by Saad Hossain
“Verbal reprimand,” Hoffman shrugged. “All them old boys appreciate how much hash I’ve flowed their way.”
“Not for long,” Kinza threw a small packet to his friend. “We’re off. Make it last.”
“Yo, where you all going?”
“North. Anbar. Mosul maybe. Who knows?” Kinza said. “Want to come? There might be a bunker full of gold. We’ll cut you in.”
“Sure,” Hoffman said. “Professor, you gonna teach me some more math along the way?”
“We need some help, Hoffman.” Dagr had taught him calculus for the past two weeks, at first as a joke. The Marine looked deceptively stupid, was stupid in all likelihood; yet he had picked up integration unerringly. “Get us past the checkpoints into Shulla.”
“Sure,” Hoffman said. “Hell, I’d go all the way with you boys, but they’d probably nail me for desertion. Call me when you find that bunker. I’ll fence it for you.”
“Hoffman, you really think there’s a bunker in the desert waiting for us?” Kinza laughed. “Who knows, maybe it’s filled with 72 virgins as well. Stranger things have happened. We can’t stay here anymore. That’s for sure.”
The Iraqi Army 2nd Cavalry Battalion checkpoint was built into the rubble of no man’s land between north and south Ghazaliya, Shi’a and Sunni, the bewildered Iraqi soldiers trying to keep calm and courteous, desperate to still believe the drumming message that there was one Al Qaeda, one insurgency, one enemy. In truth, they kept panicky fingers tight on their triggers, wary of women and children, knowing they were the eternal target, nobody’s friend, traitors in every book. Dagr and Hoffman stayed to the front, Hoffman doing the talking. After a desultory search, they were through, parting ways with a slap and a casual smile.
“They should put Hoffman in charge of Baghdad,” Dagr said, as they cleared the searchlights into the relieving darkness of evening. “We’d have a lot less tension.”
“Forget it,” Kinza said. “They should give him Rumsfeld’s job.”
“Maybe he’ll be president one day.”
“He could be the joint president of Texas and Iraq.”
“Imperialist lapdog,” Hamid mumbled.
Hamid was not a happy man these days. His face had puffed up to a misshapen Quasimodo lump, where eyes, nose, and mouth were swimming in irregular proximity to each other. A once vain man, he could no longer bear to look at any reflective surfaces and thus wore dark glasses at all times. He was in constant nagging pain, a condition Kinza was in no hurry to leaven. Too, he had a clearer idea now of the route Kinza planned to take, hopping from bastion to bastion of Shi’a dominance. Not a Saddam sympathizer in sight, his life worth a toothpick in a gunfight in these streets.
In the evening, they walked along a boulevard of garbage and open sewage, traversed by lines of people who looked neither left nor right, hurrying along to their bolt-holes. There were calls for prayer from the mosque nearby, a building wrecked by gunfire and mortar from a desperate battle two weeks ago. They walked in single file, Hamid in the middle, Dagr leading the way because he was Shi’a, and had once lived in the area and people trusted him for some reason.
He recognized a few people but did not hail them as he would have in the old days. It was not certain who was who anymore, which camp, which informant, how many dead in each family, and by whose hand. As night fell, the streets rapidly cleansed themselves of civilians and took on a wholly different breed of walkers. Men with guns circled each block, Insurgents, or civil guards, or JAM militia, or even men who were bewilderingly all three, Iraqi army during the day and everything else at night.
Men with guns lounged in pools of light, unwilling to leave that hazy, pathetic safety, the fear a palpable fog streaming into Dagr’s eyes and nose, making him stagger along like a marathon runner. The night belonged to the Ghazaliya dogs, bald and mad, shrapnel marked, barking through garbage. Their shadows capered against the walls, three men on a solitary path, marked by the hopeless stoop of their shoulders.
“We are being watched,” Kinza said, as they moved into a wrecked alley. “Be prepared, Dagr.”
A short surge, and two men came out of the rubble, guns out, faces wrapped in checkered scarves. At the same time, an old Fiat pulled up behind them.
“Shi’a, Shi’a!” Dagr said, hands raised. “Don’t shoot for God’s sake.”
“Take your hands out of your pockets,” the leading gunman said.
Hamid was already on the floor, shielding his face. Kinza stood still, his jacket zipped to his neck, hands jammed into pockets, every line of his body uncompromising.
“Hands out, you.”
“You don’t want me to do that, friend,” Kinza said softly.
“Get your fucking hands out!”
“Kinza, for God’s sake,” Dagr said, shaking. “Just do as he says.”
Kinza shrugged, raised his hands. There was a grenade in his fist. Dagr could see the tension on his thumb, as it pushed down on the pin. Iraqi army standard shrapnel grenade, used to clear rooms in house to house fighting. Somewhere on the checkpoint was a very careless soldier.
“What the hell?” Dagr felt his voice rising sharply.
“You wouldn’t.” The lead gunman swiveled his pistol from head to head like a metronome, fingers tight and trembling, the gun held lopsided in an amateur grip. Behind him, his partner began to edge back surreptitiously. “You wouldn’t.”
“Come and find out,” Kinza said.
“Let’s all relax,” Dagr tried to soothe the fever out of his voice. “Look, what do you want?”
“We saw you coming past the checkpost,” the gunman said, eyes darting wildly from face to face. “With the American.”
“We are just going north, to Shulla,” Dagr said. “We don’t want this trouble.”
“Trouble?” the gunman laughed. “Nobody wants trouble. Trouble comes by itself. Do I want to be like this? We need help. There is no one to help us. You help us, and we’ll take you into Shulla.”
“Funny way to ask for help,” Kinza said. “With guns.”
“Is there any other way?”
“Kinza, let me handle this,” Dagr slowly lowered his arms. “What makes you think we can help you? We’re just ordinary men. I am an economics professor at…”
“You might be normal,” the man said. He pointed a stubby finger at Hamid and Kinza. “But those two are jackals. It’s them we want. We need beasts to hunt a beast. Plus, you are cozy with Americans.”
“Listen, let’s talk like reasonable men. What is your name?”
“My name is Amal.” The gunman unwound his scarf to reveal an ugly, grizzled face. “There is a man here, called the Lion of Akkad. He is a murderer. We want you to make him go away.”
“Go away?”
“The American who helped you cross,” Amal said. “Have him deal with it.”
“We cannot do that,” Dagr said.
“Then have your army friends arrest him,” Amal said. “Or you three kill him. We don’t care.”
“I thought the Jaish Al Mahdi patrol these streets.”
“They have been pulling back,” Amal said. “And recently they were beaten badly in the south, by the SGD. They’re back in Shulla now.”
“So, you have guns,” Kinza said. “Are you cowards?”
“His brother is in the Mahdi Army, they say,” Amal hawked and spat. “If he finds out we did anything, they will kill us all, and our families.”
“And we don’t have families?”
“You do not look like family men.”
“The Lion of Akkad?” Kinza laughed. “What the hell, we’ll do it.”
“Sit down, Hoffman.”
“Sir!”
“Hoffman, we are in a quandary.” Captain Fowler’s office at the SS Thresher was a textbook military room, no rings on the desk, no overflowing ashtrays, no sticky joysticks, not a file out of place, a room so alien to the rest of the base that even the air seemed crisper, standing to attention, air that was on the constant verge of saluti
ng.
“Sir!”
“It appears, Hoffman, that the investigation into your misconduct has hit a snag.”
“Snag, sir!”
“Yes, a snag,” Fowler said. “It appears that all of the potential witnesses have disappeared.”
“Disappeared, sir!”
“Poof.”
“Sir!”
“Hoffman, it is unnecessary to yell at the top of your voice every time I say something,” Fowler said.
“Sir!”
“Well, Hoffman, what do you suggest I do with you now?”
“Permission to suggest, sir!”
“At ease, soldier,” Fowler said. “Speak your mind.”
“Requesting an immediate return to patrol duty, captain!” Hoffman said. “The streets are pretty frisky these days. Something evil in the air.”
“Hoffman, surely you know that you have been accused of over-fraternizing with the locals,” Fowler said, “and specifically, with known criminals. Returning you to regular duty is exactly what I am determined not to do.”
“I was gathering intelligence, captain,” Hoffman said, offended. “Building bridges with the community. All there in our handbook, captain.”
“Hoffman, we’ve received reports of a certain black-market mastermind brokering heavy weaponry for the local insurgent groups,” Fowler said. “A man called Kinza. What do you know about him?”
“A few words here and there, whispered in back alleys,” Hoffman said. “He’s like a ghost. No one even knows what he looks like. The insurgents think of him as some kind of hero. The JAM find him pretty useful too.”
“Is he a ranking member of Al Qaeda in Iraq? Is he Sadr’s man in Ghazaliya?”
“No idea, captain.”
“Something to investigate further,” Fowler said wisely. “We need this man instantly, Hoffman.”
“Captain, he’s a merchant who plays both sides,” Hoffman said. “Sunnis or Shi’as themselves will kill him sooner or later if we sit tight. Even the atheists might get him.”
“I have noticed that you understand these A-rab sects,” Fowler said. “More than the average soldier. Is that a fair statement?”
“Sir.”
“I have noticed that you hang around with these A-rabs during off-duty hours. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir, gathering vital intelligence, sir.”
“Hoffman, are you a homosexual?”
“No, sir!”
Fowler frowned. “Queer? Gay?”
“No, sir!” Hoffman said. “I was married once, sir! She left me for a taxidermist, sir.”
“Right,” Fowler said. “So what is it you do with these A-rabs, Hoffman?”
“We drink tea and smoke, sir!” Hoffman said. “Good American cigarettes.”
“Right,” Fowler said.
“And gather intelligence, too,” Hoffman said quickly.
“And you can tell the difference between all of them?” Fowler asked, “These Sunnis and Shiites?”
“Mostly, captain,” Hoffman said. “Can I ask what this is about?”
“We have an immense opportunity here, Hoffman,” Fowler said. “And despite my misgivings about your character, you appear to be the man for the job.”
“It is an honor to serve my country! God bless America!”
“Listen closely, Hoffman. We have intel from our informants in Sadr City,” Fowler lowered his voice. “It appears that the JAM have been tracking a certain high level member of the A-rab Republican Guard.”
“High level?”
“Lunching with Saddam Hussein kind of level,” Fowler said. “Now the JAM boys had lost this character, going by the name of Col. Hamid, in a skirmish; they have reliable evidence that he was smuggled into south Ghazaliya by the insurgent Arabs a few days ago. Are you following me, soldier?”
“Yes, sir!”
“The name Kinza has been mentioned. He seems to be harboring this high level A-rab,” Fowler said. “It is imperative that we capture these two immediately.”
“Right, captain, we need to comb the streets for them,” Hoffman jumped up. “I can get a squad together immediately!”
“Hoffman, sit down.”
“Sorry, sir,” Hoffman said.
“Why am I telling you all this?”
“I don’t know, captain.”
“Hoffman, I have been directed by HQ to take any steps necessary to apprehend these two deadly insurgents. Gigantic steps! Extrajudicial steps!”
Hoffman, unable to resist, relapsed back to his modus operandi for dealing with high officials. “Extraordinary, sir!”
“I am transferring you to a special command, Hoffman,” Fowler said. “You know the streets; you seem to know how these A-rabs think. Capture these two miscreants, and I’ll get you a purple heart.”
“Right, captain,” Hoffman said. “Serve and protect.”
“Sign these papers here, soldier,” Fowler thrust out a sheaf of high quality paper, wrapped in blue and red military ribbon. “You are now officially part of the Special Forces Unit, Section: Greater Ghazaliya. You report directly to me and my superior, Col. Bradley. I am sure you have heard of Col. Bradley.”
“Col. Bradley, sir!”
“The man has single-handedly tamed the wild A-rabs of Baghdad,” Fowler said, his eyes glazing over. “You do not want to disappoint Col. Bradley, Hoffman.”
“No, sir.”
“SFU intelligence indicates that the JAM are desperate to get their hands on Hamid. They think he carries valuable information,” Fowler tapped his nose. “And what is valuable to Mr. Sadr is valuable to Col. Bradley. Valuable information, Hoffman. This man Hamid was with all the high ups of the old regime. This could be it, Hoffman. This could be our golden goose.”
“The big fish, sir.”
“Hoffman, what do you think this Hamid knows?”
“Er, weapons of mass destruction?”
“Precisely, Hoffman,” Fowler scowled. “Col. Bradley believes they exist, the president believes they exist, and God himself believes they exist.”
“Semper fidelis!”
“Hoffman, get a squad together and get your ass out there,” Fowler said. “You find us these two and some WMDs, and I’ll personally make sure there’s a Nobel Peace Prize in it for you.”
3: THE LION OF AKKAD
AMAL OWNED AN AUTOPARTS SHOP IN THE STREET OF NAKAF, IN the very heart of the Lion’s territory. He sold tires, rims, and filters, as well as an assortment of used and new batteries. Sometimes, he had engine oil, depending on supply. The Amal empire had not prospered in the war. He had once been a rich man. He had owned two car showrooms, four spare parts dealerships, and stock in an insurance company. One of the showrooms had been obliterated by tank shells during the American liberation. The second had been mistakenly raided as a bomb factory by the Americans and subsequently looted. With profits sliding, his hitherto loyal managers had ransacked three of the four spare parts shops, absconding with the revenue and leaving behind a host of unpaid suppliers.
The insurance company, meanwhile, had not paid. Beset by random acts of destruction, outlandish claims, impossible force majeure, they had done the only sensible thing and filed for bankruptcy. The directors had subsequently fled to their villas in Beirut. And so went the bulk of Amal’s stock portfolio. In the end, the man had been reduced to this single shop, which was, incidentally, the one he had first started out with, a piece of circular fate that drove Amal to despair often enough. He lived upstairs in a one bedroom flat with his son. The room at the back of the store had been converted into his office, where he still kept accounts of his many assets, now mainly fictional, a wistful passing of the time, a fiscal fantasy train set providing both employment and misery.
All of this Dagr soaked up as he sat with Amal, cramped in the back room in a haze of stale smoke, plotting and drinking coffee. Kinza sat in the far corner, half asleep, watching football on a tiny set. There was a static tension in the air, the unease of too many strange me
n in a small place, desultory conversation, the memories of guns and grenades a palpable white elephant, neither side quite believing they are now allies. Hamid was a sullen, oozing wound in the middle of the office, a black hole that swallowed up all normal forms of bonding, the swapping of war stories and misfortunes, sympathies, and secrets.
“You men are young,” Amal was saying, after a paltry lunch. “You two can start again, make something of yourselves.”
Dagr shrugged. His stomach churned slightly with hunger, and he considered breaking out some chocolate, but he did not want to embarrass his host.
“My life is almost over,” Amal continued. “What can I do now, but endure and hope to die in peace? My entire fortune, my whole history, erased. You know the worst thing? I dream about food every night, the scraps I used to throw away from my table. Never did I think I would go hungry again.”
“Surely you have savings?”
“Savings, yes,” Amal lowered his voice. “But I also have a father with Parkinson’s. He used to be in a great nursing home. Fully paid for. Very exclusive. But it went bankrupt after the invasion, and the Americans converted it into a triage. Now I have to keep him in the hospital ward most of the time, not even a private room, and it’s still too expensive,” Amal grasped Dagr’s forearm. “Every day they threaten to throw him out. What can I do? Me and my son live upstairs in one measly room. We eat the rotten stuff that doesn’t get sold. Every penny I have, I give for medicine. Now this Lion of Akkad haunts us every day. How can we live?”
“How does anyone live?” Dagr said. “Badly.”
“Too right,” Amal said. “In days like these, who helps a stranger, eh? Who asks help from a stranger?”
“Only the desperate,” Dagr said.
“The bastards are all the same,” Amal shook his head. “Every bastard with a gun walks the same. We used to have lives before, you know? All that taken away…for what?”
“I used to teach economics, at the university,” Dagr said. “My wife taught mathematics. We met there. I had friends, students—hundreds of students. I don’t even know what happened to any of them.”
“There’s no place for people like us,” Amal said. “No place safe. This city belongs to them now.” He lowered his voice. “Men like your friend.”
