by Churton, Alex; Churton, Toby; Locke, John; Lustbader, Eric van; van Lustbader, Eric
‘Rumi’s inspiration came through his knowledge of Shemsê Tebrizî. He was in the holy tradition of Sheykh Adi. How can the sun’s divinity be also seen as a man?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘One can only wonder at the beauty of the impossible. Jolo has told you that you may hear the voice of an English sheykh here at this shrine.’
‘Saint Chad, yes. There is a shrine to him in England.’
‘Yes, at the centre of England. It has three qubbe—’
‘Spires.’
‘Yes, spire. Like Sheykh Adi. And it has bronze hilêl at the top of spire. Like Shrine of Sheykh Shems. And your Sheykh Chad used to go to a sacred spring, at dawn. And he used to sing a hymn to Sheykh Shems.’
‘That’s the legend.’
‘You English should look again at your legends.’
The sheykh rotated a ring he was wearing on one of his fingers and began scratching a circle in the dust of the shrine’s floor. He then gathered the dust collected at the end of the tracing in his hand. He took a cup from a niche and sprinkled water into the dust.
‘Water from Zemzem Spring, Dr Ashe.’
He rolled the dust in his hands into a kind of muddy ball, and smoothed it with his palms. Then he took a small piece of cloth from the niche and wrapped it around the globe of dust.
‘We call this berat.’
‘Berat.’
The sheykh then thrust the tiny parcel into Ashe’s hand. ‘A remedy for all ills, Dr Ashe. Keep it.’
Ashe held it for a moment, then pushed it deep into his trouser pocket.
‘Thank you.’ English always seemed a stingy language in which to express gratitude.
‘Now, please sit in the circle.’
The reality of the situation struck Ashe with force. Was this a magic ritual, a prayer, a set-up – or what? What would happen? What could happen? Would it happen only if he believed? But he had forgotten how to believe; he was not a child any more.
Sheykh el-Wezîr began intoning the Hymn of Sheykh Shems of Tabriz. Ashe sat cross-legged in the circle. Above him, the figure of the sheykh loomed like an ancient statue come alive, his hands crossed over his chest, his eyes closed, his mind and soul inside the words of the hymn.
The words no longer seemed to come from his mouth but from the air around him, from the walls, from the circle, from Ashe himself; Ashe, Ashe, Toby, Toby Ashe was feeling extraordinarily hot; his body shuddered…
Oh Sheykh Shems, you have called us to this work of service,
Open for us a door of mercy,
Grant a light to us, and the people of the tradition everywhere
The sun at midnight… As Ashe’s eyes closed, his inner eye opened. A blazing light. Ashe felt himself pulled towards it, like a meteor heading for the sun. There was no sense of fear, no will to resist: only to go.
The image of the ankh, the Egyptian sandal-strap meaning ‘life’, appeared to his inner vision: the sandal – to go! Only to go!
Something was pulling him back. He heard the sheykh’s voice again: the echo in the chamber. To go… To go…
‘We gotta go! Hey, buddy! Planet Earth calling! We gotta go!’
Ashe’s eye opened slowly.
‘What?’
‘You ready for the human race? We’re all packed up and ready to ride.’
‘But… Vinny! VINNY!’
‘It’s me, baby! Back from the dead. Jeez! Some climb up here!’
‘Did you see him?’
‘Who?’
‘The sheykh.’
‘No, Dr Toby. No sheykh. And no rattle and roll neither. But I did see something… Wow! What a dame!’
‘The princess.’
‘Whoever she was, man, she was just sitting. Still, like somewhere else. She told me you were here. Then I find you’re still as well. Like dead.’
‘But… the Sheykh el-Wezîr. He was here a few seconds ago.’
‘Look outside, Dr Toby.’
Ashe hauled himself off the floor of the shrine and poked his head through the doorway. Above him, the red disc of dawn had just arisen over Mount Meshet. He stepped outside and stared at the hilêl, the golden orb crowning the qubbe.
‘Sheykh Shems!’
‘No, Toby. He’s gone.’
‘No, Vinny.’ Ashe pointed to his right temple. ‘He’s here!’
61
‘Care to do the honours again, Toby?’
Ashe put the Land Rover into gear. The major eased off the clutch and the convoy set off from Pira Silat in the dawn light.
‘What’s with the two extra trucks, Simon?’
Richmond grinned. ‘Remember last night I said we’d hit the jackpot?’
‘Er… it’s coming back to me. Yeah, just before I left the party. You said it could wait.’
‘You got to hand it to Jolo’s men. When they pull together, what a unit!’
‘The shooting in the valley?’
‘Yeah. Bit of a shooting match. Then some preliminary interrogation.’
‘The prize?’
‘Hafiz Razak.’
The name hit Ashe right between the eyes. He was in the Tower again – just before the explosion. The archdeacon was reading the summary of the November bombings in Istanbul. Hafiz Razak: the Syrian in the al-Qaeda cell. Hafiz Razak: one that got away. Dangerous man. Thought to be tied in with a new al-Qaeda cell in Fallujah.
‘That’s a hell of a coup, Simon. Many congratulations!’
‘Thank you.’
‘Razak’s the forger and bomb-maker.’
‘You’re very well informed, Dr Ashe.’
‘What do you think I do all day? Hafiz Razak’s a prime catch. And fresh from Istanbul too! This could be very exciting. What was he doing in the Sheikhan? His type tend to keep to the Sunni areas.’
Simon looked at Ashe, surprised by his naivety. ‘You been reading newspapers again, Toby? Think these guys lack ambition?’
‘Sorry, Simon. But aren’t al-Qaeda concentrating on the south? Fallujah.’
‘Come out of the dream, Toby. They’re seeking support everywhere. Razak’s been casing Kurdistan. Maybe even trying to establish a link with PKK units across the Turkish border. There are opportunities with Ansar al-Sunna crossing the Iranian border up here. Maybe, God forbid, Hafiz Razak had something atrocious in mind for Lalish. We’ll have to see what further interrogation gets out of him. The Yanks want him of course. There’s gonna be a lot of interest in Razak. One thing I can tell you already, if it’s any help. Remember last week you were using me as a sounding board for some of your ideas on the Masonic Lodge bombing?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You mentioned a guy called al-Qasr, son of an anti-Masonic, anti-Semitic fanatic.’
‘Yes. They showed up in some old files. Just a hunch really.’
‘You may have got lucky. We had Razak over a barrel all night and of course he denies having anything to do with either Istanbul or al-Qaeda. The only thing he burbles on about is straightforward criminal activity. Seems he’s been specialising in passports and identity documents of all kinds. Claims he’s in on immigration rackets. After a little pressure, he claimed he had customers in America. Said he’d been assisting a guy he called a “famous American professor” with passport requirements. When pressed as to the professor’s name, he mumbled something about “al-Qasr”. Said he had immigration problems. Any use?’
‘Maybe I’m not wasting my time after all. Can you get me in on the interrogation?’
‘As I say, the Yanks have first call on this one.’
‘But I’m an interested party.’
‘Yeah, well.’
‘I’ll sort it out when we get to Mosul.’
Richmond looked slightly embarrassed. ‘Maybe time to bring Vinny in.’
The major waved the convoy down on a precipitous ledge above a small gorge. Ashe heard a ramp come down from one of the trucks behind and Vinny’s familiar voice.
‘What is this? Men’s-room break?’
&n
bsp; Richmond called Vinny up to the Land Rover. ‘Time for explanations, Mr Zappa. Hop in!’
‘Delighted, Major. Those trucks are nut-crunching.’
The convoy set off once more.
‘Do you want to tell him, Vinny? Explain what’s happened and what it means for Toby’s mission?’
‘If there’s shit, bud, I’m the fan.’
Ashe could feel it coming his way fast.
‘What are you two on about? And what’s happened to Jolo?’
‘Tomorrow. After you’ve gone.’
‘What do you mean “gone”? Vinny’s back! Now we find Yildiz and Yazar!’
The major suddenly seemed to have developed a short temper. ‘Look, Toby, after I hand Razak over to our American colleagues for interrogation, I’ve some rather pressing calls on my time. Like insurgency trouble right down the Syrian border – from al-Karabilah to Abu Kamal; from al-Qa’im to al-Ubaydi. Shitloads of trouble. There’s 137 Egyptians crossing from Syria some time in the next thirty-six hours. Tunisians, Sudanese, Algerians, Saudis and even two blokes from Manchester training on the Syrian side. The Syrian government claims to be in the dark about all this.’
‘Nothing unusual about that, Major.’
‘Just tell him, Zappa, for fuck’s sake!’
‘OK. Well, ya see, Dr Toby, I guess there’s been an… international incident.’
‘Is he exaggerating again, Simon?’
‘No.’ Richmond turned the Snatch onto the main road west of Mosul.
‘Your source handler here was in Mosul making best use of available sources – putting it discreetly about that I’m interested in the whereabouts of Resit Yazar and Ali Yildiz. All leads gratefully received plus modest remuneration package. So I start to get somewhere. And the trail is leading out of Mosul – which is a mercy ’cause it’s getting awful cramped in there. There’s over a million Kurds and Arabs in Mosul. And increasing numbers of uninvited immigrants are harbouring distinctly unfriendly intentions toward Uncle Sam.’
Richmond sighed.
‘The downside is that the trail in question is leading south to Kirkuk. Kirkuk is not a friendly town. So, Dr Toby, I head there anyway, to the oil capital of Iraq – a truly sacred place, you understand – and one of the most bitterly contested little hot-spots in the north. Naturally, I’m cautious. Then, would’ya believe it, I run into some cross-lines.’
‘Crossed lines?’
‘Yeah, Toby. Crossed and double-crossed. Seems I’m following a line well-trodden by Turkish military intelligence. And to be frank, there ain’t quite as much dialogue going on between Turkey and Uncle Sam as one might hope to expect. I get the impression my presence in Kirkuk was not their idea of friendly collaboration. The trail hots up. I locate a source. We meet. Turns out he’s working with the Turks. That’s the motherfucker’s day job. Takes me on a little ride.’
‘Meaning?’
‘The doors are locked. And I’m heading – against my will – 100 kilometres southeast to Suleymaniya. And you know what? They ain’t got spare shades, so they give Vinny a big black blindfold to protect my eyes from the sun. Thoughtful motherfuckers. Turns out Vinny’s destination is a basement interrogation room in one of the less fashionable suburbs of Suleymaniya. Your friendly neighbourhood source handler has become a “guest” of Turkish intelligence. All for my own safety, of course.’
Ashe looked nonplussed.
‘Seems they’ve got wind of some nasty killings that might be taking place in Kirkuk in the near future. “Mr Zappa,” they say politely, “we wish to save you from the line of fire – and our national security requires you to be our guest for the short term.” They also say they must check my ID. I might be a double agent for Ansar al-Sunna or the PKK or Vladimir Putin or Donald Duck. Any fuckin’ excuse.’
‘What Vincent is trying to say, Toby, is that he was kidnapped by a detachment of Turkish special forces.’
‘I ain’t tryin’ to say nuthin’. I was fuckin’ kidnapped!’
‘But it was for your own safety.’
‘Yeah, check. And don’t it get messy out there in the field? And when denial time arrives, they can always say the detachment was truly detached – a rogue element now brought under control. So you can see why nothing came through to the US Defense Intelligence Agency in Mosul. As far as MND and the DIA were concerned, Vincent Zappa did not exist.’
‘Ah! So, if your friendly captors realised you were missing, presumed dead…’
‘You’re getting the picture. Maybe a safe return to civilisation was also not in their national security interest. Vinny is beginning to get just a bit nervous. I might be in line for a “very regrettable” accidental accident that couldn’t be avoided.’
‘We should not have been surprised.’
‘Can you imagine, guys, what it feels like, knowing your friends have not only given up hope but would be actually relieved if your body – headless or otherwise – were recovered?’
‘We hadn’t given up hope.’
‘OK, Toby. But you’d’ve been relieved to find out what’d happened.’
‘Frankly, yes. Disappearance is unbearable.’
‘Especially for the one who’s disappeared. But thanks for being frank. I’ll do the same for you one day.’
‘Well, Vinny, you obviously weren’t erased from history. So what did happen?’
‘It’s always nice to know that you don’t know everything. Seems DIA Mosul had independent investigations going on regarding some of our Turkish friends. Uncle Sam does not regard all Kurdish freedom fighters in the same light as the Turkish government. That is to say, friends, the war cannot be brought to a conclusion without Kurdish military support. The Turks thought that if they confined their obvious anti-Kurdish activities to their own side of the border, they might get away with some discreet tidying-up exercises on the other side, under Uncle Sam’s nose. In this particular instance, this was, I’m happy – and alive – to say, a severe miscalculation.’
‘Explain.’
‘Seems Johnny Turk had it in mind to take out a high-up Kurdish representative in Kirkuk. The man in question had friends in high places, and the Kurdish authorities did not take kindly to Turks cherry-picking assassination targets from among their race on Iraqi soil. Especially when those very authorities had already declared their hostility to Kurdish terrorism in Turkey – plus they assisted in the defeat of PKK forces in northern Iraq in the nineties.
‘So, one beautiful morning – yesterday to be exact – I was awoken by a disturbance upstairs in the free world. Special forces occupied what was described in the report as “an office of the Turkish army”. They freed Vincent Zappa – humble operative of Uncle Sam – and arrested eleven Turkish officers and domestic personnel. The charge was plotting the assassination of a senior Kurdish politician. I think, Dr Toby, we can take it as read your friends Yazar and Yildiz were also in the firing line.’
Ashe raised his eyebrows.
‘Which happy tale brings me to two significant revelations regarding Dr Toby Ashe’s status in this part of the world. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Dr Toby, but there is now no question whatever that your Kurdish politicians have fled Iraq – pursued, I don’t doubt, by Turkish intelligence. Anyhow, they’re now way out of my remit. Sorry, bud! The buck just stopped.’
Ashe’s heart sank. ‘And the other significant revelation?’
‘Now this is truly unfair, I grant you. But this is war, baby. Seems Ankara did not jump for joy when the US busted their butt in Suleymaniya. Apparently, Uncle Sam got it all wrong and well… pride is pride and national pride is something else. They’ve closed the border-crossing at Harbur.’
‘Shit.’
‘Just hit the fan. A little undiplomatic incident. Fuel and equipment supplies to the US up here are not getting through. This is inconvenient. And expensive. And it works. Turkey’s little signal. They’re pissed off. A line has been crossed and they’re gonna want soothing. Seems a lot of Turkish voters don�
�t trust Uncle Sam. According to Turkey, the US is soft on terrorism – except where its own interests are concerned. Can you believe that? And whose fucking interest is Turkey pursuing here – the international interest? Fuck! Do I hate politicians!’
‘Our paymasters, Vinny.’
‘Yeah. And aren’t they supposed to be the servants of the people? Since when do the servants tell the lord what to do with his castle?’
‘When they’ve taken it over?’
‘You got it, Toby.’
‘OK. Back to the point. You said the Turks have closed the border crossing at Harbur?’
‘Right.’
‘I can see this is an embarrassment all round.’
‘Yeah! But look! There’s some in the White House wonderin’ why little Vinny Zappa was in the fuckin’ hot house in the first place. “What’s that?” they say, “A British intelligence operation? What’s all that about?” Well, obviously Our Guy Vinny was just doin’ his job – but who’s this English guy chasing round northern Iraq with Lawrence of Arabia here? Pardon your presence, Major. But they smell a rat.’
‘Thanks a lot, Vinny. After all the tears we shed for you.’
‘Sorry, Simon. You know I love ya – but these political guys never understand field priorities. It’s one of those fuckin’ tennis matches between Langley, the Pentagon, the White House, British SIS – and whichever national intelligence agency we’ve just rubbed up the wrong way.’
Vinny looked at Ashe. ‘Anyhow, bud, seems you’re the fall guy. Welcome to Shit City. Don’t have to tell me it stinks.’
Ashe looked out of the window, watching Iraq float past him forever. Then he looked ahead, to the great city of Mosul, with its mosques, its murders and its magnificences – and saw it was for him the last station before an ignominious exit.
There would be no tearful Celia Johnson on the platform, no Rachmaninoff, just the bum’s rush back to Blighty double quick.
Vinny patted him on the back. ‘Sorry, Dr Toby. It’s been great workin’ with ya – keep in touch.’
‘Never say goodbye, Vinny.’
All too soon the convoy was crossing the debris-strewn concrete bridge over the Tigris at Faisaliya, a few hundred metres from where Rozeh’s parents had been murdered. Ashe pondered on what he could do now for Laila’s ‘Sister of the Hereafter’. This was war. Hearts got broken; things ended before their time; events ceased to make sense. People might claim innocence, but states sinned with impunity.
