Escape from Baghdad! (37 page)

“Right, half those Mukhabarat fuckers will shit their pants when they see us in vests,” Hamid said. “Trust me. I know these fuckers. They act all tough and CIA, but when some peasant in a homemade bomb suit walks up, they all piss themselves and run.”

“And we need a sniper. Where's Mikhail?”

“Dead or with Salemi,” Dagr said. “And we dragged him into it.”

“Ok, we'll get him back,” Kinza said. “Dagr you're the tank, again. We'll need a lot more firepower this time, I think.”

“Yeah, it's a whole neighborhood this time, not one fucking house,” Hamid said. “Mortars and bombs, I think. Maybe a car or two rigged with IEDs.”

The Lion, who had been staring at them in bemusement, finally managed to edge into the conversation. “Are you all insane?”

“You've been hiding too long, Druze,” Kinza said. “You want to kill this guy, right? We'll go right down his throat and kick in his door.”

“Can you get some guns, Druze?” Hamid asked. “I'm making a list here.”

“Ye-es,” Afzal Taha said, after a long pause. “Yes, I've got all the guns in the world.”

“Behruse, you fat fuck, he's gone!” When Sabeen was truly angry, she resorted to two things: foul language and waving her gun around. It was, Yakin reflected, both terrifying and exciting at the same time. Hassan Salemi would have burst a blood vessel. There was nothing in the imam's lexicon to even describe a woman like Sabeen. If he was thinking by now that he had allied himself with the devil, this display would have easily pushed him over the edge. Hassan Salemi wasn't the big man in town anymore, however. He was off sulking and plotting, and Avicenna felt no need to pander to him.

Yakin, with all the carefully honed instincts of a turncoat, had found it prudent to slowly detach himself from Salemi. Not only was the casualty rate in Salemi's camp prohibitively high, he also knew from experience that the man called Kinza was a murderous bastard who took things very personally. This lunatic, despite everyone's best efforts, was still very much at large and might be inclined to hold a grudge against the barbarisms practiced upon his friend.

According to the new strategy, Yakin simply took to following Behruse around. Behruse was an affable fat man, fairly high in Avicenna's command and therefore unlikely to meet the enemy on the field. By running his menial errands and assiduously plying him with compliments, Yakin was able to squirm into his circle fairly quickly. And now, as was their wont, Avicenna and Sabeen treated him like the furniture, or some sort of barely tolerable pet-type creature.

“Yes,” Behruse said, dejected.

“The door was blown open, and he's gone,” Sabeen said. “Also that other test case. Both of them are gone. What the fuck were you doing?”

“I had a guard posted outside,” Behruse said. “He's gone too.”

“You've lost the American,” Avicenna said. “Well done. Why did you not kill him, Sabeen?”

“I—” For once, Sabeen seemed at a loss for words.

“Eh? I thought you wanted us to keep him alive?” Behruse asked.

Avicenna was staring at Sabeen. “I must not have been clear. I believe I wanted him alive as long as he was useful. And controlled. Having him roam around at will is neither, is it?”

“He was to be our leverage with the Americans,” Sabeen said. “I had him pinned for all the murders.”

“Do you know something interesting, Sabeen?” Avicenna said. “I made some queries about this Hoffman. No American agency or service acknowledges him. He appears to be a bumbling idiot criminal deserter. Yet he's traipsing around Baghdad with impunity. He is getting into sensitive information with impunity. He is
getting out of locked rooms
with impunity.”

“He's a fool, grandfather, an infatuated buffoon,” Sabeen said with a wave of her hand. “You can't spend five minutes with him without realizing that.”

“The situation speaks otherwise,” Avicenna said coldly. “Perhaps you are the fool, Sabeen, you and Behruse both. Perhaps
you
are infatuated with
him
. Six months ago, I had Taha in my grasp, I was about to find the watch, and no one knew I was alive. Now I don't have Taha, some two-bit criminal has my watch, the old witch is riled up, I have to deal with Salemi, and your fucking
Hoffman
knows my face. Do you think this is under control, hmmm, Sabeen? Do you?”

“No,” Sabeen said, defeated by his cold will. “What do you want us to do?”

“We must find and kill the peons who burnt Salemi's house. Kill them, and take the watch. That is the most important thing,” Avicenna said. “Hoffman is worrying me. He knows all of us. He can
place all of us.
He knows where we live
. He knows about Dr. Sawad and Geber and all that ancient history. We will have to negotiate with him, I think.”

“I can handle him, grandfather.”

“No,” Avicenna said. “No. He's done something to you. Don't go near him.”

“I can spread the word if you want,” Behruse said. “We want to talk. He might turn up.”

“Yes, do that,” Avicenna said. “But do not underestimate him again. And call the Mukhabarat. I want protection doubled here. I want absolute calm. I do not wish to leave Baghdad, but if there are any more fireworks, we will have to.”

“Leave? Surely you're overreacting,” Sabeen said.

“Do you think I have survived for a thousand years by making explosions in the streets and firing guns in the air?” Avicenna was livid. “Do you think no one will notice a massacre in Salemi's house? Do you think this is the time to take part in a pitched battle? I'm telling you, get me my watch, and then we're getting the hell out of here.”

The Druze safehouse was under a very old mosque, a relic of the Baghdad of the Caliph Harun ur Rashid. In 1258 A.D., the Mongols had sacked Baghdad, massacring up to a million people and destroying almost the whole city, including its famed libraries and universities. It was the end of the Golden Age of the alchemists, the end of the caliphate, a most emphatic end to Baghdad. That dream city, home to all the knowledge of the world, torch bearer of the new science and philosophy, was gone utterly.

The Mongols had taken the books from the libraries and used them to block the Tigris, creating great soggy bridges of ink and paper. It had amused them for a time, watching the scholars throw themselves into the water in despair. The world up to this point had never known a more terrible race than the Mongols.

The Mosque of the Red Corner was reputedly one of the few buildings that had survived, by some accident surely since Mongols did not spare mosques by rule. Still, after the weeklong raid, things returned somewhat to normal. The new governor, by order of Helugu Khan, brother of the Great Khan in Karakorum, set down to rebuild the city and try and knock it back into some sort of profitable venture. The Mosque of the Red Corner served as a prison for some time, then as a bureaucratic headquarters, and then as a tax office, before finally returning to its primary function.

In the course of all of this, the city had somehow been infiltrated by the Druze. In times of chaos, many secret sects descended upon Baghdad, vultures on the bloated corpse of the caliphate, to steal treasures or books or to cement power in the new city. Thus, the Mosque of the Red Corner was one of the humblest, but oldest, Druze quarters in the city, a most hidden place run by a very old imam still faithful to the precepts of the caliph Hakim.

This saintly old man recognized the signs of the Druze and led them down into the cellar, which was a small room stocked with foodstuff. Under a hidden trapdoor, there was a subbasement, which was a kind of walk-in closet filled with guns: semiautomatics, machine guns, mortars, grenades, and an old RPG, plus rifles with sniper scopes and boxes of ammunition. They were still in their original boxes; American, French, British—a last chance saloon for lost weapons, like forlorn prom dates sitting in corners, waiting, waiting. Kinza saw them, and something in his expression flickered. A calm acceptance came over him, as if some decision had been settled. The fever tremor left his body. He limped into the room.

“I don't understand this,” said the Lion. “There is no plan here, no advantage. What am I missing? How many countless men are we facing?”

“Don't ask me. I never wanted any of this,” Dagr said, leaning over the steps. The smell of gun oil made him nauseated.

“He can barely walk. He's half dead with fever. Is he mad?”

“It won't make a difference,” Dagr said. “When the fight comes out, it makes no difference at all. Just stay behind him.”

“What?”

“He's a berserker, see?” Dagr said. “With Kinza,
life
is the enemy, really. He wants the world to be still, and when it doesn't comply, he's willing to force it. Don't worry. After a while, it just becomes normal. I always thought violence wasn't the solution. But then, look where we are. It certainly buys you some space. When the rage comes, just stay behind him, that's all. I used to be scared all the time. But even that gets old.”

“You are frightened?” Afzal Taha looked puzzled. “You defied all these men for no reason. You attacked Salemi's house for no reason. You held the watch.”

“I used to have a family, Druze,” Dagr said. “Three years ago, I had a daughter and a wife and a job. We had enough money, friends. We used to worry about promotions and schools for the little one, and cholesterol. My wife used to worry about getting fat. Do you know that? She used to look in the mirror backwards with her head screwed damn near all the way around and keep asking: Am I fat? Am I fat? Three weeks ago I would have died to get those worries back again. If I could, I would fill my head with those worries. I would breathe them into my lungs. I would smother myself with them and die laughing. But then you have to wake up. Reality isn't there anymore. What do I have left? The world is gray to me, Druze. What would I miss that is so frightening?”

“You have no hope then?”

“Hope? Not that kind. I think I've finally realized that. The clock will never go back again. That life is over,” Dagr said. “Whatever happens now, I can never return to that. We've waded through blood, Druze.” He glanced down into the darkened cellar where Hamid and Kinza stood in silence, stripping guns, their conversation one of metallic clicks and ratchets, with no disagreements. “Two friends left in all the world. What's the point of running now?”

“And I have none,” the Druze said. “After centuries, half my brain scooped out and no friend left alive. You're right, professor. What's the use of running now?”

Dagr sat back. It was the second time he had impressed himself before this half-god. He had, in effect, convinced the Lion to give up. The cost of it was another matter.

35: BORN IN FIRE

B
ACK IN THE
B
LACKWATER TRUCK, THE FOUR OF THEM CONTORTED
into a miniscule space, crammed in with guns, bullets, bombs, and more. Dagr sweated in the corner, cradling large packets of explosives, literally shivering with fear despite the immense heat. It had taken a lot of persuasion to get the truck driver back on board. As it were, he barely got them past the checkpoints, refusing point blank to go anywhere near their target location.

“You're crazy,” he said, as he drove off. “I heard what happened before.”