by David Hearne
“Take the main elevator down to the ground floor,” he told her. “Leave by the main doorway. If you attempt other entrances, you will be stopped, questioned and exposed. Use the main door, act as if you do this every day of the year, and you will not be stopped. When you are outside, turn right and go to the curb. My car will meet you.”
His hands caught her arms, pulled her to him in a long kiss. “Now go,” he ordered, “and do not look back.”
* * * *
Until she settled into the plush rear seat of the sleek silver Saab sedan, Zoe believed something would go wrong. That she would be captured. Her heart continued to drum wildly until Ibrahim opened the rear passenger door, and he slid in beside her. As the door closed, Bayan, their driver, eased the Saab from the curb into traffic.
Zoe twisted in the seat, met his eyes. “Why did you go through with it?”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Many reasons,” he admitted finally, then sighed. “I love you. I love you desperately, but escaping with you meant turning my back on my family, on centuries of al-Janabi tradition.”
His eyes read her disbelief, and he continued on. “Oh, I made all the plans, but in my heart, I had no intention of carrying them out. Until this morning’s ultimatum.”
Ibrahim laced his fingers together, brought them to his lips. “My family has great wealth, but they are not well respected. In these peaceful times we are tolerated, but…,” he shook his head, “when war comes, I fear the al-Janabis will all be suspect and purged.”
His gaze held hers. “And having just found you, I did not want to die needlessly.”
“I do not understand,” she protested. “If we are caught, you will be tried and executed for helping me escape.”
He smiled grimly. “Then I die in a good cause.”
* * * *
Zoe caught quick glimpses of some of Baghdad’s monumental public buildings as the car snaked through traffic out of central Baghdad. The city was large, metropolitan, and with considerable charm even after years of war and turmoil. The huge double-decker bridge spanning the Tigris River, one of twelve bridges spanning the river, left her awed. Ahead, the eighteen-story Baghdad University building hovered at the river’s U-bend where it snaked its way through Baghdad.
“There, on the left bank is the Republican Presidential Palace,” Ibrahim pointed, almost as if they were on holiday, “and there, the Baghdad Clock Tower standing tall above the Museum of the Leader.” His lips twisted in disdain. “It details the life of Saddam Hussein for the masses.”
In the rundown southeastern suburb of Baghdad, they rendezvoused with a Mercedes. Bodies resembling Zoe and Ibrahim were taken from the Mercedes’ trunk and positioned on the rear seat of the silver sedan. As the other driver straightened, Bayan seized the man from behind, pressed an automatic against the skin beneath the ear.
Ibrahim leaned his face near. “Did you believe I would not sense betrayal, Yusuf?”
Wide eyes met Ibrahim’s. “You make--no sense!” His features framed the question before he spoke. “I--serve you honorably. Why must you act so?”
“If you have not betrayed me, then I do it for no other reason than you are Baath,” Ibrahim said coldly. “I do it because many things I confided in you, designed to test your loyalty, have surfaced through Baath contacts. You were told nothing of today, and in moments you will tell nothing.”
Zoe watched Yusuf tense, his expression frantic, but the automatic kept him still. “When I am found dead to a bullet,” he announced, “it will give away your plot.”
“I do not think so,” Ibrahim said softly. The doctor’s hand lifted, a needle stabbed deep into Yusuf’s neck, and a quick thumb pressed the syringe dry. “Pancuronium bromide paralyzes the entire muscle system and stops a person’s breathing. I understand you will be conscious until the last. May Allah, His name be praised, have mercy on you.”
Yusuf’s lips framed a reply, but no sound came. Then he slumped in Bayan’s hands.
“Place him in the driver’s seat,” Ibrahim told Bayan. “The motor must be running and the car moving when we hit it with the rocket-propelled grenades.”
* * * *
From the Mercedes Zoe watched a rocket-propelled grenade punch through the Saab’s rear windshield, saw the car explode in a crescendo of light and sound. Then a second grenade hit, and the gas tank exploded. Ibrahim said nothing as he and Bayan rejoined her. He rode in stoic silence, his lips in a hard line.
“You surprise me,” she said, interrupting his solitude. “You are more than you seem.’
“And you are not?” Ibrahim countered. “Perhaps there are facets of Katherine Laforge that would shock me.” He sighed heavily, leaned his head back against the plush leather. “Often we do what we must and call it survival.”
His comment hit far too close to home, and she did not answer. Ibrahim seemed not to notice.
“Soon we will reach a checkpoint, and we must stop,” he told her. “This car has been radically altered to make a hidden compartment. The deep trunk had been shortened by some eighteen-inches, and the springs from the rear seat removed and replaced by strong flat tension bars, providing an additional six-inches of room. You must hide in there.”
Zoe met his eyes without flinching. They were hard, his emotions locked away. She nodded in agreement.
When Bayan pulled into an alley, Ibrahim shifted the rear seat forward and motioned Zoe into the confining cavity. She eased herself into the narrow space, and tried to relax against the compartment’s padded bottom.
Ibrahim leaned over her, brushed his lips against hers. “You will not be in here long, I promise. Most of all, no matter what, you must be silent. If not, we are all dead. Can you do this?
The coffin-like sides seem to press against her, but she nodded and echoed his words, “We do what we must and call it survival.”
“Use this if you must,” He said, handing her a slim automatic. “Never doubt I love you,” he said, then turned away and pushed the seat back into place. She endured the darkness, heard the latch snap into place with loud finality. In the cavity Zoe concentrated on her breathing and tried not to worry about what lay ahead.
Twice more she was forced into hiding. Each time, when the bored guards found nothing of interest within the Mercedes, they waved them through the checkpoint.
As they sped south toward Basra, Bayan drummed his nicotine-stained fingers against the steering wheel in time to an Arabic tune hummed off key. Ibrahim slept against her shoulder, his soft breathing light and regular.
“I should be tired,” Zoe mused, “but I am not.”
After months spent in the same hospital room, she studied everything along the road. Every humble village, town, or city between Baghdad and Basra displayed larger-than-life portraits of Saddam Hussein. The huge portraits chilled her. They were vivid reminders that nowhere in this land could she run or hide and be free of Saddam. Freedom for Zoe Shelly existed only beyond Iraq’s borders.
* * * *
As they drove through the desert toward Basra, Zoe moved her head as little as possible. Even in the air-conditioned Mercedes, fine air-borne desert grit became sandpaper where her robes rubbed her neck. Ahead, the road seemed to ripple in the midday heat. Dust swirled about the blacktopped surface, coating everything with a gray film. It smelled like old ashes, born from Iraq’s age-old turmoil, and the rise and fall of empires.
By midday the sky congealed into a pale canopy of blue-white haze. Their Mercedes raced through a stark and brooding wasteland, which stretched for endless miles, an immense nothingness, bleak, sterile, and foreboding. Outside, the capricious winds of desolation howled, buffeting the Mercedes, swirling sand into the heavens, washing all the color from the sky.
From time to time Ibrahim spoke on his cell phone. Zoe understood none of the exchanges. When he offered no explanations, she did not press. Come what may, she had committed her life into his hands.
Toward sunset they approached an old car broken down on the
roadside. A robed man standing beside it held a baby in his arms and frantically waved for them to stop.
“Stop, Bayan,” Ibrahim ordered. “The child may be ill.”
Seeing them braking, the man passed the baby to someone inside the car, and smiling, walked around to Bayan’s side. Crouching down, he peered into the car as Bayan lowered the window. Glanced at the passengers, the white turbaned man launched into guttural Arabic Zoe could not understand. Suddenly, he brandished a rifle from beneath his robes and his other hand snaked through the open window and seized the steering wheel. Waving his rifle in the air, he yelled at them in guttural Arabic.
“He says to exit the car,” Ibrahim whispered, “but to do so is death. Go!” he yelled at Bayan, “Go, Go, Go!”
Two other men with rifles climbed out of the old car as Bayan jammed his foot hard on the accelerator. Tires squealed as the Mercedes surged forward, spraying a blinding cloud of sand into the air. Thrown sideways, dragged from his feet, the robber cursed and screamed as he struggled to maintain his grip on the steering wheel and bring his rifle to bear at the same time. The Mercedes fish-tailed back and forth on the tarmac as Bayan tried to maintain control of the car with one hand and break the man’s grip on the wheel with the other.
Zoe watched in horror as the robber’s rifle barrel swung toward Bayan’s temple. Suddenly, the small automatic Ibrahim gave her was in her hand. She fired twice. The first bullet punched into the assailant’s arm; the second opened a third eye in his turbaned forehead.
When the car accelerated, the other robbers froze, then raised their rifles, and aimed at the Mercedes. But they hesitated, fearful of hitting their comrade.
With horrifying abruptness, the arms disappeared from the driver’s window. Ibrahim turned in time to see the body tumbling hard upon the road. The man’s head struck the 120-degree pavement, his white robe quickly dappled with large crimson spots as the corpse continued to tumble. Shots rang out as the other assailants fired repeatedly at the fleeing car, but none of the bullets found their mark.
Zoe felt a rush of exhilaration and relief as they sped away. She turned back to find Ibrahim staring at her with widened eyes. Looking down quickly, she realized the automatic was still in her hand.
“Now it is you who surprise me,” he said, admiration in his voice. “I had forgotten I gave you the pistol.”
She accepted his praise. “Someone I care for told me ‘we do what we must, and call it survival.’
He chuckled, and his humor softened the mood. Then he sobered. “You must understand these are perilous times for my country. There is no security on the roads away from the cities, and those who travel are fair game to small village bandits.” He shrugged. “These thugs are usually all related, so no one cares what family members do to strangers.”
Ibrahim shook his head to banish the horrible memory. “My role is to save lives,” he said softly. “When I saw the child, I reacted as a doctor. It almost got us killed.” His face hardened. “I shall not be so weak again.”
* * * *
Night descended quickly in the desert. Dusk deepened, and ahead, a cluster of lights pierced the dusty gloom. Bayan eased off the accelerator, cursed softly in Arabic, and then warned, “We are coming to a military checkpoint.”
Ibrahim roused a dozing Zoe, handed her the forged documents he had purchased for this occasion. The papers identified her as his wife, and thankfully, by Iraqi custom, the husband spoke for the wife. If she was forced to speak, her inability to speak Arabic would doom them. But as Bayan braked the Mercedes at the checkpoint, it was too late for doubts.
As his headlights illuminated the soldiers, Bayan frowned. Many times this year he had traveled these roads, shuttling people back and forth from Baghdad to Basra. He knew what to expect, but he always worried some renegade soldiers would kill him and steal his car. His Mercedes would bring high dollars over the border in Saudi Arabia.
But Bayan’s fear proved needless as a smiling guard left the sandbag-fortified redoubt, shouted his name, and added a warm greeting. With a short sigh, Bayan relaxed. He knew these guards, even had friends among them.
Zoe did not understand the exchange, but she saw Bayan offer the grinning guard a package of cigarettes, which quickly disappeared. The guard spoke again, and Bayan popped open the latch to the Mercedes’ trunk.
Behind the car, soldiers combed through the suitcases and boxes in the trunk, and then joined their comrade at the window. They whispered among themselves, and then Bayan’s friend spoke again. Bayan chuckled, opened the glove box and passed across two more cigarette packs. At the guard’s signal, Bayan left the car, pushed the bonnet lid shut, then returned to his seat. When they drove away, true night had fallen, and the dark sky was frosted by bright stars.
Ibrahim visibly relaxed once they were through the checkpoint, even allowed himself a chuckle. He twisted in the seat, drew Zoe to him, and kissed her longingly.
“The soldier told Bayan it was a bad time to go to Basra,” he said softly. “He warned that the Americans were going to attack again.”
“But they let us go on,” she wondered aloud, “Why?”
“Bayan told the guard he had no choice. These trips were how he makes his money.”
Later, as they entered Basra, night shrouded Iraq’s second-largest city.
“I regret you cannot see the architecture of the ‘City of Sinbad’ as Basra is also known,” Ibrahim said, “or the wooden front doors studded with iron. They are decorated with knockers of brass shaped into the small hands of Fatima, the daughter of the Prophet Mohammed, that are said to bring blessings to those in the house.”
But Zoe was too weary to care. She wanted a bath and sleep. “Will we stop somewhere in the city?”
Ibrahim nodded. He, too, was tired. “I have cousins here. But they are gone. Fled to the country because they fear the Americans will bomb Basra.” He reached out, cupped Zoe’s cheek with his palm. “Do not worry. I spoke to them by cell phone. They have allowed me the use of their house.” He smiled reassuringly. “We will be safe there.”
* * * *
Houses with overhanging balconies and projecting windows with elaborate ornaments and cupolas in the old Arabian style hugged the narrow streets in the Ashar district near Basra’s bazaar. Zoe was soon lost in the twists and turns Bayan made. Eventually, he braked the Mercedes at a double gate set in a high brick wall. Stopping, he left the car, inserted a massive key in an antiquated lock, and moments later swung the gates wide enough for the Mercedes to enter. Headlights illuminated a fine imposing house fronting the tight circular driveway, something that might have been drawn from the pages of A Thousand and One Nights.
Brick walls were overlaid with mosaic tile, carved wood panels and multi-faceted glass windows surrounded a shadowy courtyard. Bayan went ahead, opening doors and turning on lights. Set in iron sconces inset into the walls, the lights flickered, giving the impression of burning candles.
Ibrahim took Zoe’s hand, led her across the polished marble entranceway through the main carved-wood doors into a large reception room adorned by more carved wooden panels of intricate design and moucharabiehs, beaded wooden screens. The floor was set with low tables of inlaid wood, each surrounded by cushions, the walls hung with tapestries of gold-embroidered silk. At the upper end was a divan of alabaster, wide enough for several persons to sit upon, canopied with red satin and surmounted by ancient heraldic arms.
Ibrahim paused, gestured at the device on the red satin. “The arms of the al-Janabi family,” he said, pride evident in his voice. “We are an old family,” his lips twisted wryly, “even if we are not currently in favor.” Then he gestured around the room, the courtyard beyond. “What you see here has been so for more years than I can remember. My uncle is an ardent traditionalist.”
In the adjoining rooms, cushions were also spread, and on the terrace floor as well.
It--it is so beautiful,” Zoe whispered, unwilling for her voice to spoil the moment. “I nev
er dreamed….”
“Come,” he urged, “let me show you more.”
Beyond the large audience hall and reception room, a winding staircase climbed to an upper floor of spacious apartments. Beyond the tall, thin inner windows, slender white marble pillars supported a colonnade overlooking an interior courtyard and garden, dormant in its beauty; waiting for the spring’s flowering.
Photographs set in ornate frames graced the wall that ascended with the winding staircase, photos of gaunt, proud men in flowing robes greeting a younger Saddam Hussein, others pictured with the old King of Iraq, British officials and officers, and a Turkish provincial governor. There were robed men before desert tents, some with modern vehicles, and others with blooded Arabian horses. Others, more faded, up the stairs, portrayed Nineteenth Century scenes.
Bayan brought them food, which they ate on cushions in one of the rooms adjoining the main audience hall. Simple fare, Ibrahim mused, most uncharacteristic of the meals normally served in his uncle’s home. Later, as they reclined on cushions in the courtyard, surrounded by night’s shadows, Ibrahim kissed her tenderly.
As his embrace grew more passionate, Zoe responded, giving herself to him with a willingness, an ardor, which surprised her. In her mind, she resisted the weakening voice of that Katherine part of her that protested her actions. She shunned it and gave herself to Ibrahim. They had what few hours remained of the night, before they must meet Wilson Lawson’s boat before dawn, and she wanted that time with Ibrahim to give her a lifetime of new dreams.
* * * *
Shadowed figures like fleeting apparitions darted across the harbor dock. Crouched low the figures scanned the horizon tracking a faint object bobbing about on the whitewater of the incoming waves. As it grew larger they knew it was the dinghy from Wilson Lawson’s yacht coming for them.
Zoe paused on the dock, pressing herself against a large crate. Close by, Ibrahim stood obscured by the shadows. A chapter in her life was drawing to a close, and another was beginning. Bayan had left them, intent on staying in Iraq. He and Ibrahim had parted emotionally and the doctor gave him the Mercedes as a parting gift for years of friendship and faithful service. Ibrahim had sent Zoe’s message to Lawson as she requested, and she knew the friend from her youth would not fail her. More, she felt sure he would be piloting the dingy sent to retrieve them. Reassured, she stepped into the full moonlight.
