A Cold Day In Mosul (19 page)

Suck it up,
he told himself.
Got a mission to perform.

Cars were double and triple parked in front of the restaurant, so Maaz did a U-turn in the middle of the street and parked on the opposite side.

"You'd make a good taxi driver in my country," Ethan said as the passing vehicles honked at them.

"Thank you," Maaz beamed.

"I'm not sure I meant it as a compliment," Ethan said. "Let's do this."

Ethan waited for Maaz to open his door, as was proper. Then he exited and together the two jaywalked across the street. Just a brother and sister out for a nice lunch in the terrorist-occupied downtown of their city.

The restaurant was full. Several men crowded the front counter, waiting for takeout. As for the patrons seated at the tables, most were male; Ethan counted three women dispersed throughout the establishment. The windows were shuttered, allowing the women to dine in peace without having to worry about passersby seeing their faces, however the three women had elected to keep their veils lowered, and instead only lifted the fabric slightly as they imbibed individual items of food and drink.

The overall mood of the restaurant seemed subdued, the conversation muted. That could be because of the several mujahadeen eating quietly in a far corner.

Dressed in black robes with religious beards, one might have easily mistaken them for holy men were it not for the Kalashnikovs lined up on the wall behind them. Their eyes burned with a mixture of contempt and zeal that seemed to say: "We are ready to die for what we believe in.
We
are the true Muslims, not you. We look down upon you all. You are mere dirt to us. You are almost infidels and apostates, you who eat your masgûf and sip your tea so comfortably in the confines of this restaurant while we fight for you and give our lives in the countryside. We do all of this for you in the name of Allah, and yet you are not even grateful to us for it."

Their table was the most bountiful, Ethan noted, with the finest selection of food. There were roast chicken kebabs slathered in lemon juice. Lamb and okra simmering in a spicy tomato broth. Masgûf stuffed with mango chutney. A huge bowl of
timman anbar
, the yellowish rice that grew in the marshes of southern Iraq. A pile of manhole-sized flatbread, with each piece thicker than most American pizza. And in front of every militant, a bottle of
shinēna
—a yogurt-based drink flavored with mint leaves.

Ethan was careful not to look at their table overlong. In previous missions he had played the part of the mujahid. How different it felt to be on the other side. Even though he was veiled from head to toe, he felt utterly exposed.

Sam had shown him Kareef's file photo, so Ethan knew precisely who to look for. He spotted the lone man almost immediately. Unfortunately, Kareef was seated only two tables from the mujahadeen.

"He's too damn close," Ethan cursed softly.

"Say again?" William answered.

"He's sitting next to a table of muj."

"Damn it," William said. "Get him to move."

"The restaurant's full. There's no other places. Besides, that would be a bit obvious if we did that."

"Your call," William said.

There was no point in extracting by that point. Ethan was halfway to the table. It would draw attention if he turned away.

"Going in," Ethan said quietly.

He approached the table with Maaz and allowed his chaperon to pull out a chair for him. He could feel the gaze of the mujahadeen upon him the whole time but ignored it.

When the two were settled, Kareef spoke softly, leaning in slightly toward the pair.

"So this is the great American special operative I was told about," he said in Arabic. "Dresses like a woman, too ashamed to even show his face in public."

"Not ashamed," Ethan said quietly. "Merely practical."

"Ah," Kareef said. "I recognize a Mesopotamian accent. You have spent some time in Syria, have you?"

"Just a little," Ethan agreed.

"A beautiful country," Kareef said. "I have been there once. And know others who have gone several times. Some of them malcontents who once yearned for the unification of northwest Iraq and southeast Syria. These malcontents wanted to come and go as they pleased, wishing to visit family members and relatives, and smuggle without the hassle ordinarily associated with borders. They were happy when the Islamic State came and bulldozed the border, because in theory those hassles were gone."

He sat back. "Perhaps the malcontents were right. The Caliphate has brought many positive benefits." His tone, already sarcastic, began to positively ooze it. "Look at how cheap food is now. And how much fresh water we have. Look at how our street lamps glow with power. Observe the prompt garbage collection, and the fair and just laws. It is paradise."

Kareef paused to bite into a piece of lamb in his plate. He glanced at Maaz and said, with his mouth full: "You are a resistance fighter, I assume?"

Maaz nodded.

"An enviable occupation," Kareef said. Ethan couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not. "Please, help yourself to the
maqluba
." The scholar gestured toward the yellow dish at the center of the table, a mix of rice, eggplant, tomato and braised lamb. Literally translated, maqluba meant 'upside-down,' because the pot that it was prepared in was flipped upside-down to empty the contents before serving. "I ordered enough for three."

Though he had no intention of eating, Ethan took the spoon and scooped a small portion of the yellow rice into his plate, taking a dollop of yogurt from a side dish. He tried to keep his body language submissive and docile.

The proprietor came by and accepted their drink orders; Maaz ordered a cardamom-spiced Earl Grey for himself and Ethan.

Kareef leaned in closer and glanced askance at the mujahadeen. "So, you are here to discuss the terms of smuggling me out of the country, and arranging my French citizenship."

"Try not too make it too obvious you don't want them to hear you," Ethan said, nervously glancing at the same table.

Kareef set down his fork, a slight expression of outrage on his face. "Well if you're going to be rude, maybe I should go."

"No," Ethan said. "I'm sorry. I'm just on edge, that's all."

"All right. So about my French citizenship..."

"Yes," Ethan said. "We can get you that. No problem. But first of all, we need you to arrange a meeting with Al Taaraz."

Kareef stiffened in surprise. "Al Taaraz? The Islamic State emir of Mosul?"

"The very same."

Kareef couldn't hide his disbelief. "And why would Al Taaraz want to meet me?"

"You are a well-known scholar," Ethan said. "Al Taaraz is a cautious man. And he won't come out of hiding for just anyone. You have a long history in the city. Many know you. He will trust you."

Kareef shook his head. "I still don't see why he would agree to meet me. I'm not
that
famous. I can certainly try, but—"

The tea arrived in two hourglass-shaped istikans.

"You have the gift of rhetoric," Ethan said when the proprietor had gone. "Something that is invaluable to the Islamic State. Secondly, you have many followers on social media. And lastly, you are going to offer him money, pretending that you wish to buy yourself into a position of power. Rhetoric, social media followers and money: the three best commodities to attract the attention of the Islamic State leadership. He will meet you."

Ethan lifted the bottom of his veil with one hand and brought the tea to his lips with the other, passing the cup underneath the fabric. He took a sip, and the cardamom-flavored brew suffused his tongue. It didn't really mask the terrible taste of the underlying water, and when Ethan set the istikan down, he resolved not to drink any more of it.

Kareef folded his arms. "What if Al Taaraz doesn't believe me? What if things go badly? He could have me arrested. Or worse. People have disappeared, you know, since Dawla arrived. Many people. If the families are lucky, they find the bodies of their loved ones washed up on the shores of the Tigris. And if they are not lucky, their families never hear from them again. Never have closure."

"Look, how badly do you want to leave? How badly do you want French citizenship?" Ethan shifted impatiently. "My boss pegged you as a man of action. A man ready to fight back against a regime he doesn't believe in. Was my boss wrong?"

Kareef didn't know Sam's name, nor even that she was a woman. Ethan wondered if the scholar would have agreed to the meeting if he knew her gender, given how poorly regarded most women were in the region.

"I ask again," Ethan said. "Was my boss wrong?"

Kareef worked his jaw but didn't answer.

"Do you want a ticket out of Iraq or not?" Ethan pressed.

Kareef opened his mouth, but before he could answer, a mujahid stood up from the table nearby. The movement sent the militant's chair backward, causing the wooden legs to scratch loudly against the floor, drawing every gaze in the restaurant.

The foreign fighter casually wandered toward their table.

Ethan quickly looked down. Into his mouthpiece, he said, very softly, "Will, situation yellow."

"Ready," William returned.

The mujahid reached their table. He regarded Ethan with a sneer, then turned toward Kareef.

"This woman," he said. "She seems headstrong. I see her glancing your way often, as if addressing you. Does she know you?"

"Not exactly," Kareef said.

Apparently Ethan hadn't kept his body language as submissive as he had hoped.

"Then that is very unwomanly behavior. I have a right mind to call in the religious police and have her whipped for her impertinence."

"No no, she hasn't been impertinent," Kareef said with a calm smile. He didn't seem nervous at all. In fact, he seemed rather happy, as if he believed he held Ethan's life in his hands in that moment, and the thought pleased him. "She was just enraptured by my charisma, I would say."

"Your
charisma.
" The mujahid seemed amused. "How do you know each other?" He casually tore a piece from the flatbread on their table; with the provided serving spoon he scooped a sizable portion of maqluba onto the bread.

"I am a scholar," Kareef said, a hint of nervousness creeping into his voice. "And these are two of my fans."

"A scholar with fans?" The mujahid acted impressed, though it seemed patronizing. "You must be someone of renown then." He bit into the flatbread.

"I am known in some circles, yes," Kareef said cautiously.

"What circles are these?" the mujahid said while chewing.

"Sunni Islam, of course. I write papers on the interpretations of various hadiths and how we can use them for inspiration in our lives."

"Interesting," the mujahid said, though he sounded bored. He glanced at Ethan. "So she is one of your fans."

"Yes, they have followed my work online."

"I would like to see this work." He set down the half-eaten flatbread. "Send me the web address. I will check it later when I have access to the Internet." The mujahid abruptly lost interest in the scholar and focused all of his attention on Ethan. "I rarely have a chance to talk with women in social situations anymore. I sometimes miss the Western world for that. But I know it is also the greatest sin of the West, driving men to kill their neighbors."

"Yes, the West is evil and corrupt," Kareef agreed. "Scantily-clad women roam the streets like a pus-filled boil that needs to be lanced and squeezed until the pus is gone."

The mujahid gave him an appraising look. "You really are a scholar. Your rhetoric is excellent."

Kareef smiled appreciatively, and inclined his head.

"What is your name, woman?" the mujahid asked Ethan.

"Her name is Sara," Maaz answered for him.

"Are you married, Sara?"

"She is not," Maaz said.

"I would like to hear her voice," the mujahid said. "Let her answer."

"She is a mute," Maaz said quickly.

"She is your sister?"

"Yes. Would you like to see our IDs?" Maaz delved into his jacket pocket.

"That won't be necessary." The mujahid reached toward Ethan's niqab. "I want to see her face."

twenty-one

E
than flinched, pulling his head away.

"You certainly are a bashful one." The mujahid grinned widely and reached again. "Now stay still, or I will take offense."

Ethan's mind switched to combat mode, and he began running mental calculations, reviewing odds, strategies.

His hands and lower body were hidden by the table; with luck, he could draw the Glock from his ankle holster unnoticed. His first shot would eliminate the militant. With his next shots, he figured he could take down three or four of the other fighters before they retrieved their rifles. Thereafter, he would need cover—the wooden table was useless, bolted as it was to the floor, and so were the flimsy wooden chairs around it. He'd have to use the militant's body as a shield. That, combined with the Kevlar vest Ethan was wearing, should be enough to block any incoming bullets. Discounting a headshot, of course.

Ethan figured they would probably rush him. By the time William made it inside, the firefight would be over.

Ten bullets, seven mujahadeen. He'd have to make his shots count.

He stared at that approaching hand.

"Careful!" Maaz said, startling him. "Once you set eyes upon her, her disfigurements will be forever seared into your mind! It cannot be undone. She is the ugliest woman you will ever see!"

"You make me want to look upon her even more," the mujahid said. His fingers were inches from the veil.

Ethan steeled himself; he was about to tell his companions to get down when Maaz abruptly produced the fake identity document and shoved it into the militant's face. Ethan had seen the picture earlier: it depicted a terribly unattractive woman with a goofy, bucktoothed smile. The photo was meant to deter any militant from ever even
wanting
to peer under the veil.