, but nothing would make me confess to being a spy. Eventually they stopped and said that if I ever told anyone what I’d seen, they’d come back and kill me and my wife and children, even my children’s children. At first, I said nothing. Not even to my wife when she asked how I’d been hurt. But I began to think. Why should I be afraid to walk my own land, just because some foreigners want to fight the Americans?”

  “You say they were foreigners. What made you think that?”

  “Well, by their voices,” I said, stumbling some. I made eye contact with the translator and thought I detected a glimmer of ironic recognition; surely he could tell, by my own voice, that my falsehood was now eating its tail. “A few sounded like they may have been Syrian. It was a mix of people. About a dozen.”

  I hoped I had not just made a fatal misstep, but once again the Iraqi student translated my report, and once again he said nothing about any suspicions he may have harbored. His silence seemed to stretch beyond mere carelessness. I began to imagine he was secretly working for some brotherhood or militia, informing on the informants, a double agent collecting paychecks from both sides; clearly, the smartest man in the room.

  “Was there anything else that stood out about these guys?” Brugone asked. “Their vehicles? Weapons?”

  “They were driving two Kia trucks. They had mortars, but I couldn’t tell you what kind. Kalashnikovs, rockets—oh—this is important. I almost forgot. I heard one say they were part of the Martyr Khattab Brigade. He told me that when he threatened my family.”

  “Huh,” Brugone grunted, making more notes on his pad. I hoped the bit about the Khattab Brigade would throw him off the scent of Walid and the girl, which he hadn’t seemed to detect, anyway. I wanted no chance of my being detained or of the doctor being captured alive. When I’d first conceived of the plan, I’d toyed with the idea of telling the Americans more but had soon realized mentioning their names would make me one of the most sought-after men in Iraq. Many people would’ve wanted to interrogate me, some more competent than this Brugone, who, for an American, was surprisingly unparanoid.

  “I’ll pass it along,” he continued. “It’s damn good intel. These insurgent groups come and go, but it’s Iraqis like you that get caught in the middle. And you’re the ones who’ll make the difference in this war. I know it wasn’t easy for you to come here today, but we appreciate it. Shukran. I mean it, shukran.”

  “But I haven’t told you the best part,” I said, motioning for the map. “I have an idea where they’re staying, though I doubt they’ll be there for long. It’s this place here.” I tapped on a spot indicating the old water plant. “Watch it with your helicopters and your planes, and surely you will rain fire down on your enemies.”

  15

  CASSANDRA: THE PROFESSION

  48 Days After
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  IRAQ (WATER TREATMENT PLANT)

  Brought back from the shed, her period over, she’s clean enough for them to live with again. After four days with sunlight the adjustment to the underground cell is just as bad as it was the first time. Every so often they bring her a fresh pitcher of water, and rice, olives, sometimes chicken or canned tuna. Every so often they remove her waste pail and return with another, and in the hallway they chant and sing verses from the Qur’an to pass the time, and the light near the door is on, but mostly it’s off, and she paces in the dark and dreams of home, and it’s all like it was before, nothing has changed, but at the same time, everything is different.

  To be the only captive left alive. No tapping on the drain. No possibility of any human contact except with the enemy. No connection to the window, the world, or even time itself: lying on the pallet, Cassandra rolls to her side. She has not felt like exercising since returning to her cell, and lets out a low groan. When McGinnis was still around to talk to—to compare herself to—it was easier to be the plucky one, the salty one, the one who refused despair. Both to raise his spirits and to keep them from infecting her. But to be the only one still alive is to maintain a front only for oneself. The only one still alive is next to die. And eventually, Annas is going to come back. This time, whenever he does, she promises herself she won’t be asleep.

  Hafs is on shift. He leaves his rifle propped against the wall in the usual place near the cell door. This is the first she’s seen him since the shed; she thinks of him filming what they did to Crump and has the urge to make a grab for the weapon and blow his brains out. But that would be suicide; even if she managed it, she’d be too greatly outnumbered and outgunned to escape, with no idea about where the other guards are posted. She hasn’t come this far to throw it all away, Rambo-style, on a one-in-a-million gamble. Plus, with McGinnis gone, Hafs now qualifies as the closest thing she has to an ally. Definitely the most important person in her life. Even so, she’ll kill him if it means improving her chances.

  “Hello, sister,” he says. “I brought this for you.”

  He returns the Qur’an that he took away after she got her period, kissing the book and touching it to his forehead.

  Like nothing has changed, they get to work. But her mind will not stay focused, even as she understands this exchange of languages is important, potentially life-or-death.

  “Hafs. Stop for a minute. I need to know something. What happened to McGinnis?”

  “He is gone. We are here, okay? This talk is not good.”

  “Did he die while they were operating on him, or did they kill him?”

  “I cannot say. I am only new soldier. Many heads are above my head.”

  “You’re just following orders? You know that’s bullshit. I saw you, you know that? You filming Crump.”

  He looks down at the notebook in his lap. He takes a long breath, steadying himself. “Inshallah, everything is okay for you, sister. Please. We must practice.”

  “No. No more. If you won’t tell me anything else, I’m done. No more English lessons.”

  The market is up this year.

  I have an account with your bank.

  The unemployment rate was highest during the depression.

  Before the shed, in what seems in retrospect almost like an untroubled age of her captivity, she gave him a dozen more like that, “business phrases,” per his request, printed on coarse brown paper with extra-wide rule, the kind of notebook kids use to practice the alphabet. Hafs approaches his studies with utmost seriousness. He says that after the jihad, he wants to go to college and study economics.

  In the darkness, without McGinnis or Hafs to talk to, she begins speaking to Crump. She’s not so far gone as to believe these are actual conversations; nor are they completely fantastical. They’re liminal. Trick of the mind deprived, like the blue lights she sees hovering in her cell. Like the future. The past. Crump’s voice, loud and clear, intruding.

  Death is always right around the corner.

  Ain’t negative or positive, just is. Look at it this way. Not many people get to choose how.

  Yeah, you’re right about that. I didn’t.

  Come on. There’s only two ways out, Wigheard.

  You really need me to tell you?

  Did you see what they did to me? Fuck. Just like I was a fucking animal.

  The light on the wall turns on. The hum of its electricity sounds louder than before, but that may be her imagination, the volume of all things increasing. Real enough is another meal, this time rice, olives, tuna, a thermos of lukewarm tea. Hafs brought it. She’s on speaking terms with him today. It was a choice between that or silence. The army must be searching for her, and anything she can do to buy time and curry favor with Hafs is worth it; there may be a final limit, but she hasn’t yet reached it, and whenever she thinks she has, Crump surfaces, reminding her of the alternative.

  “Ashadu illallaha ashadu an Muhammed urrasullallah,” she says to Hafs.

  “L’ah,” he says, patiently correcting her. “Ashadu an la illaha illalaha oh ashadu an Muhammed urrasullalah.”

  He’s reviewing the Shahada with her, though she hasn’t yet professed the faith. If a person speaks these words and truly believes them, she becomes a Muslim. I testify there is no God but God, and I testify Mohammed is His prophet. She knows—though no one has come right out and said it—that they want to tape her saying this.

  “The Shahada is very important,” Hafs said before they began practicing it. “When a person is dying, it should be the last thing they say. If they do, they go to paradise, easy.”

  “What?—Why’d you say that? Is something about to happen?”

  “No, no. I did not mean that.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Is no problem.”

  “What’s going on, Hafs? You seem different.”

  “Maybe. It’s nothing. A friend, he is gone today. Not dead. He is gone from here.”

  “Oh.” She nodded, suspicions allayed enough to go on with the lesson. By the end of the hour, she’s fighting to keep her eyes open. She’s done her best to avoid sleep, can’t bear the thought of Annas catching her unawares again, but sooner or later, willpower won’t be enough, and she will crash for a very long time.

  They practice a little while longer. Hafs looks at his watch, the notebook, her. It’s never going to feel like the right moment to do it, but time’s running out, sleep will come, and she works up the courage to tell him. It’s a gamble that could backfire and bring even more pain down on her, but in this case, the odds are worth it.

  “Hafs. I need to tell you something. It’s Annas. He—he’s come to me a few times. He did things that are haram.” She stops there, hoping she won’t have to spell it out. “Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  “Yes, maybe,” he says, brow knitted, mortified by even the hint of sex. He’s never once in their many hours of conversation brought up anything remotely sexual. A childish prudishness. God and sex, she thinks. The whole thing with them and God and sex isn’t really about religion at all. It’s about power, plain and simple. Just another expression of their lack of it.

  “What you want me to do about this?” he says, further digesting what she’s told him, and frustrated, like she’s unfairly burdened him with too much responsibility.

  “Make him stop. Please, whatever you can think of. Maybe talk to the emir about it.”

  Hafs grimaces.

  “Please. You’re the only one who can help me.”

  She hates begging him, but what she’s saying is the truth; she’s reliant on this boy, the enemy—not for salvation, which has grown to seem nearly out of reach, a self-indulgent dream, but simply for her basic needs, the lessening of pain.

  “Is possible,” he finally says.

  That isn’t good enough. She knows what possible means, and it’s literal. “Promise me.”

  He frowns and checks his wristwatch again, staring at it too long, like it holds the
answer. He rises, collects his notebook of phrases, and the AK-47, propped against the wall.

  “Okay. I will talk to him. Is no problem, sister.”

  If this thing happens, that thing will happen.

  If this thing happened, that thing would happen.

  If this thing had happened, that thing would have happened.

  If this thing had happened, that thing would happen (but this thing didn’t happen, so that thing isn’t happening).

  The conditional tense. Cassandra doesn’t remember to call it that but knows more than enough to teach it, is halfheartedly explicating examples from Hafs’s notebook when his walkabout radio crackles to life. Which in itself is not unusual, and she starts to pick up where she left off, but Hafs holds up a finger for silence. She listens to the transmission that follows but is unable to pick out any words, even those few she’s learned so far; they’re coming too fast.

  “Sorry,” he says, an intensely preoccupied look on his face. “I must go.”

  “Okay.”

  The creaking door. A beat, two, before she realizes. Can’t be. He’s left it. A stroke of unbelievable fortune, good or bad: in his haste, he’s forgotten it there, his rifle against the wall near the door in the same place he’s been keeping it, but never like this, with nothing stopping her from crossing the cell and picking it up. She sits Indian-style on her pallet exactly where he left her, heart accelerating from the unexpectedness of this turn of events, the now-or-never quality to this decision that’s befallen her like a head-on collision or winning the lottery. For a second she wonders if it could be a loyalty test; say she picks it up, finds it loaded, the door open, steps into the passage to make her escape and is cut down by a waiting gunman—test failed. The scenario seems far-fetched and she discounts it. You’re valuable to them, she thinks. Why waste her that way, no video or anything. And, despite her misgivings, she does trust Hafs to some extent. Not totally, but he is her best and only option, her trust strengthened by her strong suspicion that he’s a little in love with her, an infatuation she hasn’t actively encouraged, but neither has she dissuaded him of it; in any case, they’ve become too familiar. He’s let his guard down in every sense of the word. The proof is right there, against the wall, demanding some reaction. Check to see if it’s loaded. Plainly there’s a magazine in there, but could be empty, just for show, like the time when they were waiting to shoot the video and he pulled back the charging handle to reveal the rifle was nothing more than a prop.