The area was middle-class by Baghdad standards, or appeared to be. The trick was to imagine it without the trash and rubble that was everywhere other than in the truly affluent sections. Farris’s car pulled over to the kerb and Kareem came to a stop close behind it. Mallory was first out, looking up and down the street for anything suspicious. A few months back a westerner could have gone shopping in this part of town and could even have grabbed a bite in a restaurant but now even just passing through had its dangers.
‘Let’s keep it to fifteen minutes,’ Mallory said to Stanza. Abdul was staring up at the first-floor window of a house directly in front of them.
‘This it?’ Stanza asked.
‘Yes,’ the young Arab said.
‘Who do we see about taking a look inside?’ Stanza asked.
Abdul walked to the front door and pushed it open.
Mallory made a mental note of Abdul’s direct-approach style. ‘Kareem, Farris, you stay here. Come up and get me if anyone looks like they’re taking an interest, OK?’ he said.
The two men nodded.
Abdul led the way into the hall, followed by Mallory and Stanza, and stopped at the foot of the staircase. Mallory looked along the dilapidated hallway where there were two doors, both closed.
‘You sure this is the place?’ Mallory asked.
‘Yes,’ Abdul said, staring up the narrow staircase. Mallory followed his gaze to the darkness at the top of the stairs and when he looked back the young Arab appeared to be in a quandary of some sort.
‘Abdul?’ Mallory asked quietly. Abdul’s response was to raise a foot and place it on the first step. It creaked loudly. He continued up and the next step squeaked too. Mallory and Stanza followed him to the top where they all stopped outside a closed door.
‘You’ve been here before?’ Mallory asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Does anyone still live here?’ Stanza asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Abdul said.
Mallory wasn’t comfortable with this half-cocked way of operating but Stanza clearly didn’t care.
Abdul reached for the doorknob and paused as he touched it.
‘Open it, for Christ’s sake,’ Stanza said impatiently.
Abdul turned the knob and pushed open the door. They looked inside, Stanza craning his neck to see past Mallory’s shoulder.
The room was a shambles, as if it had been ransacked, and smelled of rotting trash. A broad shaft of daylight came in through a broken window that was partly covered by a tattered curtain. Clothes and bedding were strewn around the floor and draped over toppled furniture. Everything was covered in a thick layer of fine sand that had blown in through the window.
The floorboards creaked lightly as Mallory eased past Abdul. Stanza followed.
‘Doesn’t look as if anyone lives here at the moment,’ Mallory offered.
Stanza moved carefully around as if he was afraid of leaving a footprint. He crouched to take a look at a bundled-up sheet that was heavily stained. ‘This look like blood to you?’ he asked.
Mallory moved the sheet away with his foot to reveal the floorboards beneath. They were covered in a dark crusty substance. ‘Yeah. Loads of it,’ he said, following a trail to an even larger pool of dried blood.
Stanza wiped his hands on his thighs as he got to his feet, even though he had not actually touched anything. ‘Something about murder scenes,’ he said. ‘They’ve all got the same spooky feel, as if the ghosts of the dead were standing next to you and watching.’
Mallory pushed open the bedroom door to reveal a window covered by a gaily coloured curtain, a bed with its sheets on the floor and a bedside table on its side with a broken lamp beside it.
‘This tells a sad story,’ Mallory mused.‘I heard somewhere that she was a hooker.’
‘No,’ Stanza said, perhaps too firmly.
‘Would spice up the read,’ Mallory joked, unaware that it irritated Stanza.
‘You don’t think Lamont could have found love in Baghdad?’ Stanza asked, only remotely interested in Mallory’s plebeian view.
Mallory was at the window, standing on tiptoe and trying to look down into the street when Tasneen’s image filled his mind’s eye. ‘Why not? You can find love anywhere, I suppose.’
‘My point is, could it happen between an American man and a Muslim woman here and now, I mean?’
Mallory turned his gaze to the greying sky, wondering if there was a sandstorm brewing. Then he realised what story angle Stanza was hoping for. ‘You mean, is love stronger than religion? Before I came here I would have said yes. But . . . well, they’re a fanatical lot generally, more than I used to think . . . People back in the West might buy it, though . . . How can you find out?’
‘Find someone who was close to her,’ Stanza said, glancing at Abdul in the hope of some kind of lead. But the young Arab seemed to be back in a daydream.
‘Lamont’s not dead yet, is he?’ Mallory asked.
‘Not as far as we know,’ Stanza replied.
‘Better get the story right, then. He might turn up one day.’
That didn’t matter to Stanza.Writing a story correction only provided more bites of the cherry.
‘Would Lamont have been the romantic-hero type or a total ass, d’you reckon?’ Mallory said.
‘I take it that you think an American screwing a Muslim chick in a house like this would be a total ass.’
‘These days? For sure,’ Mallory quipped.
Abdul was reliving the horror of that night once again but the memory was already becoming blurred. The physical pain of his terrible wound had also lessened but the shame of his part in the atrocity had not. If anything, it had become clearer to him. However he looked at it he couldn’t escape the feeling that he could have done something. He’d had a gun but he had been a coward. It was as simple as that. ‘She was wrong to give herself to the American,’ he said.
Stanza and Mallory looked at him.
‘But she wasn’t a whore,’ Abdul added.
‘How do you know that?’ Stanza asked.
Abdul moved his gaze from the floor where the woman had fallen and stared sullenly at the two foreigners, confidence returning to his expression. He had been growing steadily irritated with their banter, particularly their comments about love between members of different faiths. The woman had been wrong to give herself to the American but Abdul had felt sympathy for her. She was a lost soul, a sinner, but nevertheless brave, more so than he. She must have sensed that Hassan might kill her for sleeping with the American and yet instead of begging for forgiveness she had declared her love for him. Abdul could not allow these people to cheapen her.
‘She loved him,’ Abdul said.
Stanza believed Abdul and not just because he wanted to.
‘There were rumours of a western man seeing an Iraqi woman,’ Abdul went on. ‘He came here often.’ Abdul could only surmise that but something like it had to be the case since Hassan had been confident that he’d find the American in the house. And then there was the woman’s declared love for Lamont - that could not have happened in an instant. ‘There are not many hookers in Baghdad.We . . . the police know those who are and she was not known. It is a great risk for an Iraqi woman to have a relationship with a westerner and only one force could have kept them together.’ Abdul, satisfied with his deduction, turned around and walked down the stairs.
Stanza glanced around the room, half-hoping that a clue would present itself to him. Abdul’s analysis had made sense.
Mallory went to the door to look down the stairs. ‘We’ve been here too long,’ he said.
He headed down the stairs while Stanza went to the doorway before pausing to look back into the room. The ghosts seemed to touch him this time and he shivered. Then he followed Mallory.
Mallory stepped out of the house and saw Abdul climbing into Farris’s car. Stanza walked out behind him and closed the door. ‘I want to drive back with Abdul,’ Stanza said.
Being detached from
his client wasn’t the way Mallory liked to operate but he let it go. He could feel Stanza was close to clashing with him on the security-versus-work issue. ‘If you have a problem you must get into this car as soon as you can.’
‘Sure,’ Stanza said as he opened the rear door of Farris’s car and climbed in.
‘Sure,’ Mallory echoed. He got into Kareem’s car.
As Farris pulled into the street and accelerated away Stanza stared at the back of Abdul’s head, wondering how best to tackle him. Stanza had been impressed with Abdul’s assessment of Lamont’s relationship with the murdered woman but at the same time he felt it was too insightful. Stanza leaned forward in his seat. ‘Abdul?’
Abdul half-looked around.
‘That was interesting, what you said. Can you add to it? Or perhaps you know someone who can.’
‘I was speaking as a policeman.’
In Stanza’s experience there were several reasons why a person would not elaborate on something that they knew to be important. Fear, whether of retribution or of being implicated. Protecting someone. Holding out for personal gain. And then there was the bullshitter. Stanza had dealt with all of them but he could not say which applied to Abdul - probably not the last one.‘Something I said upset you back there . . . Abdul?’
Abdul made a point of looking at Farris. ‘Can we talk later?’
Stanza read the glance and sat back. ‘Sure.’
Abdul did not trust the drivers because he did not know them. But most of all he welcomed the break from further questioning. As for the house, he was glad he had visited it. But as he contemplated the possible divine purpose behind it a sudden throbbing in his wound took over everything else on his mind. He closed his eyes in an effort to control the pain.
Traffic was heavy and forty minutes later they rolled into the hotel complex. Mallory climbed out with his heavy holdall and watched Stanza and Abdul walk away from Farris’s car to have a private conversation.
‘I’ll give you a call if I need you again today,’ Mallory said to Kareem.
‘What about . . . ’ Kareem said, finishing the sentence with a jut of his chin towards Abdul.
‘Not today,’ Mallory said, wondering if he would have a moment with Tasneen when she came by to get her brother.
Kareem said something to Farris who gave Mallory a wave. Both men climbed back into their cars and drove out of the car park.
Mallory thought about waiting for Stanza, decided against it and headed for the hotel. Their conversation had nothing to do with him, anyway. It was hot and he fancied a cold shower and a cup of tea.
Stanza was standing close to Abdul and talking in a quiet yet determined manner. ‘If we’re going to be a team we have to help each other. If there is something about this story that is a problem for you let’s talk about it. One of my most important responsibilities is to protect my sources and certainly members of my team. I wouldn’t do anything to put anyone in jeopardy. Do you trust me as far as that goes? We plan to stay here for a long time . . . Abdul?’
‘I understand,’ Abdul said. ‘It’s just that . . . lives are under threat, in danger. Not just me. I’m afraid, not for me but for others.’
‘I understand that,’ Stanza said, looking around to ensure they were still alone, pausing as he spotted a couple of Iraqi guards some distance away, standing around smoking and chatting. ‘Walk with me,’ he said and they followed the towering blast wall towards the other end of the car park that was deserted. As they left the shade of the eucalyptus trees the sun touched them and the temperature increased notably.
‘What I’m about to tell you I’ve told no one,’ Stanza said, pulling the top of his shirt open to let some air in. ‘I’m telling you because I believe I can trust you. The other reason I’m telling you is that I want you to trust me . . . We’re not just doing a story on Lamont,’ Stanza went on, deciding to keep the American’s real name to himself for the moment. ‘We’re going to negotiate his release, or at least try to.’ Stanza had deliberated for some time before deciding to confide this much in Abdul. He needed help from a local and his instincts told him that Abdul was the man. Even if Abdul was connected to the insurgents in some way, that was precisely who Stanza was trying to get in touch with. ‘Does that shock you?’ Stanza asked.
Abdul’s mind was beginning to spin at the consequences of such an undertaking. ‘It . . . it is a shock, as you say. But also dangerous.’
It was indeed, and stimulating too, Stanza suddenly thought. ‘What do you think about finding the people who kidnapped Lamont and asking for a meeting to discuss a ransom?’
The image of Hassan and the others appeared. But it was not Hassan to whom Abdul would need to talk. He would know the identities of those who’d ordered - and paid for - the American’s kidnapping.
‘How would we go about that?’ Stanza asked. ‘In theory, at least. Is it possible?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘We couldn’t involve anyone else. No one official.’ The US government’s policy of non-negotiation with hostage-takers, hijackers and the like was well documented. But it was not against the law for a private individual to do it. ‘If we could at least try and make a start. I don’t expect it to be easy but . . . What do you think?’
Abdul was thinking about Hassan. The idea of approaching his erstwhile boss filled him with dread. It seemed that he had not become fearless after all. Abdul might now be enjoying the comfort of Allah but Hassan was still a tool of the devil. Hassan could contact those who had bought Lamont, it was his business to. But why would he want to? ‘It would be very dangerous,’ Abdul repeated, more to himself than to Stanza.
‘But would it be possible? Can’t we take it in small steps? A feasibility study? What would your first step be?’ Stanza was pushing the matter because he was not meeting the resistance he had expected. Whether Abdul could manage such a thing was something to worry about later.
Abdul took hold of his stump that had started to throb again. Stanza was right. Abdul could take a small step. Test the ground. Money was the key to Hassan, though. ‘Would you pay for the information?’
‘Pay? Pay who?’ Stanza was unprepared for talk of money.
‘Palms will need to be oiled.You are asking people to put themselves at risk. People who owe you nothing.’
Stanza understood. But journalists like him rarely paid for information. In any case, his budget was small and he only had enough dollars to pay the local staff’s wages, plus the hotel bills and expenses. ‘How much?’ he asked.
‘Not for me,’ Abdul said. ‘But if I found a person with information he will want money. How much I do not know. I am not experienced in these matters.’
Neither was Stanza but the point was he didn’t have any money anyway. He could rustle up a few thousand dollars, more if he withheld the wages until he got a resupply from the Herald. He would have to get permission from Patterson, of course, who would in turn have to get it from old man Stanmore. They had not even discussed the size of the ransom yet. The paper wasn’t ready. Stanza would be moving ahead unsupported. An immediate conversation with Patterson was required. ‘Can you find out how much we might be talking about? For information and such?’
‘Maybe.’
‘OK. We’ll take it a step at a time. See what we need to do to make contact with the kidnappers. Let’s not put ourselves at risk. Call me the minute you have anything,’ Stanza said before walking away.
If one’s fate was always in Allah’s hands, then Abdul could not imagine what was in store for him further along the path. But, thinking positively, it would be wonderful if he could achieve something with this Lamont business. Here was a chance to redeem himself, partly at least. Perhaps the idea was not as wild as it first appeared. Meeting Hassan - the only way into the maze that he could think of - was a terrible prospect, of course. But if there was money involved that would interest Hassan more than anything.
This was the most ambitious undertaking of Abdul’s life. But, most im
portant, it was very much an adult mission.
As Abdul stepped off towards the checkpoint he straightened his back and pushed out his chin. This was indeed the start of a remarkable journey.
10
The Lion’s Den
Tasneen stepped into her apartment, closed the door behind her and bolted it. As she pulled off her jacket a sound came from the kitchen. ‘Is that you, Abdul?’ she called out, her breath catching as she became suddenly nervous.
Abdul popped his head around the kitchen doorway. ‘Hi,’ he said. His smile was unusually broad.
Tasneen’s unease was immediately replaced by a different concern. He was supposed to have called her when he was ready to be picked up. She put down her jacket, dropped her keys into her handbag and placed it on the small table by the door. ‘How was it?’
When Abdul did not answer she walked to the kitchen doorway. He was cutting a sandwich, using his handless forearm to keep it in place while he sliced through the bread with his good hand. Her instant reaction was to take over but as she reached out he shifted his body to block her and continued sawing. ‘I can do it,’ he said, a hint of annoyance in his tone.
Tasneen folded her arms and leaned against the door frame, glad to see him showing some independence. ‘Well? Are you going to answer me?’
He cut through the sandwich and brushed the crumbs from his stump. ‘I was concentrating on not cutting any more of my arm off.’
She grinned. ‘You had a good day, then.’
‘I have never had a day quite like it,’ Abdul said, taking a large bite out of the sandwich as he offered her the other half.
Tasneen shook her head. ‘Sounds exciting . . . What did you do?’
He walked past her into the living room while trying to keep the pieces of lamb and tomato from falling out from between the slices of bread. ‘We did journalist things,’ he said as he sat on the couch, his mouth full of food.
‘Tell me. I want to know.’
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