The Faithful Spy

“Only those you really trust.”

Fahd nodded. “Five. no, four. Ehab is home today.”

“Just four men?” Fifty officers were on duty.

“Yes.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Even worse, Captain.” Fahd handed Jackson the cigarettes.

“Have another Dunhill. I’ll round them up.”

ten minutes later Fahd was back, four men in tow.

“As you like, Captain.” An Iraqi expression that meant: Whenever you’re ready. Jackson looked at his watch. Eight-forty. Saleh had said the meeting was supposed to start at nine and last an hour. But he’d also warned Jackson that the guerrillas often ran late. And Jackson knew he couldn’t risk watching the barbershop — any American presence would be obvious. He had decided to hit at nine forty-five and hope for the best.

“We have a little while. Where’s your flak jacket, Colonel?”

“I don’t have one.”

“We gave you enough armor for every officer in Khudra.” Jack son didn’t hide the frustration in his voice. A brittle laugh escaped Fahd’s lips. “Let me tell you a story.” He lit a fresh cigarette. “It will be over before this Dunhill.”

“Sure.”

“My father owned a store in Sadr City. You know Sadr City, of course.”

“Of course.” Sadr City was a giant slum in northeast Baghdad, on the other side of the Tigris River, a desperately poor place.

“We were not wealthy. No one in Sadr City is wealthy. But we were comfortable,” Fahd said. He took a deep drag on his cigarette.

“Unfortunately my father — Mohammed — liked to joke. Sometimes he joked about Saddam. In 1987, the Mukhabarat”—Saddam’s secret police—“raided his store. They took him and my brother Sadiq to Abu Ghraib. You can guess the rest.”

“Did you ever see them again?”

“Sadiq survived, for a while. He died two years later.”

“Did he tell you what had happened?”

“He never spoke after they let him go.”

“He never said what they’d done?”

“He never spoke at all.” Fahd pointed at his mouth. “No tongue.”

Jackson felt his own tongue curl inside his mouth as he tried to think of something to say.

“I’m sorry.”

“They must have found a very bad Mukhabarat agent,” Fahd said. “My father’s jokes weren’t so much.”

“And you escaped?”

“I wasn’t there. They never came back for me. I don’t know why. Maybe they felt — what is the word? — lazy.”

“Inshallah.”

“Inshallah,” Fahd said. “Instead they sent me to fight against Iran. I survived — the war was almost over — and then I got into the police academy somehow. Now I am a lieutenant colonel in the Iraqi police, respected and loved by my men.” Fahd laughed. “A charmed life, wouldn’t you say, Captain?” He held up his cigarette, still burning. “And now the story is over, as I promised.” Fahd took a final drag on his cigarette, then stubbed it out into his palm and flicked it onto the asphalt.

“So you don’t wear body armor,” Jackson said.

“If Allah wishes me to stay alive, I will. And if he wishes me to see my father again, I will. Either way I will be grateful for his blessings.”

l e d b y j. c.’ s armored Humvee, the Mad Dog convoy rolled north on Dodge, a broad avenue that stretched through the center of Ghazalia. Bomb holes pitted the road. Patrols here got hit almost every night, though no soldiers had been killed. Yet. With the streets empty, they had the road almost to themselves. The patrol stretched a half mile nose to tail, with Fahd’s Land Rover nestled in the middle, a toy among the Bradleys and tanks. Through J.C.’s night-vision goggles the world glowed yellow and black. Looming over a field to the east was the Mother of All Battles mosque, a concrete monstrosity with minarets designed to resemble machine gun turrets. Saddam had built the mosque to celebrate his decade-long war with Iran, which had left two million people dead. When the electricity was running, the minarets glowed infernally in the night. But tonight the power was out. The mosque and the neighborhood had gone dark, though generators provided power to a few fortunate houses. The blackout was a good break, and so was the new moon. The darker the night, the better the goggles worked. A tracer round cut through the night, a single shot as the patrol passed by. They’re out there, J.C. thought. Watching us. Waiting for us to make a mistake. Good. Let ’em. His finger crawled around the trigger of his.50-cal.

The Humvee halted as the convoy reached the northern end of the Ghazalia road, where a narrow bridge ran into Shula, a crowded slum. The patrol has to look routine, Jackson had told the Mad Dogs. They can’t know we’re coming. The convoy made a slow U-turn and headed south.