Saul's Game

by Andrew Kaplan

  “I think you’re right.” She grinned back. Inside she was scared to death. Little Mohammed was right. It was crazy. And would she be able to spot Warzer in the crowd?

  Ali, driving, turned into a narrow side street. It too was crowded with pedestrians and parked cars, some with wheels partially on the sidewalks. There was no parking space. They drove slowly to a small tobacco kiosk, selling cigarettes, sundries, and lottery tickets, with crates placed in the street in front to hold space for customers’ cars. He honked the horn twice, then twice more.

  A thin, balding man in a Manchester United T-shirt came out, acknowledged Ali with a look, and moved the crates away so Ali could park the Nissan in the space at an angle.

  “He’s also of the Albu Mahal,” Ali said of the tobacconist.

  “A long way from home,” Carrie murmured.

  “Aren’t we all?” Little Mohammed said, grinning like a wicked rabbit.

  CHAPTER 34

  Imam Hussein Shrine, Karbala, Iraq

  29 April 2009

  The grounds of the Imam Hussein Shrine encompassed two ancient domed mosques, the Al-Abbas mosque and the Imam Hussein mosque, each surrounded by its own high wall with a long tree-lined promenade between them. A temporary chicken-wire fence had been erected in front of the blue-tiled Qabla Street gate that led into the courtyard of the Imam Hussein Shrine.

  Carrie, along with Ali and the other Albu Mahal tribesmen dressed as Iraqi Security Force soldiers, crossed the wide plaza. The air was hot, still. The shrine’s golden dome and gold minarets gleamed in the bright sun. Already, the faithful had begun to gather at the entrance to the Imam Hussein mosque and in the courtyard, where loudspeakers were being set up for the anticipated crowds who wouldn’t be able to fit into the shrine.

  While Ali spoke with an officer of the shrine security guards at the entrance, Carrie studied the layout, her eyes scanning the crowd, searching for Warzer.

  Why hadn’t he contacted Virgil or Perry? She’d narrowed it down to only two explanations: he had gotten close to Abu Ghazawan, which meant no cell or Internet communications, or he was dead.

  If he was alive, she would see him today. If they had a chance to talk again, she didn’t know what she would say. Whatever she’d done with de Bruin had poisoned a well that was already going dry. But what if Warzer was dead?—feeling sick to her stomach. He couldn’t be, she thought. Not now.

  She and the Albu Mahals had moved a day early because Saul was betting that while a terrorist attack like a car bomb could occur anywhere, anytime, given the crowds, the only way Abu Ghazawan and his IPLA attackers would be able to get near the tomb would be to set up a day ahead. Tomorrow, Friday, the day of the Grand Ayatollah al-Janabi’s sermon, the crowds and security would be so massive that it would be almost impossible for Abu Ghazawan and his men to get anywhere near the sepulcher chamber.

  Everything was predicated on the notion that the tomb and sarcophagus of the martyr was the target.

  Shortly after they had left the apartment, Ismail had called Ali to alert him that Abu Ghazawan’s men were on the move. The Toyota SUVs had left, filled with men. He wasn’t sure if there were others or whether Warzer was with them. As for tracking Abu Ghazawan’s cell phone, according to Virgil back in Baghdad and per Carrie’s laptop, it hadn’t been turned on in a week. Abu Ghazawan had gone fully operational; no cell phones. But Carrie now knew that Saul had been right. They had chosen today to get close to the tomb, where they would wait overnight and, for maximum effect, attack tomorrow.

  She’d worked out a set of hand signals with Ali. If she covered her eyes with her left hand, she’d spotted Warzer. If she raised her right hand to her eyes, she’d identified Abu Ghazawan. Although no one knew what he looked like, she knew that if Warzer was anywhere around and saw her, he would indicate Abu Ghazawan to her. If she spotted both and/or IPLA suicide bombers, she would raise both hands to her face and hit the ground, because that would be a trigger for action.

  The shrine officer Ali had been talking to motioned them inside the massive pointed-arch entrance, where they removed their shoes and, at a fountain basin, washed their faces, hands, and feet. They went inside the shrine, entering a decorated hallway opening to a vast musalla, or the mosque’s open area for prayer, lit by crystal chandeliers and lined with a long row of intricately detailed pointed-arch doorways under an elaborately patterned crystal ceiling.

  As a woman, Carrie had to separate herself from Ali’s men. She padded on bare feet to a place near the doorway of the sepulcher chamber and peeked in. It was a smaller room than she expected. There were pilgrims standing in prayer around a gold-topped, cagelike metal sepulcher within which lay the gold sarcophagus of the Shiite martyr. Through the crisscrossed metal mesh of the sepulcher, she could see its triangular-shaped top.

  Other pilgrims, some dressed completely in black, sat legs crossed, against the wall or crowded behind others to get as close as they could to the sacred sarcophagus. Many were praying. The room was filled with murmurs.

  Warzer wasn’t there. She saw no one who might be one of Abu Ghazawan’s men. They had beaten them to the shrine, she thought as Emad and Younis took up guard posts by the door to the sepulcher chamber. Big Mohammed had stayed outside the shrine’s wall to watch for SUVs, which might be used for car bombs. When Ismail got there, he would stay outside with Big Mohammed.

  Ali and Little Mohammed positioned themselves against the wall opposite the mihrab, the niche that designates the direction of Mecca for prayer. Carrie waited at the edge of the women’s section of the hall, turning so she could face the mihrab while taking in the entrance hall of the mosque.

  With each minute more people filed into the mosque. Men, women, families, all prepared to wait twenty-four hours to hear the words of the Grand Ayatollah al-Janabi. They sat waiting for the call for the noon Dhuhr prayer. But it never came.

  Instead, Ali signaled her with his eyes. He must’ve gotten a cell-phone signal from Big Mohammed outside, she thought, her body tensing.

  Suddenly a stir as some fifteen policemen, dressed in SWAT-type military gear of the INP, the Iraqi National Police, came four abreast into the prayer hall.

  “There’s been a bomb threat. We’re here to protect the shrine of the holy Imam Hussein,” one of them shouted in Arabic. The third policeman in the front row was Warzer. She tried to catch her breath and couldn’t. Here it comes, she thought.

  The INP policemen marched toward the sepulcher chamber of the Imam Hussein. People moved out of their way like water parting. The INP policemen came fast, menacing and bulky in their blue uniforms and Kevlar vests, any one or all of which could be concealing suicide vests. Warzer was wearing a bulky vest, bulkier even than the Kevlar would suggest, and suddenly Carrie understood what he had done.

  Of course. He had volunteered to Abu Ghazawan to be a shahid, a suicide bomber. One of those who would die destroying the tomb of the Imam Hussein. That’s how he had gotten close to Abu Ghazawan and why he hadn’t contacted Virgil or Perry. He was too close. In the inner circle. And about to die, one way or another, no matter what he did. She had to stop him.

  Carrie stood, the lone standing figure among the women. She put both hands to her eyes, peeking through her fingers, to signal to Ali that they were IPLA men, but it was already too late. Three of the IPLA men in front, including Warzer, were marching straight toward the sepulcher. The two guards, Emad and Younis, stood, not moving. They were going to react too late! A half dozen or more of the IPLA men had started to split off from the main group of policemen, heading right toward Ali and Little Mohammed.

  She dropped her hands from her face and stared openly at Warzer, willing him to see her. Their eyes locked. He looked at the man on his left, as if pointing him out. A short, bearded Arab of no particular age—maybe in his fifties, maybe forties, impossible to say—with longish yellowing teeth—like a rat in a SWAT helmet.

  Abu Ghazawan. It was him. It had to be. Except that the man had caught Warzer’
s look, taking in Carrie, Warzer, Emad, and Younis guarding the door to the shrine.

  Mrs. Fawzi, Carrie thought despairingly as she dropped to the floor, her hands scrambling under her chador to find her gun. The old woman had blown the Albu Mahals to Abu Ghazawan.

  She saw it happening, all the moving pieces, as if in slow motion. Abu Ghazawan turned his head, somehow spotting the connection between her and Ali, then turned toward Warzer. At the same instant, she saw Ali’s eyes as the IPLA men in the front row knelt to aim their AK-47s, the row behind them also aiming while the rows of “policemen” behind them scattered. As Shiite worshipers suddenly became aware of what was happening, screamed and scattered, she caught Warzer’s desperate look. He must have realized that Abu Ghazawan had spotted his signal to Carrie and was trying to take off his suicide vest.

  Two of the other IPLA men with bulky vests ran toward the pointed-arched entrance to the sepulcher. They were going to blow it up. But before they could take another step, Ali and Little Mohammed fired their M4s, cutting them down. Ali and Little Mohammed then turned to fire at the other IPLA policemen. Emad and Younis swung their weapons into position, but the IPLA men in the first two rows shot in the same instant, wounding Little Mohammed and instantly killing both Emad and Younis.

  Warzer ripped off his outer SWAT vest. Under it was a second vest with rows of bulging pockets and wires. He fumbled to unhook it. Get it off, Carrie prayed. Take it off. Shots were popping off everywhere. She watched as Warzer managed to unhook his vest and toss it behind him toward his fellow attackers, at the same time pivoting to a kneeling position to fire his AK assault rifle at them.

  Ali and the wounded Little Mohammed each dived in opposite directions, still shooting. They killed two of the policemen in the second row who had kept on coming as the other IPLA policemen took cover behind pillars near the rear of the prayer hall. The remaining IPLA policemen hit the floor or took cover behind pillars or people that they used as human shields, firing back in long bursts.

  Bullets flew everywhere. They smashed the crystal chandeliers, one of which came crashing to the floor, scattering razor-sharp shards. The rain of bullets shattered tiles on the walls and ripped into people running, cutting them down. Women were screaming, children were crying, while some of the male worshipers ran to the women and children to shield them. People were running and crawling toward the entrance. A woman who’d tried to get up next to Carrie was shot down, part of her face gone and bloody. Carrie squirreled behind the woman’s body, which quivered again when another bullet thunked into it.

  There was blood everywhere. The prayer rugs were getting soaked with it. One of the IPLA policemen raised an RPG. He aimed it at the open archway that led to the sepulcher, but a shot from the wounded Little Mohammed drilled into him. As the IPLA policeman crumpled, he fired the RPG down into the floor. It exploded instantly, blasting him and the IPLA men around him into a circle of scattered bodies and arms and legs, like some ghoulish apocalyptic painting.

  Two IPLA policemen came toward Carrie. Oh God, she thought, they knew who she was! Before she could raise her gun to shoot, shots rang out beside her. Ali, firing his M4, brought them down, then grabbed her by the arm and yanked her toward one of the arched doorways. An explosion rocked the hall from the spot where Warzer had thrown his vest. Carrie felt the heat and a force of air from the blast, followed by a cloud of black smoke. The prayer rugs were on fire.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Warzer. He was running. Abu Ghazawan was running after him. Abu Ghazawan fired a shot at Warzer, who had shoved his way into a crowd of worshipers trying to exit the prayer hall.

  Warzer was trying to protect her, Carrie realized. Trying to lead Abu Ghazawan away. She couldn’t tell if Warzer had been hit, but she thought he was still running. As she and Ali ran through an alcove to a side door, a shattering explosion from outside the mosque shook the walls, knocking them both off their feet.

  Car bomb. Dear God, there were hundreds of people there, she thought as she and Ali got up and ran out a side door into the courtyard. The sunlight was blinding. All around, people were scurrying like ants, running and screaming. In the distance, she could hear the sirens of fire engines.

  Suddenly another car bomb went off in the outer plaza outside the walls around the shrine complex, causing the ground to shake so that she and Ali almost fell down again. She spotted Warzer, sprinting toward the gate that led to the plaza outside the shrine walls. Abu Ghazawan was running after him.

  Abu Ghazawan was less than a hundred meters behind Warzer, firing at him as he ran. Abu Ghazawan’s face was contorted in a strange smile. He looked like a madman. One of his bullets hit a woman running with a little boy. She went down and was still. The boy stood there, staring blankly at Abu Ghazawan as he ran by.

  Warzer was in a crowd of people, many of them pilgrims dressed in black, crowding to get through the main gate. She saw Abu Ghazawan stop for a moment, strip off his uniform helmet and vest. Underneath, he wore a black thaub. Now he looked like an ordinary Shiite pilgrim, Carrie thought. A sickening feeling formed in the pit of her stomach.

  Abu Ghazawan dropped his AK-47 and ran to the gate, disappearing into the crowd. Next to her, Ali fired two bursts, taking down two more IPLA policemen leaving the mosque. He turned, and together, he and Carrie ran to the gate, squeezing through a crowd, fighting to get through the gate to the plaza.

  The crowd was pressed so close together she could hardly breathe. She was lifted off her feet and and carried through the gate. Once outside, she managed to keep her feet and ran. She sensed Ali close behind her.

  She and Ali stopped to catch their breath by a vendor’s stall in the middle of the wide plaza. The stall was filled with religious souvenirs of the shrine, but the vendor had run away. They ducked behind the stall, hiding from Abu Ghazawan and any of his men who might be coming from the mosque. They could hear the sounds of police and fire sirens and also small-arms fire coming from inside the shrine.

  “Stay here. I have to go back. Make sure the sepulcher’s safe,” Ali panted.

  She nodded and watched him run back to the gate, slamming a fresh magazine into his M4 as he rushed inside. Suddenly screams erupted from one of the streets leading into the plaza.

  A Toyota SUV—it had to be one Ismail had mentioned—emerged from that street. It was driving right at the main gate to the shrine, knocking over anyone in its way. Another car bomb!

  Carrie could see two men in the SUV. They ran over a teenage boy who screamed as both sets of wheels passed over him. Someone was shooting at them. They were coming closer to where Carrie was hiding. If they blew themselves up now, she wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Big Mohammed and Ismail were in the bed of a pickup truck parked on the periphery of the plaza. They were firing at the SUV. An IPLA man in a police uniform was firing at them from behind. Ismail turned to fire at him and dropped, clutching his stomach. Big Mohammed continued to fire his carbine at the truck that suddenly swerved toward Carrie. A hail of bullets followed the truck, then fell silent. Carrie could no longer see Big Mohammed on the truck bed.

  The truck was coming closer to the vendor stall where she was hiding. No time to run, and if it exploded, there was no way to outrun the explosion. That only happened in the movies. Then she saw the truck was slowing. It bumped against the stall, pushing it hard against Carrie, who dived away headfirst. The truck stopped. Both men in the cab were slumped over. Dead.

  Fear, like an electric shock, ripped through her. What about Warzer?

  She ran into the street. There was a mob forming, a sea of Shiite men, waving their fists. Some in black, some carrying guns.

  “Ya Allah, it’s him!” she heard someone cry out in Arabic.

  She saw Abu Ghazawan. He had climbed onto the trunk of a car and was pointing.

  “He’s one of them! He attacked the holy shrine!” Abu Ghazawan shouted.

  “He’s lying! It’s him!” Carrie screamed in Arabic, pointing at Abu Ghaza
wan, but no one seemed to hear.

  The mob surged forward across the plaza. They surrounded a man in a sea of bobbing heads and black clothes. It looked like they were beating him. There were guttural screams and someone cried out. Although she couldn’t see and it might have been anyone, she knew, with a certainty impossible to explain, that it was Warzer.

  Holding up the hem of her chador, she ran toward them. She spotted Abu Ghazawan searching for her in the crowd. She didn’t care. It was Warzer. The mob was beating him, dragging him somewhere.

  “U’af!” she screamed. Stop!

  They dragged Warzer to one of the intersecting streets, where a temporary metal pedestrian bridge had been built over the road because of the rush of pilgrims coming for Friday’s sermon.

  For a second, the way through the crowd was clear and she saw Warzer. He’d been beaten bloody, the side of his face bruised almost beyond recognition. His hands were tied behind him and men were tying a rope around his neck.

  “La! La! La!” Carrie shouted. No! No! No! “It wasn’t him!” she cried out, trying to push through. Several men shoved her back, glaring at her.

  Just before they hanged him from the pedestrian bridge, someone splashed liquid on him from a big can. Even at the back of the crowd, Carrie could smell the gasoline.

  “La!” she screamed. “Don’t! He’s innocent!”

  They threw the rope over a beam and two men began hauling him up. Someone tossed a match and suddenly Warzer was a writhing, kicking torch, blazing just above the heads of the crowd. For what seemed like an eternity, but must have been only thirty or forty seconds, he jerked and kicked, filling the air with smoke and the smell of burned meat. And then he was still. Swaying slightly, a charred pendulum dangling from the rope, smoldering and black.

  Carrie stood there, unable to move. She could see what was left of his face. It was unrecognizable, the flesh of his mouth burned away, his teeth white in a charred black mass. An image she knew, even as she saw it, that she would never get out of her mind.