Escape from Baghdad! (39 page)

Fact was, he was either AWOL or believed dead, and either case suited him fine. He could always roll up to camp mumbling about Gulf War syndrome. His condition was well documented. They wouldn't want to make a big deal about him. He supposed he was crazy.

Not as crazy as the four Arabs walking past him. One guy was huge, the other three regular sized, although they moved with the heavy, measured gait of people wearing armor. They had bags of guns. And the half-fingered one had a RPG over his shoulder, wrapped in cloth. It wasn't even a good disguise. They walked like the four horsemen of the apocalypse. Ancelloti remembered his church had a stained
glass window of the four horsemen back in Reno. He felt an odd rush of affection for the one with the RPG. He liked the way he carried it, casual; don't mind me, this is just a rocket launcher attached to my shoulder. Crazy.

These were the friends Hoffman had been trying to find. He had seen Hoffman smoking dope with two of them, drinking and laughing. Ancelloti didn't have any friends left, but his drug-addled mind recalled the time when he had been part of a squad. He missed those people vaguely. He supposed these Arabs were the new squad. He wanted to reach out and touch them, to reassure them that he was there, on their side. On the other hand, perhaps that was not so reassuring. After all, every squad he'd been a part of so far had been blown to bits in front of his eyes.

“This is a good spot,” Hamid said.

They watched Dagr and Kinza walking casually toward them, two harmless men intent on their cigarettes.

“I can't believe this plan,” the Lion said.

“It's all about incentives,” Hamid said.

“What?”

“Incentives,” Hamid smiled. “When I was an interrogator, that's the lever we would use. Find the right incentive and you can get anyone.”

“You used to torture people, I heard.”

“It was a job,” Hamid said, “which taught me a lot about human nature.”

“You're saying Kinza has some hidden incentive?” The Lion said. “I don't get it.”

“You wouldn't,” Hamid said. “You still think this is all about you.”

“I've been fighting this war for a millennium.”

“You've done fuck all for a millennium,” Hamid said. “Incentives. You want to win. You want to restore whatever dumbfuck Druze order
you grew up in. You want to resurrect your old boss. These are not the right incentives.”

“So what's your incentive?”

“Me? I have none. Not anymore,” Hamid said. “See, Kinza taught me that. When I understood, it all clicked.”

“And am I to benefit from this Zen moment?”

“Sure,” Hamid said. “We are the perfect zeros. Kinza is the perfect zero. He has no prospects. He has no past. There's nothing he wants.
There is nothing here to tempt him
. How do you stop someone like that from doing whatever the fuck he wants?”

“I'm not sure I understand.”

“The normal controls of society are gone,” Hamid said. “And then you realize that you don't have to take their shit anymore.” He licked his finger and checked the wind. On a tower across the street, a sniper lounged against the wall, his head lolling in the heat. “Never mind. It's time. Go hit the truck. When you start backing up, I'll fire the RPG.”

“Whose shit?”

“What?”

“Whose shit don't you have to take anymore?”

“What the fuck are we talking for?”

“I'm trying to understand.”

“Everyone's shit. Your teacher, your boss, your banker, the bill collector, the cop, the army. It's all gone now. Don't you understand? No more parents. We're free. No promotions, no retirement plans, no more hamster on the fucking wheel. I'm going to fire an RPG in the middle of the city. It's the fucking end times. You get it now?”

“You're all mad.”

Hamid smiled. “You're the fucker with a lobotomy. Hang on. I almost forgot to do something.”

He stepped across Dagr, stopping him momentarily. He thrust a folded note into Dagr's fist.

“Here, take it,” he said.

“What?” The Professor looked confused.

Hamid smiled. “Copy of the coordinates. In case you survive.”

“Mosul? Are you serious?”

“It's full of gold, Dagr. And a whole bunch of other stuff. I don't know how to get in, but you're a smart guy, you'll figure it out.”

“You were telling the truth?”

“Doesn't matter much now, does it?” Hamid shrugged.

Dagr and Kinza reached the cart early. There was a slight, hot breeze, perhaps some kind of A/C exhaust. It ruffled their loose cotton shirts, worn over the vest. It was too obvious though, even under the weak street light; any second now, someone would take a closer look at the unnaturally rotund men buying dinner.

Hamid had been right. The Mukhabarat men were relaxed, off duty. They didn't take the job seriously and were content to joke around and smoke shisha. They had moustaches and fat bellies, cheap-looking clothes. There was an unkempt edge about them, in the curl of over long hair at the nape of the neck to frayed cuffs and dirty, scuffed soles. Salaries had been irregular, too many service men had been laid off. Men used to riding government cars were now on foot, reduced to guard dogs, baying for their supper.

There were five of them. They should have been spread out, alert. Instead they had gathered plastic chairs around the cart, feet up, smoking and eating. One of them looked up, took in the bumbling incompetence of Dagr, and sat back down. Dagr stood in line, ordered, and paid, feeling ridiculously let down at having to part with the last of their money. He resisted the urge to look back. The explosions did not come. He took a bite of the kebab roll, felt the bite of the pickled onions in the back of his throat. It was good, the yogurt sauce rich and fresh.

He stopped the urge to gag. Kinza was ethereal beside him, seeming to melt into shadows. He gave him a roll, and ludicrously, they stood by the cart and ate. Dagr couldn't talk. He clenched his bowels. The seconds moved on. Finally, he heard snatches of shouting, the
rush of tires and something heavy moving toward them. The truck was backing in, at speed, lurching drunkenly. Dagr scattered aside, ducking into the confusion. He felt Kinza dive across his vision, ending behind the Mukhabarat.

The truck hit the cart and careened sideways with a sick tear of metal, a high-pitched rending noise. The engine smoked as it continued to slew sideways on semibald tires until it smashed into the side of a building. Screams from onlookers and then pure astonishment, as a comet of fire raced across their retinas and slammed into the tall corner building. The explosion of the RPG threw them all flat and rained masonry down on the just and unjust alike.

Even though he had been expecting it, it took Dagr several precious seconds to regain his balance. The Mukhabarat men were faster, already up, guns waving, crucially, mistakenly
looking up
. Dagr saw Kinza float in, a thin stiletto in his right hand and a heavy Marine-issue K-Bar knife in his left. The first two were already down, the K-Bar nearly severing one man's head from his shoulders, leaving an ugly dark red yawning maw of a wound. The second slumped face down, stiletto in the eye, twitching.

Dagr bulled forward, tackling the man closest to him waist high, and getting a heavy knee in the chest in the process. His adversary was fat, too fat to get his hands around. He felt himself sliding down and took another blow to the shoulder. Flailing, Dagr managed to stab the man in one meaty calf and felt his balance waver. The Mukhabarat agent yelled and punched down at an awkward angle, hitting Dagr between the shoulder blades. Doggedly, Dagr hung on, channeling some dimly recalled playground precept about going to the ground and getting kicked in the head.

Somehow the knife turned in his hand and he stabbed again, hitting a hairy thigh through a shiny polyester pant leg. The man screamed louder, and this time blood sprayed out, covering Dagr's hands. The blows slowed as the man tried to extract his gun from his shoulder holster. This time, his belly impeded him; the gun had slid behind one fat armpit, the butt tilted back, hanging awkwardly out
of reach. Dagr pushed forward with his legs, driving forward, finally taking him down.

Dagr felt the body jerk abruptly beneath him and then spasm. He looked up, saw a jagged hole in the man's neck. Kinza wiped his K-Bar on the man's suit. The rest of the Mukhabarat were dead. Kinza's head was misted with blood. He looked demonic. Around them was burning chaos. The fires from the RPG were still raging. Only a few minutes had passed. Kinza slipped into an open doorway into the stairwell of an apartment building. The space was deserted. These people knew better than to leave their houses after an explosion.

“Up?” Dagr asked.

“No, through,” Kinza said. “Act like a tenant.”

They moved by ways into a narrow unlit passage, which disgorged them to a rear entrance. There was a lock on the door, a small combination number Kinza shattered with the butt of his K-Bar. The noise chimed like a bell but no one came to investigate. There were faint shouts coming from outside and sporadic gunfire. Dagr looked back, his heart pounding. There was no one. No one was coming after them.

“Hamid and the Druze must have engaged,” Kinza said. “The Mukhabarat don't know we're here.”

36: BIRDS OF PEACE

“T
HERE THEY FUCKING ARE
!” A
VICENNA SNARLED
. T
HE CAMERA
screens painted his face green. “It's the damned Druze. Get him!”

In the bustle of guns, sandaled feet, and a barking hodge-podge of orders, Yakin was able to slink into a corner by the CCTVs, fiddle around with wires until everyone cleared out. It was not his intention to get shot up by some Druze.

His eyes lingered over the bank of TV screens, marveling at the thoroughness of the Old Man. The explosion had knocked out some of the cameras. He rewound the tape. The RPG explosion looked unreal on black and white film. He rewound some of the other cameras, trying to look busy in case anyone came to collect him. He could hear Salemi nearby, marshalling his troops.

The cart caught his eye. He had eaten kebab rolls from there just last night. Men were eating there, strangers. Two of them looked familiar. They were bulky, their clothes puffed up. Yakin froze the image in his mind. There was a partial profile of one. Something clenched in his bowels, he pissed himself in a shock of hot urine. He kept staring, his mouth open, frozen in terror. It was Kinza. No doubt about it. He was inside the cordon.