Authors: Roy David
Ahead, the lights became brighter. Abu Khamsin prayed it would be another British army roadblock. Someone was standing in the middle of the road waving a lamp. His headlights picked out a small group of men, rifles pointing straight at him. The realisation they were not soldiers sent trickles of sweat down his neck. For a split second, he thought of putting his foot down, running the gauntlet. But he realised it would be useless in such a ponderous vehicle. He had no choice but to bring the lorry to a stop, his eyes wide, hands trembling on the wheel.
The noise of the air brakes being released was just audible
above the shrieking wind as Alex lay agonisingly still, heart thudding. She heard muffled voices, Arabic. A small gap in the tarpaulin allowed a burst of wind to blow in. Alex felt the coolness of the welcome draught. Lifting her head to gasp at the precious chill, her body shifted. Suddenly, an arm fell across her throat. She tried to push it away but, in such a confined space, her hands could find no leverage. The weight of the arm began choking what little breath she had left. She opened her eyes and saw only blackness. Kicking out in a fit of terror only worsened the situation.
Her Kandahar nightmare, now a shocking reality, pounded unmercifully at her brain. Unable to move, and on the verge of blacking out, she summoned one final burst of will and did the only thing she was capable of doing.
With all the strength she could muster and as loudly as she could, Alex screamed.
* * *
Alerted to the shrieks, two of the men rushed forward. One of them, no more than a teenager, quickly untied the tarpaulin, pulling it back. For a moment, both men appeared stunned as Alex struggled to push herself free. They grabbed hold of her, dragging her towards the rear of the truck. At the edge of the tailboard, she shrugged free and jumped to the ground, sprawling in a heap. The men towered over her, laughing, their outlines made more menacing in the dim light of a small floodlamp. Abu Khamsin stepped forward to help her. As he did so, another of the group, a youth, raised his rifle and struck him with the butt on the back of the neck. Alex watched in horror as Abu Khamsin slunk to his knees.
The men gathered round Alex, shouting, jabbering, pushing in one direction then another, impatient for a response. She was forced to the ground, her back against the front wheel of the truck. She watched as Abu Khamsin was hauled to his feet.
Scared, her knees weak, she felt defiance suddenly rise within
her. She wanted to kick out, fight, to tell whoever these people were to go to hell. But she knew such bravado was to no avail. Instead, she played dumb, two of the men standing close by.
Abu Khamsin slowly drew himself up to his tall frame, aware that guns were trained on him. His neck hurt and his head swam. Though groggy, he knew he had to appear humble, mindful of appearing as subservient as possible. But he had made up his mind. He was about to play a huge gamble. In a measured, conciliatory tone, he turned and spoke.
‘Brothers, this woman is the widow of one of the newly departed,’ he said confidently, gesturing to the truck’s cargo. ‘Her life is now full of such grief that she has been struck dumb since the day the dogs of America killed her husband and her two young children. She is inconsolable and has insisted on accompanying their last remains until they are laid to rest in the loving arms of our beloved saint Ali ibn Abi Talib. We humbly ask that you let us free to continue our merciful journey to al-Najaf.’
Abu Khamsin stared at them, trying to catch each man’s eye in the inky gloom. He and Alex had a chance if these men were followers of the cleric, Muqtada al-Sadr. Men from this southern Shia stronghold had flocked to join his Mahdi Army in the past few months, so disenchanted were they with the aftermath of the US-led occupation. Bolstered by al-Sadr’s well-publicised July sermon in Najaf, thousands responded with a unanimous denunciation of the US and its provisional government. It was common knowledge that here in the south, al-Sadr’s Mahdi Army had taken security into its own hands, patrols and roadblocks such as this becoming more prevalent.
He stole a glance at Alex, praying that she would not open her mouth. To do so would result in certain death for both of them – killed as spies once they heard her accent. It was a fate that was highly likely to be excruciatingly slow just for the fun of it.
Abu Khamsin had not been able to determine who was in
charge and so had pleaded with each of the men in turn. Now, another man shuffled forward, his head and face covered with a red-checked keffiyeh. He pulled down the scarf, letting it rest loosely on his stooped shoulders, and cleared his throat, spitting into the sand.
Abu Khamsin guessed the man was the leader of this rag-tag bunch. From the row of crooked and missing teeth, the manner of his dress, he surmised the man was a local, a poorly-educated farmer or such, probably illiterate. Maybe he was one of the few remaining Marsh Arabs of the area, a simple herdsman who once tended buffalo and chickens or grew wheat and barley and rice and hunted fish and wild boar as did thousands of his kinfolk. Perhaps he had escaped Saddam’s brutal retribution against the failed Shia uprising following the Gulf War of 1991. Draining this area’s vast marshes and turning it into bleak desert was the physical legacy of the pogrom.
Abu Khamsin knew it was as natural as their former way of life that the people here would harbour a hatred for America and a burning contempt for its leader. George Bush senior was the man who encouraged the uprising those years ago but did nothing to help. A quarter of a million people simply left to Saddam’s merciless onslaught. Those who couldn’t get away to become refugees in Iran were killed. Bush junior was from the same tainted stock.
‘You are also of the al-Ahwar?’ Abu Khamsin said, his voice dropping a notch.
The man stared at him, slowly nodding. ‘I am of the Ma’adan,’ he said.
Abu Khamsin sighed. ‘My late parents also. They died in exile, driven out. Some of my family had no way of escaping. Cousins, aunts, uncles – they all had their throats cut by Saddam’s pigs.’
The old man eyed him, suspicious. Abu Khamsin knew he must try for some sort of rapport with the man. It was their only chance.
‘I am a builder of things, a civil engineer. It is my dearest wish
that when the American pack of dogs has gone, I can return here and help rebuild this wondrous place.’
The old man looked up into the sky for what seemed an age. Then he stared at Abu Khamsin, moving closer. ‘Do you think you can do it?’ he whispered.
‘With the help of Allah, I’m sure we can,’ Abu Khamsin said, spreading his arms out wide as if taking in the whole of the landscape. ‘This glorious land will be returned to its rightful state and I will help the kingfishers to come back.’
Alex had no idea what was being said. She kept her gaze on Abu Khamsin, vainly trying to decipher the mood of their plight. One of her guards turned to watch the conversation. An AK-47 hung limply from his shoulder. She was sure she could reach it, take him off balance. But the younger man standing over her had a knife, which he kept running over the palm of his hand, glancing at her with a leering smile. She held her eyes steady, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear. But, behind the niqab, her bottom jaw trembled uncontrollably.
If one of them should search her…
* * *
The group’s leader fumbled in a pocket, pulled out a mobile phone. He stared at it for several seconds, hesitant as if it would blow up in his hands, his body crouched over to protect it from the wind.
With ponderous deliberation, his stubby fingers jabbed at the buttons. He pulled one side of the keffiyeh free and lifted the phone to his ear. It was a full minute before someone answered and the man began shouting excitedly into the mouthpiece.
Abu Khamsin cast a nervous glance at Alex. The man was describing the patrol’s catch. It was obvious he was talking to someone more senior, seeking advice as to their next move.
But no one except the older man could hear the response of the sleepy voice on the other end of the line.
‘Let them go – or kill them. I’ll leave it up to you,’ it said.
24
Slowly, the old man put the phone back in his pocket. He gazed hard, past his two captives and into the inky distance. The wind was now increasing, occasionally howling over the bleak landscape like a tormented animal. Everyone eyed the old man as he stood motionless, their concentration broken by the constant flapping of a loose corner of the lorry’s tarpaulin, slapping against the tailgate.
Finally, the man turned, raising his rifle and pointing it directly at Abu Khamsin, his hands trembling. Sensing some sort of action, his compatriots sprang to attention. Alex shifted, the tenseness in her body agonising. She could feel the truck’s wheel bolts digging into her, yet she couldn’t stop herself pressing back further.
The youth with the knife darted forward, lunging and slashing at thin air like he was in a macabre and sadistic solo dance, as if in practise for what he hoped was to come.
‘Stop,’ the old man shouted, at once raising his arm. ‘Stop. I have decided. Our brother and sister are to be allowed to continue their merciful journey in peace with Allah’s blessing.’
With a wave of his rifle, he quickly gestured for them to get into the truck. Abu Khamsin spoke sharply in Arabic to Alex, indicating with a nod of his head and his outstretched hand that she should climb into the cab. His motioning needed no translation. She stepped on to the footplate and allowed him to push her aboard, quickly sliding to the passenger side.
Abu Khamsin joined her, starting the engine. ‘Inshallah, inshallah, thank you,’ he blurted through the open window.
The old man raised a hand in acknowledgement. ‘Please God
that I live long enough to see your kingfishers return,’ he shouted as they moved off and were quickly on their way.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Alex blurted, her body still shaking, the relief overwhelming. ‘I don’t know what the hell you said back there but it worked. Thank you for saving my life, Abu Khamsin.’
She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He exhaled sharply. ‘I think it was close, very close. Some of them I think would have liked to kill us both, maybe after they had some amusement first. I had to tell the old man a fanciful story. Thank God it worked.’
Alex shuddered, slumping back in her seat and closing her eyes. She shook her head as if to rid it of the petrifying thoughts that had tormented her during their ordeal. But the sense of shock proved too strong, hitting the pit of her stomach like a sledgehammer. Quickly, she wound down the window and threw up into the night.
* * *
Alex awoke with a start. Pale pink streaks of daylight were just visible on the horizon and the wind seemed to have picked up strength. She glanced at Abu Khamsin. ‘Sorry, I must have dozed off,’ she said, rubbing her eyes. ‘How are we doing?’
‘Be there in twenty minutes,’ he said. ‘I hope our man’s still waiting.’
It suddenly struck Alex that, without transport, she had no hope of finding McDermott. Their delay might have cost them dear. She could only pray the lure of a 500-dollar deal for what was likely to be a clapped-out vehicle would prove too strong a bait.
Abu Khamsin cleared his throat, preparing to speak. ‘My dear cousin Farrah told me to tell you something only when we were about to part, but I think there will be no harm in telling you now,’ he said, glancing at her.
Alex looked at him quizzically.
‘She said to say that Aban’s secret is safe with her and that
she intends to put it to good use. You remember you liked a particular wrap she wore?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Well, Farrah said she hid whatever it is she’s talking about in the lining of the wrap when she fled to Jordan. That’s all I know.’
Alex’s eyes widened. A memory stick. It just had to be – with Aban’s explosive information on it. The incriminating file he died for. Her thoughts turned to the extensive list of corrupt companies all with their snouts in Saddam’s trough. She’d conceded Northwood had tricked her out of the only remaining copy and, with it, the inherent worldwide publicity the story would attract. Her heart leapt.
Abu Khamsin looked across at her. ‘It is good news, yes?’
Alex laughed. ‘Good news? It’s absolutely fantastic.’
* * *
The friend of Abu Khamsin was waiting at the crossroad as promised. Alex saw the small open-topped vehicle through a cloud of dust as though it had been speeding and just come to an abrupt halt.
‘This is George,’ Abu Khamsin said, helping Alex from the cab. ‘He is like the Beatle, yes?’
Alex stared at the young man, incredulous. His hair was shoulder length, and he wore a moustache that drooped down the sides of his mouth and a gold-braided turquoise tunic that looked as if it had come straight from a hippie music festival. He looked just like the late George Harrison in his psychedelic days, an image she remembered from the cover of a CD amongst her collection.
‘We were at university together – everyone there called him George,’ said Abu Khamsin, hugging his friend in a warm embrace.
‘Hope he can play the guitar,’ Alex said, laughing.
‘Alas, no longer,’ George said, grinning. To Alex’s horror he
held up his right arm revealing only a hook where his hand should have been.
‘Oh my God,’ Alex said with a gasp.
‘Shrapnel in the invasion,’ he said. ‘But your dollars will hopefully give me a new hand. Then at least I play something again.’
Flustered, Alex stepped forward, offered George his roll of dollar bills. He nodded, a generous smile on his lips. He gestured to the vehicle. ‘She is not much to look at but at least she drives okay. I was late for your arrival – sometimes there are British tanks on patrol and it is still the curfew.’
Alex examined the vehicle, a type of small jeep. A badge on the rear proclaimed it was an Austin Mini Moke, left-hand drive, no doors. Where it wasn’t dented or scraped, the paintwork was a jumble of green stripes and brown zigzags resembling the camouflage of a military vehicle. George started the engine. ‘You are planning to go far?’