The Assassins (32 page)

As Zahra left, she noted with satisfaction that police were sealing off the bridge. By the time she was a mile away, the normally bustling city center was silent except for the high-pitched shriek of sirens.

*   *   *

Tariq Tabrizi, candidate for prime minister, stood outside the smouldering ruins of the Ministry of Interior. Ceilings had pancaked into rubble. The air stank of ash and soot. Forklifts were removing the shells of burned-out vehicles. As Tabrizi lifted his head, news cameras focused on him. His long face was angry as he railed against the terrorist bombers—and against the current government.

“What more has to happen for the prime minister to know he should quit?” he raged. “This is the country’s deadliest day in a year. Attacking a government institution like this ministry building is more than the terrible destruction you see around you.” The cameras panned over the smoking hills of concrete, brick, and wood. “This is an attack on the state itself, designed to undermine our belief in our country and destroy our sense of unity. You said you’d keep us safe, Prime Minister al-Lami! Where are you now? Hiding under your expensive desk? Vote for me, people of Iraq. Elect a leader who will protect you!”

66

The situation in Iraq was worsening: The national elections were over, but they still had no prime minister. Without a prime minister, they had no cabinet, and without a cabinet, bridges could not be fixed, schools could not be rebuilt, and hospitals could not be repaired.

In the parliament building, politicians jockeyed, each party trying to gather a large enough coalition to take control of the new government.

In one of the meeting rooms, two of Iraq’s most influential men exchanged customary pleasantries. After shaking hands, they pressed their palms against their hearts and sat on sofas facing one another. From a bowl on the coffee table between them, they nibbled green pistachio nuts. The sweet aroma drifted through the room.

They were very different in dress, one traditional Arab, the other modern European. Both were Shiites from the south. One was a member of parliament, an MP; the other was the cofounder of the Save Iraq League political party, which was backing Tariq Tabrizi for prime minister.

Siraj al-Sabah, cofounder of SIL, leaned forward over his bulk, clasping his hands between his knees. “It’s always good to see you, my friend. Is there any chance you’d honor us by taking a position in a Tabrizi government?”

Gone was al-Sabah’s
kaffiyeh,
and in full display was his square face and short gray beard and mustache. Somehow he looked scholarly. His hands were knobby, his nose flat, his black eyes steady. He was dressed for government business—a dove-gray Savile Row suit that emphasized the muscularity of his girth, a sedate green silk tie, and highly polished wing-tip shoes. He had checked the room for bugs before beginning the day’s meetings.

“I’m delighted you ask,” the sheik said. “If Tabrizi wins, I would like oil. After all, oil is the south’s lifeblood.” Sheik Muhammad bin Khalifa al-Hamed lifted his hands and gestured widely around his red-and-white–checkered headdress, drawing to him the room, the parliament, all of oil-rich Iraq. The sleeves of his
thawb—
his white robe—slid down, revealing his brawny forearms and gold Rolex watch.

Al-Sabah said nothing. He lowered his gaze. A respectful statue, he sat unmoving and unmoveable.

With al-Sabah’s silence, a note of resignation entered the sheik’s tone. “But if not oil, then finance. Definitely finance. If you’re serious about wanting my people’s votes for your coalition, I must have finance.”

Al-Sabah looked up. “You deserve the Ministry of Oil or the Ministry of Finance. You could make something of them.” It was not what you told people that mattered in politics, it was how you made them feel. For millions of Iraqis, loyalty lay first with the tribe. An endorsement by a popular tribal sheik like al-Hamed could make or break a coalition.

“Then it’s oil?” al-Hamed said eagerly.

“My friend, I can’t do that.” Al-Sabah wanted to keep oil, finance, and the interior for himself. Those three ministries would give him the most clout.

The sheik’s black brows lowered, hinting at anger. “You need me. Tabrizi needs me. Don’t let me down.”

Al-Sabah patted his hand. “We hope never to disappoint you. Let’s talk for a moment about one of the tragedies of our people. Our date trees.”

For five thousand years, southern Iraq had been famous for its dates. But the Iraqi date farmers were mostly Shiite, and Saddam Hussein was both paranoid and Sunni. When they finally revolted, his troops crushed them, and to make sure they never rose up again, he ordered some six million date palm trees cut down. Then the swamps were drained, killing the rest of the trees.

“Saddam wasn’t satisfied killing Shiites.” The sheik’s voice rose with outrage. “He executed our date trees, too.”

Al-Sabah nodded. “Remember how beautiful Basra was—the wide boulevards, the flower gardens and parks? Now it’s a dump. Help our people, Muhammad. We need to be the date capital of the world again. If you do that, you will be an important international figure.”

The sheik sighed heavily. “I want to say yes, but I have a large family to support. On the other hand, if it’s oil or finance—” He shrugged, his meaning clear: With either ministry, he could skim and get generous kickbacks, while agriculture was, after all, just farming, a crippled giant unlikely to rise from its knees anytime soon.

Al-Sabah slid a large white envelope across the coffee table. “You must save our date industry, Muhammad. You’ll be doing Allah’s work.”

The sheik picked up the envelope, lifted the flap, and peered inside. His eyebrows rose. Pulling out the sheets of paper, he scanned them and smiled broadly. They were unregistered bearer bonds totaling €1 million, about $1.4 million at today’s exchange rate—highly liquid, with no record of the owner or the transfer of ownership. As good as cash, they were much easier to conceal and transport. He studied al-Sabah. “I hear I’m not the only one to receive an offer of a kindly gift from you. Where did you get such a fortune that you can be so generous? I ask only because I’m concerned you’ll deprive yourself.”

“My resources are a deep well,” al-Sabah assured him. “Don’t worry, my friend. Perhaps in six months you’d like another white envelope?”

“With the same contents?”

“Of course.”

The sheik sat back, gripping the open envelope, still not committed. “What makes you think you can assemble the winning coalition? From what I hear, Prime Minister al-Lami has more promised votes.”

Al-Sabah took from his briefcase a printout of the morning’s online edition of
Al-Zaman
newspaper, one of the most circulation-rich in Iraq. He handed it to the sheik. “This is why our man will win. Read the first paragraph of the lead story.”

Frowning, the sheik put on gold-rimmed glasses and read aloud:

“‘Over a matter of hours, bombings and mass shootings struck government security forces and buildings in thirteen Iraqi cities this morning, killing at least two hundred and three people and wounding five hundred. In Baghdad, two ministries and four popular landmarks were bombed in shocking coordinated attacks.…’”

As if it burned his fingers, the sheik dropped the printout onto the coffee table. “We used to be a civilized people. What have we become?”

“Foreigners won’t invest here because of the instability,” al-Sabah reminded him. “And they won’t order our goods and services because they’re afraid we won’t be able to deliver. If this keeps up, oil contracts will freeze, and we’ll lose the revenue stream that’s kept us afloat. Prime Minister al-Lami still hasn’t brought us back up to the standards we had under Saddam. The attacks and kidnappings are worse than ever. Our country is dying. How long do you think we’ll last as a nation if al-Lami is reelected?”

“You’re right.” The sheik licked the flap, sealing the envelope and the deal. “If you can talk an old desert nomad like me into taking on agriculture when I’d rather be out riding a camel,
you
should be the next prime minister.” In a sudden swirl of cloth, he was on his feet. “Will I see you at the party at the Iraq Museum tonight?” The popular gala had become a ritual to honor newly elected MPs.

“Of course. I’m looking forward to it.” Al-Sabah led him to the door.

They kissed each other’s cheeks in farewell, and the sheik left.

The conference room was quiet, peaceful. Al-Sabah strode to the coffee table and picked up the newspaper. He would need it for the next meeting, and the next after that. He smiled grimly to himself. The attacks had been as successful as he had hoped.

67

Women’s chatter filled Zahra al-Sabah’s living room. In their designer-label jackets and slacks, cashmere sweater sets and skirts, the women looked like just what they were—upper-class homemakers and professionals. They were important in their own right or, far more often these days, claimed importance by being married to an important man. This was Zahra’s monthly salon, where they discussed culture and history. But that would not be all today.

As the women sipped tea from fine china cups, they listened to young poets from the University of Baghdad’s College of Arts recite their latest works, then, as the salon wound down, they talked about life in Baghdad, the new restaurants briefly opening on Rasheed Street, the nightclub closing on Sadun Street.

“Has anyone else gotten a fish pedicure?” The woman who spoke lived in one of the luxury high-rises on Haifa Street.

“You’re joking, yes?” asked a neurosurgeon. Her family had moved back from Jordan in 2011, but she had been unable to find a clinic or a hospital that would let her be associated with it. That was one of the greatest problems today—fewer jobs for women.

“It’s the truth,” the Haifa Street matron said. “There’s a tank full of carp attached to your pedicure basin. The pedicurist opens a little door, and the fish swim for your feet and start munching the dead skin. It tickles, but your feet feel fabulous afterwards. The spa spent ten thousand dollars to buy six hundred carp and ship them here. Can you imagine?”

Laughter spread through the room. For the moment, they were no longer the women who had arrived two hours earlier, drawn and frightened. In Baghdad, you grew accustomed to the fact that people died violently every day. You could see your friend, your aunt, your son in the morning, and attend their funeral tomorrow. It was the new normal, and it wore on everyone.

Zahra was sitting near the fireplace on a low ottoman and had been listening absentmindedly, her face a pleasant mask, betraying none of her grief. A short woman in her late fifties, she had graying blond hair smoothed back into a chic chignon. Her features were small and delicate, her nose turned up, and her blue eyes dazzling, the color of cornflowers. With her round figure and lively disposition, she was a popular guest at women’s teas and parties. A convert to Islam, she spoke Arabic with a Russian accent. It had taken nearly five years for her to be accepted, but now that she was, seldom did anyone remark on how different she looked and sounded. At the same time, she never gave a hint of the covert life she led with her husband, Siraj, or their backgrounds.

Rallying, she changed the subject. “As you may know, there will be a celebration tomorrow night at the National Museum of Iraq to honor the new members of parliament. It’s sure to be another grand affair, with live music and the finest food. If any of you haven’t received invitations, please let me know. My husband will see that you and your husband are invited.”

There was a rustle of approval. Zahra was one of the best connected women in Baghdad. Her favors were famous.

“Before we close,” Zahra continued, “I want to tell you how worried I am. Iraq was supposed to host the Arab League summit this summer, but Saudi Arabia and Kuwait said our country was too dangerous for foreigners to visit, so Iraq lost the summit. Almost worse, the Gulf Cup soccer tournament was scheduled to be here in November, but it was canceled, too. These are two huge international insults—but they make sense, too. All of us know violence is shrinking our lives. There’s less and less we can do and still feel safe.”

The women nodded. All had lost relatives to kidnapping or violence. No family was untouched.

But the wife of a deputy minister warned Zahra, “We’re admirers of Prime Minister al-Lami. My husband is campaigning for him.”

“Yes, Jaida, I know,” Zahra said cordially. “Still, please consider what I’m saying.” She had been holding a printout in her lap. She lifted it. “I want to read you a news story from
Al-Zaman
this morning.” It was a copy of the same one her husband had taken to parliament for today’s round of meetings. After reading the first paragraph, she continued:

“‘In Taji, three explosives-rigged cars in a Shiite neighborhood went off within minutes of each other, killing eight and wounding twenty-eight in back-to-back blasts
.
A suicide bomber drove a minibus into a security checkpoint in Kut, killing three police officers and wounding five. A military patrol hit a roadside bomb in Tarmiyah, killing two soldiers and wounding six passersby.…’”

Looking up, she addressed the room. “When is the last time you felt safe in Baghdad? It was bad before, but ever since al-Lami took over, it’s only gotten worse. Please talk to your husbands about this. It’s time for a new prime minister. We need Tariq Tabrizi. He’ll bring peace into our streets and homes again.” She picked up a stack of pink envelopes and gestured with them. “I have a small gift for each of you, for considering what I’ve said.”

“What’s inside?” asked a woman sitting beside her.

“Look for yourself.” Zahra gave one to her, then walked around the room, handing out the others.

The woman opened her envelope. “Dinars!”

“Yes. It’s cash for you to donate to your mosque or favorite charity or to keep for yourself.” Each guest was receiving 6 million Iraqi dinars, about $5,000. “It’s just a sample of the affluent future our country can expect if Tabrizi wins. All of us will benefit, and I’ll be able to continue to pass out pink envelopes at future salons. With Allah’s guidance, we’ll have prosperity at heights not seen since the 1970s.”