Closure

by Ethan Jones

  He put it in his khaki vest’s front pocket. “Anyone you recognize?” he asked as an afterthought.

  “Should I?”

  “I don’t know. We compiled the list using different sources. There seemed to be some quite vocal residents, who, as you hinted, have not been very kind.”

  Liberty grinned. “You’re quite polite, Mr. Pierce, like a true Canadian.”

  Javin smiled at her, perhaps more than necessary, then he glanced at Claudia.

  She gave him a sideways glance, as if asking, What are you doing?

  Liberty returned the smile and appeared to blush. She ran her fingers through her hair for a moment, then said, “What was I saying? Oh yes, I was telling you about the residents. A couple of these women accused me of collaborating with Shia militia and plotting their execution. But, what do you expect, considering they were married to, literally in bed with, Daesh butchers.” She used the derogatory term to refer to ISIS.

  “Would you rather we did not speak to them?” Claudia asked.

  Liberty did not have the authority to stop journalists from talking to camp residents, but she could postpone, monitor, or otherwise make the interviews difficult. But acts of deference would buy the Canadian agents a lot of goodwill.

  Liberty shrugged. “No, go ahead. I’m sure they won’t say anything I haven’t heard already.”

  Javin nodded. Actually, I do hope they tell us what they haven’t told anyone else.

  Liberty said, “The last woman in particular, Ghanem ... I’d better warn you about her.”

  Javin peered at Liberty. “What happened?”

  The coffee machine’s gurgle stopped, announcing the end of the brewing cycle. Liberty poured coffee into a large cup for Javin, then into her thermos. “Milk, sugar, honey?”

  He thought her voice sounded warmer than the situation warranted. Or perhaps I’m imagining things...

  “Javin...” Liberty said.

  “Yes, sorry, just a bit of honey.”

  She turned around and opened one of the cupboards.

  Claudia leaned over and elbowed Javin. “What are you doing?” she asked in a hushed tone into his ear.

  “Eh ... nothing. What—”

  “The look you’re giving her. Like a teenage boy...”

  Claudia stopped as Liberty walked to the desk. She picked up a set of keys from a drawer, then opened one of the farthermost cupboards. She took out a clip-top metal container labeled Jamaica Blue Mountain Coffee and pulled out a couple of honey packages. Then she found a small plastic spoon.

  Javin said, “Now, that’s some great coffee.” He pointed at the container.

  Liberty’s face lit up. “It is. I fell in love with it when working in the Caribbean. Oh, I wish I had some.”

  He took the cup and added honey to the coffee. He took a sip and could barely stifle a frown. The coffee was really bad. It was bitter and tasted like burned coal ashes. He poured the second package and stirred the coffee. The honey did nothing to improve the taste.

  “Sorry, again,” Liberty said. “I’ve tried to find some better coffee, but this is all I’ve got.”

  Javin shrugged. “It’s all right. Now, you were saying about that woman, what was her name?”

  He knew exactly who Huda Yusuf Ghanem was: the widow of one of the most prominent ISIS leaders. Reportedly, he was killed during ISIS’s last stand in Mosul’s Old Town. Ghanem was perhaps the main reason that had brought the team to the refugee camp.

  “Ghanem, that’s her name, and she’s vicious. Not only with camp officials, but also reporters. She attacked one of them, an old woman, for asking a fair question about her late husband, a very evil and brutal man. You know who he was, right?”

  Claudia nodded. “We do.”

  “So, be careful when you talk to her. She doesn’t speak English. Do you need an interpreter? A guard?”

  Javin shook his head. “No, I know Arabic.”

  “You do?” Liberty cocked her head. “Not many people know that language.”

  “Learning languages comes naturally to me, I guess.”

  The truth was a little bit different and more complicated. Javin had to learn the language during his first deployment to North Africa and the Middle East, which lasted for over a year. He was immersed in the culture, interacted with locals from Algeria to Yemen, became familiar with their customs, traditions, values. But he also had a knack for languages. Besides speaking Arabic like a native, he also had an excellent command of Italian and French, besides, of course, English, his mother tongue.

  Claudia said, “We’ll bring our driver with us. We should be safe with him.”

  The driver, Thomas “Tom” White, was one of the CIA’s best field agents. He had operated in northern Iraq for the last two years, and had spent several weeks in and around Mosul.

  “Okay, then,” Liberty said. “Do you need anything else from me?”

  “Thanks so much for all this,” Javin said. “I just have one question: This woman, Ghanem, anything else we need to know about her?” He kept the question vague as anything beyond that might arouse suspicions in Liberty’s mind.

  Liberty laughed. “Besides ‘don’t get too close to her’? Seriously, I’d keep my distance. And don’t provoke her. Ghanem’s husband might be dead, and the caliphate has fallen, but ISIS ideology still remains. Ghanem is well-connected, and has had many visitors.”

  Claudia offered Liberty a look of surprise. “You mean something bad might happen to us if we get on her wrong side?”

  Liberty shrugged. “Well, the journalist that Ghanem attacked ... Their vehicle drove over a bomb that exploded. Everyone in the car died. The journalist wasn’t there, thankfully. And the bomb happened to be in an area the army had already cleared. Nothing that can be tied back to Ghanem, but I have my own doubts...”

  Javin nodded. He had not heard about the incident. There were so many deaths and attacks and clashes among so many armed groups in the area the Canadian agents could barely keep up. That was why he always liked to gather as much intelligence as he could before embarking on an operation.

  Liberty continued, “Plus, there are rumors that Ghanem was a senior member of ISIS’s ‘morality police,’ who enforced the strict Sharia law’s dress code. No jewelry, no makeup, everyone had to be covered head to foot.”

  “How come she hasn’t been arrested?” Claudia asked.

  Liberty took a sip of her coffee and pursed her lips. “Not sure. Maybe those claims couldn’t be proven. A lot of people have been falsely accused. Many people were forced to work for ISIS or face execution of themselves or their families. The authorities are trying to put a stop to ‘revenge trials’ and only pursue those cases where the evidence is ironclad. Or maybe she has paid protection money. Government corruption is still rampant.” Liberty thought about her answer for a moment, then added, “Or it could be that some people are afraid of an ISIS comeback. There are insurgent-style attacks throughout the province. Ambushes. Kidnappings. For some, keeping Ghanem safe might be their insurance policy, in case ISIS returns to power.”

  Javin offered a somber nod. “That would be devastating.”

  “Yes, for Iraqis first and foremost, but also for the rest of the world.”

  Liberty took another sip of her coffee. “Now, unless you have other questions...”

  Javin shook his head and stood up. “No, we’re good. This was extremely helpful. Again, thanks so much for your help.”

  Liberty nodded and shook Javin’s hand. He noticed the soft skin and wondered how he had missed it earlier. He held her hand a moment longer than necessary, then smiled at her.

  Liberty said, “Keep those PRESS jackets on at all times, so camp security knows you’re not random strangers poking around.” Then she shook Claudia’s hand.

  “We’ll do that,” Claudia said.

  “All right. All the best then.”

  Liberty walked them to the door of the trailer, then closed it after they had taken a few steps toward their car. It
was a battered gray Nissan, so the team could keep a low profile and blend in better in the area.

  Javin said, “Well, that was very useful. We got some fresh intel.”

  “And made a new friend ... or should I say girlfriend?”

  “Claudia?”

  “What?” She gave him a curious glance. “Am I making things up?”

  Javin did not reply right away. He thought about the episode and his interaction with Liberty. She was friendly, kind, and pretty. He shrugged. “I don’t have time for a new relationship—”

  “That’s what you said when you met...”

  Claudia’s voice trailed off, so she would not mention Steffi, Javin’s late wife. She had died about five months ago. Javin had been able to find some closure only recently, after he had discovered the truth about her accident.

  Javin flinched as bittersweet memories of Steffi flashed through his mind. “You’re right, but that was a different time. I ... I wasn’t in Iraq, chasing terrorists. I, we, we were both correctors.”

  Claudia nodded. “Times have changed.”

  “We have changed too.”

  “We have. Look, Javin, perhaps this is a good thing.”

  “What?”

  “You and Liberty. Who knows ... maybe there’s something there.”

  “What did I just say about the lack of time?”

  Claudia smiled. “Oh, you’re an industrious guy. I know you can find or make time. Perhaps come back tomorrow to the camp for more ‘interviews’ and another cup of coffee...”

  “You’re hilarious, you know that?”

  Claudia shrugged. “I do what I can. Liberty is a good woman, and it’s clear she likes you. Just don’t let Mila find out about Liberty.”

  “Mila who?”

  “Oh, come on, Javin. Your Russian girlfriend...”

  Javin frowned and shook his head. “Mila’s not my girlfriend.”

  “Not yet. But she’ll give up half of Moscow’s secrets to be that special one.”

  Javin said nothing. Mila Kuznetsova worked as a special operative for the SVR—Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki—the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service. She was smart, and tough, yet she had always been passionate about Javin, even when he was married. Perhaps she viewed him as a conquest, something to be obtained at any cost. And she was very close to succeeding. The last time they had met, Mila had planted a deep, passionate kiss on Javin’s lips. It was the price he had to pay for her cooperation. His mind went to their next meeting in Prague in four days. What will she ask next?

  “Javin?”

  “Yes?”

  “You look lost in thought...”

  He shrugged. “It’s nothing. It will be okay. Now, let’s go and talk to that ISIS widow. Perhaps we can find out why she’s almost untouchable.”

  Chapter Three

  UNHCR Hasan Sham Refugee Camp

  Twenty Miles East of Mosul, Iraq

  Javin waved at Tom, the CIA operative who doubled as their driver. He was standing outside the Nissan, talking to one of the uniformed police officers. That man’s name was Najib Issawi, and he belonged to the Fifth Division of the Iraq Federal Police. They were tasked with clearing the Old Town and parts of west Mosul from mines, unexploded mortars, and other improvised explosive devices planted by the extremist fighters during their retreat. Progress had been slow and had come at a steep price of lives lost. Many areas were still not safe for residents to return to their houses and shops.

  Issawi was assigned to Javin’s team along with Murtada al-Razi, an Iranian-born member of the Shia militia who had been crucial in liberating Mosul and a large swath of Iraq. Issawi was a Sunni, and while not long ago the Sunnis and the Shias had lived together in peace, sectarian violence had driven a deep wedge between the two groups. Issawi did not particularly hate al-Razi, but they found it difficult to work together, second-guessing or outright objecting to each other’s ideas about tactics to carry out the operation.

  In this particular case, al-Razi had criticized the decision to come to the camp. He said it gave them unnecessary exposure, considering the refugees were hostile to authorities in general and the police in particular. Besides, extremists’ supporters were reported to be visiting the camp, in an effort to foment hate and violence among the residents. If Javin was looking for intelligence, there were other ways, more efficient and persuasive, to secure that information.

  Issawi, on the other hand, had disagreed, noting the importance of gathering intelligence from all sources, especially the unlikely ones, who might know and be willing to exchange what they knew for what they wanted. As it happened in these situations, Javin had cast the deciding vote. He tried to appear as reasonable and impartial as possible, aiming to side with al-Razi and Issawi at fairly equal times.

  Tom waved back at Javin, then said, “We have the green light?”

  “We do. It went well, and Liberty is quite friendly.”

  “That’s good. I like friendly people.”

  A group of giggling children ran around them. One of them, a boy no older than four, maybe five, waved at Javin and gave him a bright smile. The boy’s hair was messy, and his face was dirty. He was running barefoot and seemed to have a slight limp.

  Javin waved back as one of the older boys pulled the younger one by his arm. They ran up ahead and stopped for a moment near an old woman who had set up a rickety table and was selling what looked like dried fruit. The woman tolerated the group of children, all seven or eight of them, for perhaps a couple of seconds, then began to shoo them away. The little boy’s eyes were glued to the dates, and reluctantly he was the last one to shuffle away.

  A thought crossed Javin’s mind, and he stepped toward the woman.

  Claudia said, “Javin, where are you going?”

  “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  He reached for his wallet from one of his vest’s front pockets as he greeted the woman in Arabic. “Salam alaikum.” Peace be with you. “How is business?”

  The woman gave Javin a curious glance, apparently not expecting him to speak her native tongue. He always found that surprising, although he blended in quite well because of his look and his mastery of the Arabic language. However, once in a while, there was something about him that people were able to put their finger on and identify him as someone who did not belong. “It’s not good. Many poor people in the camp. No jobs, no money. But you’re a journalist. You have money. You want to buy?”

  “Sure. How much are the dates? And the figs?” He gestured at the merchandise placed neatly in small heaps over the blue plastic tablecloth.

  “A thousand, no, two thousand dinars for ten dates or figs. Same price.”

  Javin knew he was being taken advantage of, but it was not the right time to haggle, especially over such a small amount. Plus, it was all for a good cause. “How much do you have?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How much do you have?”

  “How much are you buying?”

  Javin looked at the group of children who had stopped close to the next tent and were looking at an old man fixing what seemed like a large metal water bucket with a hammer and a set of tools spread out on the ground. “All of it.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. How much do you have?”

  The old woman reached under the table and brought up a couple of large bags, one with dates and the other with figs. She weighed them in her hands, then made some quick calculations. “Twenty, no, thirty thousand for the dates.” She gathered the heaps of dates, threw them into the bag, then handed it to Javin. She weighed the bag of figs, which was a bit smaller and said, “Twenty-five for this one, so fifty-five thousand for both.”

  Javin gave the woman a small headshake, followed by a smile. “I’m buying everything. You can go home to your family, or buy a lot of food for yourself with all this money.” He pulled out a few banknotes and showed them to the woman.

  “Fifty, then.”

  “Sure, you’ve got a deal.” He hand
ed her the money and picked up both bags.

  The little barefooted boy who had first caught Javin’s attention turned his head. His eyes doubled in size when he saw the bags. Javin tilted his head toward the boy, then called out at him, “Come here. Yes, you. And your friends as well. Come, everyone.”

  The boy timidly took a few steps. When he was close enough, Javin crouched down, so he could be at eye level with the boy. “Which ones do you like better?”

  The boy hesitated for a moment. It seemed he was uncertain on whether to pick dates over figs. Or maybe he was not sure if Javin truly was going to hand over the goodies.

  Javin picked up a few dates and said to the boy, “Open your hands. Yes, palms up.”

  He dropped four dates, which almost filled the boy’s little hands. Then he put another two figs, which were now precariously stacked at the top. The boy said, “Can I have another one, or two? For my sister.” His voice was timid, but rang with a sliver of hope.

  “Of course. Here, how about we do this? Hold your shirt like this, yes, to form a pouch.”

  The boy smiled as Javin filled the pouch with maybe ten dates and about half as many figs. When he looked up the group of children had surrounded him. Javin thought it was larger than he had expected, and he knew it was only going to grow. I’d better cut down on the shares.

  “Thank you,” the boy said and gave Javin a bright smile.

  Javin returned the smile. He handed out most of the fruit, filling as many small hands as he could. When there were about a quarter of the bags left, he stood up. “That’s all, folks. That’s it.”

  One of the little girls, whose hands were full, was still eyeing the date bag. Javin’s eyes caught her gaze. He knew that he should not do it, but he reached in the bag and put another couple of dates in her hands. The girl smiled and ran away.

  When Javin returned to his team, Claudia said, “You’re done playing Santa Claus?”

  “Want some dates?” He offered the bag to Claudia.

  “Sure. I love Shahani dates.” She picked two and bit into the first one. “Hmmmm, so sweet. Oh, I love it.”