Homeland: Carrie's Run: A Homeland Novel

by Andrew Kaplan

  After Romeo’s release from Abu Ghraib, using the cover story of an amnesty for a score of Sunni prisoners called for by al-Waliki, the new candidate of the Shiites after Jaafari had been rejected, they had gone back to the Green Zone. There Virgil tracked Romeo via the cell phone they had given him. As expected, they saw that he had gone back to Ramadi. But she had no illusions. She and Romeo didn’t trust each other. He could get rid of the cell phone and slip the leash any time he wanted. The only hold she had on him was the threat against his family.

  “We’re threatening to kill his family with kindness, literally,” she told Virgil and Dempsey. Romeo was completely untrustworthy, but yet they were so close. Only minutes ago, she had literally touched Abu Ubaida. She thought about Dima and Rana and admitted to herself how badly she wanted him dead. And Abu Nazir.

  Falah, followed by Walid/Romeo, came into the storage room.

  “Not too long,” Falah said, and left.

  “You have the money?” Walid said. She showed him the money in the plastic bag.

  “Did the Tanzim accept the amnesty story?”

  “I told my brothers that since they could never get real information no matter what they did to me, they never knew who they had. To the infidels, I was just another Sunni prisoner. They released me without knowing anything.” He twitched. His nervous tic.

  “And they accepted it?”

  “The news about al-Waliki and the amnesty was on the television. It seemed reasonable.”

  “Tell me about Abu Ubaida. Is he in Ramadi?” She was testing him, not revealing she’d seen him.

  “He’s here but may be leaving very soon,” he said, looking around as if they might be overheard.

  “What about Abu Nazir?”

  “No one knows. Some say here. Some say Haditha.” He twitched. “Or Fallujah. No one sees him. He is a jinn.” He twitched again and looked away. Something in the way he did it made her feel he was holding something back or had made a mistake.

  “ ‘But those who swerve away, they are fuel for hellfire,’ ” she recited from the Koran, the sura on the jinn.

  He stared at her. “So, you know the Holy Koran,” he said, as if something completely new had been added to the equation. “A woman no less.”

  “Only as a woman knows such things,” she said, playing to his ego. “There’s something else. What aren’t you telling me?”

  He motioned her closer. “Abu Ubaida is acting more independently. There are those who say Abu Nazir is no longer in control. Abu Ubaida is here in Ramadi where the battle is. As for Abu Nazir, who can say?” He shrugged. “Some of the Tanzim are choosing sides.”

  “Are you choosing?”

  “Not yet. But it may come to that.” He twitched. “Abu Ubaida doesn’t trust me. He doesn’t trust anyone. Anyone he doesn’t trust, he kills.”

  “Unless someone kills him first,” she said. For a moment, neither spoke. She could hear the clack of domino tiles and smell the apple tobacco smoke from the shisha hubble-bubbles coming from the teahouse. “I need to know a time and place where he’s going to be. Can you tell me?”

  “No.” He leaned almost close enough to kiss her. “There is something. But before I say, I need to know my family will be safe.”

  “I can’t guarantee that in Ramadi. Not even in the Green Zone. You know this.”

  “I need to know my son will be safe.”

  “If something happens, inshallah, I will do my best. If you want, we can take them to America. Farah and Gabir will be safe,” she said.

  “Not America. There are only infidels in America. Syria—but with money.” He twitched. Now she understood. He was telling her he did not expect to survive. He was making his last will and testament with her.

  “How much money?” she said.

  “One hundred thousand dollars U.S.”

  “Only if what you tell me is worth it,” she snapped. “And only if they are in danger.” She took a breath. “Inshallah.” God willing.

  He twitched again. She remembered Saul telling her once, “Don’t force it. When the asset is ready to drop his pants, you have to wait for him to realize he doesn’t have a lot of choices. He has to talk himself into it. Just wait for it. All night if you have to.” She waited.

  “There is going to be an attack against the new Shiite prime minister. Something big,” he said.

  “In the Green Zone?” she asked. “How? Where will it come?”

  “No one says. But we have men training on attacking a narrow street. They are told there is an arch.”

  “You know what it is, don’t you?”

  “I think Assassin’s Gate. Very soon. Maybe a week. They are getting everything ready,” he said.

  “That’s it? Just break into the Green Zone and attack the prime minister’s office? Nothing else? That’s not his style.”

  He stared at her, twitching, with his dark eyes. “I think you are a most dangerous person, Zahaba.” The code name they had agreed on for her. Gold, for the color of her hair. “Perhaps not every American is a fool.”

  “Are you trying to provoke me? It won’t work,” she said. “There’s another attack, isn’t there? Abu Nazir and Abu Ubaida, they never do just one, do they?”

  “It is their signature,” he said in agreement. “There is another one. This against the Americans. Someone important.”

  Her mind raced. The Assassin’s Gate was a big sandstone arch topped by a dome spanning one of the main entry points into the Green Zone in Baghdad. If Abu Ubaida managed to assassinate the new Shiite leader, al-Waliki, it would trigger a civil war that would lead to the destruction of Iraq and the complete failure of the American mission. The casualties, including Americans, would be enormous.

  On top of that, there was another assassination planned. Of an important American. She had to find out from Saul who was coming in from Washington and where. Ten-to-one, the second attack would be on Camp Victory, near the airport. It was where all the VIPs came in. Having failed in New York, Abu Ubaida was making his bid for the leadership of AQI. It all fit.

  She had to get this intel back to Saul immediately.

  “Do you know who the American is?” she asked.

  “Only that Abu Ubaida said he would cut off both heads of the two-headed snake.”

  “Were you in the room with him when he said this?”

  “Not in a room. Last night. We were dropping off four policemen on the road to what the Americans call Hurricane Point. This is Saddam’s old palace where the Euphrates divides into the main river and the canal, but first”—he twitched, never taking his eyes off her—“we cut off their hands and heads. We put the heads on stakes in the ground, like signs along the side of the road. Go drive there; you can see them.” He smiled oddly. “If he knew we were speaking, what do you think he would do to me?”

  CHAPTER 30

  Fallujah, Anbar Province, Iraq

  As the sun set, the sky a stunning pink and purple, calls to prayer from the minarets of dozens of mosques echoed over the city. Riding on the motor scooter, they could hear gunfire and explosions from mortars to the west as Warzer drove her back to al-Andalus police station. They were running out of time. Dangerous at any time, after dark, the city was a no-man’s-land.

  She and Warzer had gone to Romeo’s house to take Romeo’s wife and family to a nearby souk. They ate kebabs from a charcoal grill and bought Harry Potter toys for the children at market stalls. While she was with them, Virgil, disguised with a false beard and a Kurdish-style turban, snuck into Romeo’s house to black-bag it, installing listening devices and hidden cameras.

  Now, driving past a mosque in the fading light, they spotted a Marine LAV APC followed by two Humvees with mounted machine guns.

  “Shit, a patrol,” Warzer said.

  They were in disguise, Carrie thought. To the Marines, they were Iraqis on a scooter on an empty street at night.

  “Their fingers are on their triggers. Do as they say,” she reminded him.

  The
LAV stopped. The turret gun pointed right at them. The Humvees stopped and a loudspeaker voice from the front Humvee said, “Kiff!” Halt!

  Warzer stopped. He and Carrie got off the scooter, Warzer setting the scooter on its stand, then raising his hands in the air. So did Carrie, removing the veil and head-covering portion of her abaya so they could see her blond hair. She raised her hands high. A Marine got out of the Humvee and gestured for them to come closer.

  “Let me go first,” she told Warzer, and, hands held high, approached closer.

  The Marine, a young corporal, stared at her, eyes like saucers. With her blond hair and all-American face, she must’ve been a completely surreal sight, but he kept his M4 still pointed at her.

  “I’m American,” she told him in English. “We’re with Task Force One Forty-Five. We need to get to al-Andalus police station.”

  “An American woman? Here?” the Marine said.

  “I know. Our mission is classified. We’re working with Marine Captain Ryan Dempsey from the Two Twenty-Eighth. Can you help us?”

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but are you out of your mind?” the Marine said, squinting at her as if to make sure she was real. “This is Sniper Alley. I don’t know how you’re still alive. Are you really American?”

  “I live in Reston, Virginia, if that helps,” she said. “This is Warzer,” she said, gesturing with a tilt of her head. “He’s with me. Could you escort us back to the police station?”

  “Let me check with the lieutenant, ma’am. You can put your hands down, just don’t move,” he said, backing away from her as though she were still dangerous. He spoke into the Humvee and after a minute, came back.

  “That’s a negative, ma’am. We have our sector to do. To tell you the truth, it’s a mother—sorry, miracle someone hasn’t shot at us already. You better get going,” he said, eyeing Warzer as if he’d like to shoot him anyway.

  “Thanks, Corporal. We’ll do that,” she said, and, putting her abaya head covering and veil back on, tugged at Warzer.

  They got back on the scooter and drove past the LAV and Humvees, Carrie conscious of every eye on her even though she couldn’t see them. The street they were driving on was completely dark now, the only light the headlight on the scooter.

  We left it too late, she thought, feeling a twinge in her spine as if a bullet might come ripping into her back any second. A minute later, one almost did. Driving down the narrow street, she saw a flash of light and the loud crack of a shot rang out. Instinctively, Warzer swerved to the side, then straightened and turned the accelerator as far as it could go. He swerved again, slaloming left, then right. She could see the lights of the police station up ahead, surrounded by sandbags and concertina wire, its flat roof silhouetted against the stars.

  Warzer raced straight at it, the scooter bouncing on the potholes in the road. She heard another shot coming from behind that by some miracle missed them. They swerved sharply and turned into a gap in the sandbags to the front of the police station, Iraqi policemen pointing their AKMs at them, shouting in Arabic for them to stop. They stopped and got off the scooter. The instant she pulled off her abaya head covering, revealing her long blond hair, the Iraqis relaxed and waved them inside.

  “We left it too late,” she told Warzer, going into the police station.

  “We managed. You’re good luck, Carrie,” he said.

  “I don’t believe in luck. It better not happen again.”

  The intel she had for Saul was critical. She had to get it back to him ASAP, she thought, finding the police commander, Hakim Gassid. “Impossible, al-anesah.” He shook his head. “No cell phones are working.”

  “What about land phones, the Internet?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  “I have to communicate with my superiors. It’s life or death, Makayib.” She called him “Captain.”

  “Maybe in Fallujah, inshallah, there is some way. In Ramadi, al-anesah, is only destruction. You have no idea how beautiful our city was, al-anesah. We would have picnics by the river,” he said wistfully.

  It was insane, Carrie thought. She had one of the most important actionable pieces of intel she’d ever come up with, and suddenly, she was in the eighteenth century, with no way to communicate it back to Langley. She had to come up with something fast.

  “Have you ever made love in a jail before?” Dempsey asked her. They were on a cot in Hakim Gassid’s office on the second floor of the police station. Outside, they could hear the sound of gunfire and the crump of RPGs answered by the rattle of the machine gun on the roof and the AKM automatic fire from the policemen around the perimeter of the building.

  “Have you?” Carrie asked.

  “No, but I have, in worse.”

  “Where?”

  “Back pew of a Baptist church in the middle of a sermon. Her daddy was the preacher. Stella Mae. Great-looking girl. I’m not sure whether she was doing it to get back at Daddy or she just didn’t give a shit, but the pew was about as comfortable as concrete and I kept thinking, They’re going to catch us any second and every dick here has a gun in their car or truck. You?”

  “Never did this. Sneaking in a little sex while people are trying to kill me. The Iraqi cops must think I’m a whore.”

  “They probably wish their own women were half as sexy. Sorry about the setting,” he said, kissing her neck. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

  “Don’t talk so much. Speaking of which, I need to talk to Langley.”

  “While we’re doing it?” he said, sliding his hand between her legs, making her crazy.

  “Stop it. We can’t use cell phones.”

  “I know. The last local cell tower was blown up last week. Even if it was up, they monitor cell traffic just like us. I don’t think anybody back home has a clue how sophisticated the enemy is here. Our best bet is to use the encrypted line back at the embassy in the Green Zone. Touch me right there.”

  “Won’t work. I need to be here to run Romeo. Stop, wait a second. Wait a second.”

  “Write a report. I’ll take it to Baghdad and send it from there.”

  “No good. You don’t have my security clearance level. Oh God, that feels good. Wait. Romeo mentioned a VIP coming in next week. An attempted assassination. Any idea who’s coming in?”

  “Me, in just a minute,” he said.

  “Asshole.” She pulled his head up by the hair. “Do you know?”

  “Secretary of State Bryce,” he said. “Her trip’s supposed to be a secret, but if the hajis already know, we’re blown.”

  “I need you to go to Baghdad to stop her from coming. Can you do that?”

  “Do this first,” he said, making her arch her back in delight. “Like that?”

  “Shut up and pay attention to your work,” she said.

  At dawn, Dempsey left the police station for Baghdad in his Humvee. Carrie had made him memorize Saul’s phone number at Langley. Regardless of whether his report got sufficient attention from whatever DIA–CIA liaison he reported to or not, Saul had to know what she’d learned. They had to get Secretary Bryce to cancel her trip to Baghdad. In addition, arrangements had to be made to protect the Iraqi prime minister at the government offices in the Green Zone and to prepare for an attempt to breach the Assassin’s Gate. If there were any problems, Dempsey was to contact her ASAP somehow. Someone said there was a repair crew working on a cell tower, but if he had to, he was to drive all the way back from Baghdad if necessary.

  Carrie watched him go. There had been shooting all through the night, and sometime around three in the morning, they’d heard a massive explosion over toward the hospital by the canal. Someone said it was a car bomb at the Iraqi police station in the Mua’almeen District. There was a rumor that more than thirty policemen had been killed. As he drove off, she thought, I shouldn’t have sent him. It’s too dangerous. Every mujahideen in Ramadi has got to be watching him drive toward Route Michigan and the highway back to Baghdad.

  Watching the Humvee
drive away, she tried calling him on the cell phone on the wild chance it was working, already missing him. But there was nothing. No reception of any kind. Not to mention, her cell battery was nearly dead, with hardly any place to recharge it because electricity in the city was so sporadic.

  It was crazy calling him anyway; she felt like a total idiot. What the hell was she doing acting like a teenager? She felt strange, disconnected from herself. Was it her bipolar? Or was it that everything they did here was so dangerous you had to live not just day by day but second by second? She felt out-of-body, like she was watching the dusty trash-strewn street where he drove away and watching herself watching.

  A shiver went through her for no reason she could understand. She was never going to see him again, something told her. She shook her head to try to clear it. This was crazy. She still had pills from Beirut, but when she got back to Baghdad, she’d find someplace and arrange for more. She couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling, looking at the area around the police station. Forget bipolar; this place was making her crazy in all kinds of ways.

  Although it was still early in the morning, the sun barely clearing the tops of the buildings, she could feel the heat coming. Except for the debris and death, Ramadi could have been anywhere in the Middle East. Strange, she thought. Decisions we make for the most arbitrary of reasons end up changing our lives forever. For her, a decision she had made almost casually at Princeton years ago to study Near East Studies because the geometric patterns in Islamic art had fascinated her had brought her to this.

  And then there was Romeo. He was giving her actionable intel, but she could trust him about as far as she could throw the Brooklyn Bridge, the last thing Abu Ubaida had tried to destroy.

  She went back inside to an open jail cell where Warzer and Virgil had spent the night. They were getting up, and in a little while, they were all sitting in the cell, drinking glasses of strong Iraqi tea with plenty of sugar and eating kahi, phyllo-dough pastries dipped in honey, that one of the Iraqi policemen had brought them.