#13. Police Station TWo, Green Zone, Baghdad, IRAQ
Friday may 22, 21:42
THE JEEP, driven by one of the soldiers, bounced over the bridge into the Green Zone. A second jeep containing the two muggers, the other soldiers and driven by the third policeman sped along behind them. Silently, resentfully, Ali, hugging his rucksack, sat between two policemen wondering why he had been arrested.
Two policemen and the friendly soldier had accompanied him into the rubble to collect his bag and inspect the fallen muggers.
''You did this?'' the policeman had asked.
Ali had narrowed his eyes. ''Yes.'' There was no point denying it.
''You beat up these two guys and stole their stuff?'' the policeman had asked.
Ali had laughed. ''Yeah. I'm a regular street-fighter. Terror of the teen-gangs, me.''
''It's his stuff.'' The soldier had shown the policeman the family photos and tossed the rucksack across the rubble whilst the muggers were dragged away to the jeep, bricks falling away from Bent-Nose's battered body with a satisfying clatter.
''You'd better come with us,'' the policeman had said.
The jeep paused at a barrier. Soldiers shone flashlights over faces, checked clipboards, raised the barrier and waved the jeeps into a compound surrounded by brick walls, sandbags and razor-wire. Sentries armed with M-16s observed the nightscape from their corner watchtowers.
Ali scrambled from the jeep and stumbled towards a dark blue shed. Inside, he and the muggers were sat on a bench and told not to move.
''You're a dead man,'' Bent-Nose said.
Ali glanced at the swelling inside Stubble-Head's trousers and laughed.
''You won't laugh when we're shoving a broomstick up your arse,'' Stubble-Head snarled.
A captain with a balding scalp and a drooping moustache emerged from a back office and took the clipboard from the sergeant.
''Hazem and Khaled. The scum of the streets. We've been searching for you. Welcome to your worst nightmares.'' He turned to Ali. ''Who the hell are you?''
''My name is Amin,'' Ali replied, ''Ali Al-Amin.''
The captain stroked his moustache. ''Oho,'' he said. ''We've also been searching for you. Something about a shop window and a hospital trolley?''
Ali said nothing.
''You're an elusive fellow.''
Ali said nothing.
''Tamam,'' shrugged the captain. ''Take these two pigs to the cells and soften them up. This one,'' Indicating Ali, ''Just take him to a cell.''
It was about six metres square with a grille of four iron bars set at head-height in a dark blue metal door. A bare light-bulb dangled from a ceiling flex. There was a low wooden bench about the width of a human adult. A plastic bucket stood in a corner. The door slammed shut.
Ali lay on the bench with his rucksack under his head and stared at the wall. Occasionally he heard a cry from a cell further down the corridor. He lost track of time. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He failed. He opened his eyes and stared at the wall again. His initial fear had been replaced by boredom. The muggers were clearly well-known to the police. He had disabled them, helped the cops catch them. As for the shop window, it was hardly a capital offence. How he would pay the fine, he wasn't sure. However, he was pretty sure the cops would send him back to the orphanage. Whatever. He closed his eyes again.
The metal door clanged open. The balding captain and the American soldier entered the cell. The captain was carrying two plastic chairs which he set on the concrete floor. The fair-haired soldier had removed his body-armour to reveal sand-coloured fatigues. Ali swung his feet off the bench and sat up.
''Ali Al-Amin.'' The captain clicked his ballpoint.
''Mickey,'' said the soldier. ''I call him Mickey. He likes Mickey Mouse, don't you, kid?''
The soldier's Arabic was basic, his pronunciation not so good, but at least he was trying.
''My name's Jim. I'm from Oklahoma in the USA. Wheat country, remember? I'm a sergeant in the infantry. You saved my life in Muraidi Market. Thank you.'' He shook Ali's hand then explained what had happened to the captain, who translated for Ali.
''When the bomb exploded, he was hit in the face by a block of wood. Blood filled his mouth and he swallowed his tongue. You cleared it out with your fingers and got him breathing again. He's grateful to you.''
''No worries,'' said Ali in fairly bad English.
''You lost your whole family,'' said the captain. ''Dad, Mum, brothers, all killed. Your sister survived but lost a leg, her spleen, a lot of blood and also sustained spinal injuries.''
Ali shut his eyes, suddenly exhausted.
''You saved a girl by throwing clothes round her,'' said the captain. ''Doctors said it saved her from hypothermia. You also bandaged her eyes. One was saved but she lost the other. You put out the fire on the bread-seller's back. He died but you tried to save him. You carried a small child out of the market. He survived. You showed tremendous presence of mind in the midst of a truly terrible experience. That's impressive.'' The captain consulted his notes. ''You had problems at the orphanage, didn't you? Problems adjusting?''
''You could say that,'' Ali grunted.
''You led an escape attempt which involved assaulting a member of staff twice your size but this failed. So you feigned illness to get out of the building, attacked a paramedic, stole a trolley, rode it down a hill, smashed it into a shop window and ran away. Then you beat up two of Rusafa's most notorious drug-dealers. How did you do that?''
''Kicked one in the 'nads, smashed the other through a wall,'' Ali answered indifferently.
''How?'' the policeman insisted.
Ali shrugged again. ''Don't know. Balance, timing, using their weight and momentum against them. Something like that.''
''You're a menace, Ali Amin,'' said the captain, ''A menace.''
Jim returned with a mug of very sweet, very hot black tea.
''That's good,'' he grinned. ''Mickey the Menace. I like that.''
Ali smiled weakly.
''What have you been living on?'' asked the captain.
''I've been trying to find work,'' said Ali. ''I asked all the shopkeepers then I tried selling stuff at the mosque then I collected rubbish to sell. I made some money, found the bombed-out building and decided to stay there. I spent one night under the bridge but it was too open and there were rats.'' He stared at the wall. ''Suleyman took our flat and my uncle doesn't want me. The street is better than the orphanage.'' He fixed his eyes on the captain's. ''I want to go back to the streets.''
'' 'Fraid not,'' said the captain. ''The furniture shop and the hospital are after you for the trolley incident.''
''Jail, then.'' Ali sipped the tea.
''He's a good kid,'' said Jim. ''He's honest, brave, resourceful, intelligent. Let him go.''
The captain shook his head. ''I can't,'' he said. ''Someone else wants to see him.''
''Look,'' said Jim, ''I'll pay for the window, and the trolley. It's not a problem.''
The metal door scraped open and a young policeman peered into the cell.
''Captain, that phone call…they're ready for you.''
The captain looked at Ali, shook his head in a mix of wonder and curiosity, and left.
Ali sipped the tea again.
''Good?'' asked Jim.
''Yes,'' said Ali in English. ''Sank you.''
''You like adventure,'' said Jim. ''Mickey the Menace.'' He laughed admiringly. ''You're the bravest boy I've ever met.''
''Sanks,'' said Ali again.
They lapsed into silence then Jim pulled a photo out of his wallet and passed it across.
''My son,'' he said. ''Jeff, he's called. Jeffrey.''
The boy was an archetypal farm boy, about twelve, with shaggy golden-wheat hair and a toothy grin. He was wearing blue denim dungarees and a red and white checked shirt.
''Nice,'' said Ali. ''He looks happy.''
''I think he is,'' said Jim. ''I hope he is.'' He pocketed the photo.
&
nbsp; They lapsed into silence again. After an eternity, the captain returned with a newcomer, a giant man in an olive-green military uniform. Multi-coloured medal ribbons adorned a broad chest, golden stars decorated his shoulders and a bushy moustache bristled under his nose.
''This him?'' he snapped. ''He's a bit weedy.''
''Hey,'' said Ali, ''I can kick you in the soft and danglies too if you like.''
The man's upside-down-pear head seemed about to explode.
''Get out,'' he growled at Jim and the captain, ''And shut the door. Sparky, eh?''
Ali raised his chin, surprised by how little he cared. Three weeks ago he would have quaked in his socks before a man like this, not openly defied him. What had happened to him?
''I read the report,'' the man stated bluntly. ''Maybe you could work for me.''
''Doing what?'' said Ali. ''Combing your moustache?''
''Listen, kid,'' the man said softly, ''I could kill you now just by pressing my thumb against your pretty little throat, so less of the attitude, tamam?''
Ali drained his tea-cup, unimpressed.
''I am Colonel Ibrahim Radwan,'' said the man. ''I am the Director of Special Operations for the Joint Arab Intelligence Service. I am a spy, or more accurately, a spymaster.'' He paused. ''You seem a lot stupider than I was led to believe.''
''You want me to work for you?'' said Ali, setting the cup on the bench beside him. ''How? Why? Doing what? I'm a homeless orphan who smashed a shop window.''
''Quite,'' said Colonel Ibrahim. ''Would you like to see your sister?''
Ali glared at him.
''I'll take you to her,'' said Colonel Ibrahim. ''We can talk on the way.''
He ushered Ali from the cell into Reception, signed a paper on the captain's clipboard and then barked a laugh. The policemen and soldiers were watching grainy black-and-white CCTV footage of Ali in his underwear riding the hospital trolley down the escalator. They were cheering and laughing. Ali heard himself yell ''Yee-ha'' then winced as he watched himself roll over and smash through the window. The viewers whooped again. Ali saw himself sit up on the sofa, shake broken glass out of his hair, yell ''Ha!'' and dash off through the hole. Policemen and soldiers cheered, grinned and clapped. Jim clapped especially loudly, an admiring smile warming his sun-weathered face. Ibrahim Radwan laid his hand on Ali's shoulder.
''You see why I want you?'' he said harshly. ''Because you can do that. Come. We will visit Fatima and then we're going on a journey.''
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