Change of Heart by Jack Allen

by Unknown

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  gray smoke. Josh was startled and Valeria gave a cry of surprise.

  The second missile went off with a blast that sent pieces of the superstructure hundreds of feet in the air. Josh and Valeria and the others ran for cover. The tiny fishing boat was pelted with debris. When Josh looked up, all that remained of the attack ship was a smoking hull. The superstructure was toppled over and dragged in the water. The deck was split open and folded back from the inside. There were no signs of life aboard. In seconds, it was swallowed by the sea.

  “What happened?” Kawamura asked.

  Josh shook his head.

  “I think someone spoke to the President again,” he said.

  Looking out into the glare of the setting sun on the water, he could see the thin shape of a periscope sticking a few feet out of the water.

  Chapter 8

  The cabins below the deck of the trawler were few and tiny. The galley was the biggest, and there was barely enough space for the captain, Josh and Valeria to occupy the room at the same time.

  Kawamura also served as the ship’s cook. Josh and Valeria sat on the benches at a small table and Kawamura brought out a tray with bowls of steaming soup. Josh picked up a bowl and sniffed.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Pork soup with rice,” Kawamura said.

  “Pork? I was expecting fish.”

  Kawamura made a disgusted sound with a dismissing wave of his hand.

  “We see too much fish here.”

  Josh noticed Valeria looking suspiciously at her bowl of soup.

  Her nose crinkled up in distaste. It never occurred to him she might not have a palate for Japanese cooking. She leaned closer to the table, staring down into the bowl. Then her expression changed. She picked up the spoon and began to devour the soup.

  Josh smiled. Her hunger must have overcome her distaste.

  He picked up his own spoon. The soup looked delicious.

  There were big hunks of pork in the broth, with rice and veg-etables. He lifted a spoonful to his mouth and swallowed. Suddenly he was ravenous, and devoured it as fast as Valeria.

  Kawamura sat down with them, scooped up a spoonful of soup, and raised it to his lips.

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  “How did the fire start?” he said as he sipped.

  Josh stopped with the spoon halfway to his mouth. It sounded like the kind of probing question a suspicious mind might start with until the captain could find the right line of questions to dig for the truth. Maybe he suspected they were smuggling drugs or some other contraband that went down with their boat. What the hell, let him believe what he wanted. What did he care as long as he got them back to dry land?

  “An oil lamp, we think,” Josh said as if he was discussing the weather.

  It was a lame excuse, but it was the only thing he came up with, and before he could think of anything else it was already coming out of his mouth. He hoped Kawamura would be satisfied with that and drop the subject. He didn’t want the captain to ask more questions he couldn’t answer. He might be looking for something he could use if he decided to check up on them.

  “An oil lamp? Were you asking for trouble?” Kawamura said with a laugh.

  Josh shrugged. “It came with the boat and we never got around to replacing it.”

  “Now you won’t have to.” Kawamura’s chuckle faded and the small table was quiet but for the soft sipping. “My ship has taken some damage,” Kawamura said, as if his favorite dog had been run over by a car. “We are taking on water. That explosion loosened some of the slats around the engine compartment. I have decided to return to port immediately.” He said this with succinctness as if he expected an argument and felt the need to assert his authority. Josh had no desire to argue. He wanted to get back to land as soon as possible.

  Kawamura got up and went back to the galley. Josh started to eat his soup again. He noticed Valeria staring at him.

  “What?” he said.

  She spoke in Russian in a low, soft voice he found quite sexy.

  “You speak Russian and Japanese. That is very interesting.”

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  “Yeah. So?”

  “Do you speak any other languages?”

  “A little German, a little French. Enough to get by. Do you speak English?”

  “Yes, I do,” Valeria said in English as she raised her spoon to her mouth.

  Josh was shocked. Her English was very clear with only a hint of an accent that made her sound exotic. He looked over his shoulder at Kawamura, who was preoccupied with the soup.

  Josh lowered his voice.

  “I don’t think he speaks Russian or English. If he did he would have figured out we’re not who I said we were.” Valeria looked puzzled. “Who did you tell him we are?” Josh coughed and looked down at his soup.

  “Husband and wife.” Valeria looked horrified. Josh shrugged.

  “I had to. I couldn’t tell him we’re spies.”

  “You could have told him the truth.”

  “Sure. And he’d have us arrested before we could get off this boat.”

  She glared. “I don’t even know if you are who you say you are. For all I know you could be another one sent to kill me.” Josh’s eyebrows arched. Sent to kill her? What did she mean by that? Did someone try to kill her in the past? Who would want her dead? Probably a lot of people, he realized. So many they would consider sending an attack ship to prevent her from escaping. And if that many people wanted to keep her from telling what she knew, then she must know some pretty dangerous stuff.

  But she was so beautiful. How could anyone want to hurt her?

  She looked up. “What are you looking at?” she said.

  “Nothing,” Josh said, snapping out of his spell.

  He stared down into his bowl, which was almost empty.

  Kawamura returned with the pot and refilled their bowls.

  Josh opened his mouth to ask if he could use the ship’s radio to contact Walt, then closed it. It would probably be better to Change of Heart

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  let Walt and Filmore worry about them for a couple of days than to broadcast their location and destination to any Russians who might want Valeria dead.

  “Thank you,” Josh said in Japanese, and dipped his spoon into the broth.

  He wanted to get Kawamura on a different subject before he started asking another bunch of difficult questions.

  “How long have you been captain of this ship?” Josh said, careful not to say “boat” in case Kawamura might be offended.

  A faraway, dreamy look came into Kawamura’s eyes and he smiled as he began to recount his past as a crewman, then captain and eventually owner of the fishing boat. Josh nodded as he spoke and encouraged him to tell more, all the while glancing at Valeria, who obviously understood none of it.

  Josh cared nothing for what Kawamura had to say. He’d much rather have heard Valeria’s stories. All he knew about her so far was that she had been a KGB spy and she was in prison and she was remarkably beautiful. This was a lot of stuff for someone so young. If only he wasn’t so sure she hated his guts.

  * * * *

  Kawamura made sleeping arrangements for them. They would reach Mombatsu sometime the next day, depending on how much time they could make with a leaking hull. Unfortunately, the only accommodations Kawamura had for them was the cramped galley, and the only places for anyone to sleep were the bench or the floor.

  Valeria did not want to sleep on the floor. She did not want to be on that horrible, smelly boat at all. She wanted to be back in her own apartment with her own bed with her favorite quilted blanket and Pushkin, her old cat. She had not been to that apartment since the day they arrested her, more than a year and a half ago. By now there was no telling what they did with Pushkin, or her old bed, or who was living in her apartment now.

  She had not seen Yuri in almost all of that time, either. The 152

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  prison did not allow her to have visitors, but that did not prevent Yuri from getting a message to her once in a while. Yuri was very resourceful and that made her so proud of him. His messages were most often delivered by other women who were arrested. Some, she suspected, committed crimes at his request for the purpose of delivering his message.

  Kawamura brought them thin, rolled mats to sleep on. The American volunteered to sleep on the floor and Valeria was glad because she was tired and not in the mood to fight for the bench.

  Thinking of Yuri made her melancholy. She longed to look into his gentle face again and touch him and feel his hands touching her.

  She lay on her side on the thin mat rolled out over the hard bench, staring at the dark outline of the American in the dim, pale moonlight that shined through the tiny porthole. In the short time she knew him he put her in the way of more danger than she ever faced in her entire life. Even so, he got her out of it, somehow, and here she was, safe for the moment on a tiny boat on her way to freedom.

  Would this man be able to get her where they were going without getting her killed? He was a handsome man and she might have loved him in a different situation, but she didn’t know anything about him. For all she knew he was taking her into even greater danger than she had faced so far. She wanted to trust him, but she could not afford to risk putting her life in his hands. He seemed a good man to trust, especially when she looked into his dark, strong eyes, but there was too much to lose. She resolved to take the first opportunity to get away from him. Then she could try to find Yuri again.

  * * * *

  Ismail Rafjani was always glad to return to Baghdad. He lived many places in his life, but nowhere did he feel more at home.

  The people here respected and feared him and that was better Change of Heart

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  than all the love he could get from his mother’s arms.

  He went directly to the Dishtili building in downtown Baghdad, which housed the center of government for all of Iraq. The offices of Iraqi Intelligence occupied the third floor. Rafjani went to the office of Ali Galim, his superior.

  “We have another task for you,” Galim told him.

  “So soon? I’m anxious to get back to the camp.” He was anxious to get his hands on the new shipment of explosives, but he wouldn’t tell Galim that.

  “It concerns your friend, Mahmoud Azzizi.” Rafjani was confused. “What does he have to do with anything?”

  “He followed you to Cizre two days ago and returned last night.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s what we’d like you to find out.”

  “Me?” Rafjani said.

  Galim stared at him without speaking. He would not give orders twice, and Rafjani knew what he had to do. He got up and went out.

  This was bad. If Mahmoud followed him to Cizre and returned without telling anyone, then there could only be one reason for it. He was reluctant to hear Mahmoud’s answers. Mahmoud had been like a brother to him since his arrival in Iraq. Together they rose through the ranks of the Iraqi military, completed their terrorist training, and simultaneously made the decision to make the move to Iraqi Intelligence. What Galim proposed was un-thinkable. Rafjani refused to believe the man he considered his only friend in the world was an Israeli agent. If it was true, there was only one possible outcome. Rafjani would have to kill him.

  He stopped at the door to Mahmoud’s office and knocked.

  From inside, Mahmoud’s voice told him to enter. Rafjani opened the door and looked into his friend’s familiar face and instantly he knew. Mahmoud Azzizi was a traitor.

  Mahmoud smiled. “Ismail. What a pleasure to see you. How was your trip?”

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  Rafjani forced a smile and entered the office, closing the door behind him.

  “The trip was fine,” Rafjani said.

  His voice was as plain as if a machine spoke. He felt cold to his center. He pulled out the chair and sat, but found he was unable to hold the smile any longer and it faded. He started to speak, but Mahmoud spoke first.

  “I was just about to get a meal. I would be glad if you joined me.”

  “Yes,” Rafjani said.

  That would give him time to think and maybe stop his world from spinning. He imagined asking outright if it was true he was an Israeli spy and in his mind he saw Mahmoud laughing at the idea with his head tilted back as he always did when he heard a good joke. But when he looked up to Mahmoud’s face as he rose from his chair and grabbed his jacket, Rafjani no longer believed he could accept that laugh as genuine.

  They walked to a small cafe two blocks from the Dishtili building. Rafjani was not sure if that was the right time to confront Mahmoud with what he learned. He didn’t know how he would react to being asked such an outrageous question in public. Part of Rafjani wanted the small table on the sidewalk in front of the cafe to be the right place so Mahmoud could laugh off the suggestion as he did so many of Rafjani’s other ridiculous ideas, and reassure Rafjani it was all untrue. Another part of him knew the right place to ask such a thing was in a controlled environment, where Mahmoud would be compelled to answer truthfully out of fear. He decided Mahmoud was still his friend and deserved the benefit of the doubt.

  Rafjani managed to contain himself during the meal of curried beef and rice. As they sipped green tea, the question came out.

  “You followed me to Cizre. Why?”

  Mahmoud’s hand hesitated as it raised the tea cup to his lips, then continued and he sipped as if the question was about nothing more than the weather. He chuckled and set the tea cup down on the saucer.

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  “That’s good. Who’s been telling you this?”

  “That’s irrelevant. Why did you follow me to Cizre?”

  “It’s true I went to Cizre. I returned only last night. But in order to follow you I would have had to know that you were going there. As I didn’t, I could only have been there on my own business. Which I was.” His face looked stern. “What were you doing in Cizre?”

  The question caught Rafjani off guard and he sat back. Something was not right. Mahmoud was lying and Rafjani knew he was lying, but the part of him that wanted to believe in the lie was winning because Rafjani had big plans for the future and those plans included Mahmoud.

  “I was ... seeing a woman.”

  Mahmoud snickered. “I thought as much.” He sat back, gazing up at the clear sky. “Ah, what is it about Turkish women that makes them so ...” He held his hand up in a fist. “... Robust?

  I suspect you and I are not the only men in this city who have women friends they ... visit in Cizre.” He tilted his head back and laughed, but Rafjani felt it was more of a nervous laugh. Now he was even more confused than before. He did not know what to think. What he believed to be the truth conflicted with the truth he wanted to believe.

  Mahmoud paid for the lunch and they walked back to the Dishtili building in a reverent silence. With every step, Rafjani’s anger grew. He suspected Mahmoud was not being truthful, but did this make him an agent for the enemy? Galim did not insinu-ate that he was the enemy, only that he wanted Rafjani to find out why he followed him to Cizre. His claim of seeing a woman was a weak alibi, but he was forced to accept it unless Galim had evidence to support the suspicion. And if he did, why didn’t he share it with him before he sent him to confront Mahmoud?

  Because he had no evidence. Galim had nothing more than a suspicion and he was naturally paranoid, which suited his position as Head of Intelligence. His suspicions caused Rafjani to be suspicious, and he too easily went right along with them.

  As they reached the Dishtili building and went up to the third 156

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  floor, Rafjani felt as if the entire weight of those crates he hauled was lifted from him. Galim was suspicious of everyone and he was using Rafjani in a weak attempt to smear the reputation of a man considered to be his nea
rest rival. Mahmoud commented again on the bawdy nature of Turkish women and they laughed together as they went into his office.

  Galim was there, sitting behind Mahmoud’s desk. Also in the office were two men in plain, dark suits, both of Internal Security. Mahmoud froze in the doorway. The color drained from his face.

  “Come in, sit down,” Galim said, without rising.

  Rafjani and Mahmoud went into the office and sat. The two men in the dark suits watched them.

  “Forgive me for using you as I did, Ismail, but I had to know if you had the heart to betray a person who is close to you. I regret that you could not. We’ll deal with this later.” He looked at Mahmoud. “As for you, we can do this the easy way or we can do it the hard way.”

  Mahmoud glanced over his shoulder at the two men standing behind him. He straightened in his chair and appeared to become resolute, setting his jaw.

  “If you are accusing of something I’d like to know what it is.”

  Ali leaned forward, both hands flat on Mahmoud’s desk.

  “You are a Jew spy.”

  Rafjani sat as still as a rock, staring straight ahead at nothing.

  His whole world turned black. He was accustomed to being the one who manipulated and used people to suit his purposes. He hated the thought of being used by the very people who encouraged him and allowed him to prosper in the area to which he was so well suited.

  Mahmoud did not speak. Rafjani could sense he was silently pleading for help, but he could not. Twice he was betrayed in only a few hours. He had been such a fool. They both played him like an instrument and he was blind to it all. How could he expect to continue after such humiliation?

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  “You can’t just accuse me of something like that,” Mahmoud said, his voice rising. “I have faithfully served the Iraqi government for more than half my life. I deserve more respect than that.”

  Ali Galim sat back, smiling.

  “You have been sending military secrets to the Israelis since the day you arrived. Your treason has cost this nation hundreds of lives, including some of the best officers this department has ever produced. For this you will die.” Mahmoud was silent again. Rafjani rose from his chair and turned to face him. Mahmoud’s face was pale. Perspiration beaded on his forehead.