Escape from Baghdad! (43 page)

“It's the bastard Behruse's fault,” Hoffman said. “He's poisoned her mind against me.”

“I've got things to do, you know.”

“I have a plan,” Hoffman said, tapping his head.

“If it doesn't involve blowing that bitch up, I'm going to be seriously disappointed.”

“Pilot, come in pilot!”

“Sir?”

“Release the box!”

“Er, the one you left on the seat?”

“Yes.”

“What's in it?”

“What do you mean what's in it?” Hoffman asked, incensed. “I'm giving you a direct order!”

“Sir, quite frankly your orders have sucked, and I'm gonna have to check what's inside the box.”

“I forbid you to open the box!”

“Er, there appears to be leaflets inside the box.”

“I forbid you to read them!”

“It appears to be poetry. ‘She walks in beauty like the night.' Someone called Byron,” the pilot said. “Addressed to someone called Sabeen, from someone called You-Know-Who.”

“I forbid you to repeat any of this to anyone!”

“Sir, this is the craziest shit I've ever done. I'm afraid I'm gonna have to tell everyone I know.”

“Oh well, then just remember, my real name is Captain Fowler.”

“Right, sir,” the pilot said. “You want me to dump this stuff from the air now?”

“Yes.”

“Over the lady's position?”

“Yes.”

“Ok, done.”

“Now let me down somewhere safe with the rest of my suitcases.”

“Hoffman?” Mother Davala demanded. “What is happening?”

“Don't worry,” said Hoffman. “I got this.”

Behruse was making his way back down the street, swinging the severed head to and fro when it began to rain leaflets. It made him pause and look up. His men saw the ugly maw of the Apache gunship and quite naturally ran for cover. Behruse, somewhat literate, was drawn to the pink hearts and swirly writing on the leaflet, which appeared to be atypical of the propaganda normally raining down on Baghdad.

A closer scan made him put down the severed head and burst out laughing. The mirth rolled out of him in gigantic waves, making his belly shake and his eyes tear. He was doubled over when he saw the brief shadow behind him. He tried to turn, but the US marine lurking behind him was fast as a snake. Something like a screwdriver plunged into his neck with a hot gush of pain.

He staggered a few steps until his legs gave way. Sprawled on the street, he looked up and saw the marine Ancelloti looming over him.

“I gave you good weed,” Behruse gasped, confused.

“Hoffman says hi,” Ancelloti said. He stuffed a leaflet into Behruse's open dead mouth and walked away.

“I can't see,” Mother Davala complained. “What's he doing?”

“He's got the white flag out,” the pilot said. “I think he's surrendering. Ok, he's definitely surrendered. They've disarmed him. The girl has him kneeling down. He's talking a lot.”

“He'll probably make us surrender too,” Mother Davala said bitterly. She had never before employed such an unsatisfactory servant.

“Wait. One of the thugs is giving him a last smoke,” the pilot said. “Now he's passing around a bottle. The girl is getting pissed. Wait. He's got his suitcase open. He's handing things out. Oh shit! He's got all the colonel's bourbon! Fuck! He's giving it away. Ok, Goon 1 is walking away with an armload. The other suitcase is open now. It looks like Skittles. Goon 2 just loaded up his pockets. Ok, Goon 3 is drinking bourbon with his Skittles now. Wait, they're making him get up.”

“Hopefully they'll shoot him now,” Mother Davala said.

“No, they're hugging him. He's passing around joints. Ok, he's got out a pile of cash. The girl is super pissed. She's waving her gun around. Goon 4 is walking away. Goon 5 just kissed him on the cheeks and took the empty suitcases. Um, pretty much all the goons are gone. Ah, he's wrestling with the girl. He's disarmed her. Ok, he's kissing her now. Aaaand, he's walking back. I can't believe this. He's actually disbanded the entire enemy unit using bourbon and Skittles.”

“What's the woman doing?”

“She's just kind of standing there. I can't read her face. It's like she's smiling.”

“Put me down,” she ordered. “I'm getting out.”

Dagr walked slowly, like an old man afraid of breaking his hip. He had taken a bullet squarely in the chest and cracked ribs now made every breath an agony. The Kevlar was deathly hot and heavy. He had dropped all his weapons but one, a single glock tucked into his waist. They had finished all their bullets.

Kinza moved beside him a few feet away, slinking along the walls. He was literally coated with blood, some of it his own. He had taken wounds, perhaps mortal ones, but the Mukhabarat were broken. The last of them had run. Kinza's communicator, appropriated from Blue Raptor 2, had ceased to cackle with commands and countercommands. The last panicked screams had faded to silence. The enemy was no longer trying to find them. Kinza had killed
everyone.

They walked now through an empty street. Far away the Apache thumped overhead, waiting. The house at the end of the cul-de-sac was unassuming. A single arch hid an ivy-covered door that was bolted. They forced it open. If there had been guards here before, they had run away.

They heard noises in a back room, a man desperately trying to raise someone on the phone. He ceased when Kinza opened the door. It was an old man, drinking brandy, surrounded by CCTV screens.

“You are the arms dealer?” The old man said. “I am Avicenna.”

“Yes,” Kinza said.

“Please, both of you, take a seat,” Avicenna said.

“That's not why we're here.”

“I understand that you've met Afzal Taha?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know his story.”

“Yes.”

“You also have the watch?” Avicenna asked.

“My friend does,” Kinza said, nodding at Dagr.

“Well, the long story of Al-Hakim the Druze is finally over,” Avicenna said. He raised his hands in mock prayer. “You are no longer required. Give me the watch and go your way. There will be no further retaliations from me.”

“Retaliations. Hmm.”

“Afzal Taha is dead,” Avicenna said. His voice was calm. “It's over.”

“So I've heard,” Kinza said. “It's not over for
me.
”

“I don't know what you're fighting for, you pup,” Avicenna said. “But your insolence is more than I can bear. I will kill you. I will rape your mother and your sisters. I will sell your family into slavery. I will erase from this earth any human who harbors any memory of you.”

Kinza smiled.

“He is smiling,” Dagr said, “because he has no mother, no sisters, no lovers, no one at all.”

“Then you, professor,” Avicenna said, something twitching in his eyes. “I know you. I will beat your wife to death. I will throttle the
breath from your child. I will kill your friends and their friends. Do you think I have not done worse in the long years of my life?”

“My daughter is dead,” Dagr said. “My wife is dead. I had two friends. One blew himself up killing your dog Hassan Salemi.” He started to laugh and then choked because it hurt so much. “You'll be taking fuckall from me.”

“Do you want gold then? Money?” Avicenna asked. “I have the wealth of a hundred kings buried in the desert.”

“That's not why I'm here,” Kinza said.

“Life then?” Avicenna asked. “The secret that gave Taha his powers is the same that has kept me alive this long. Give me the watch, and let us become immortal!”

“No.”

“Die then!” He leapt from his chair, far faster than humanly possible, something sharp darting out of his sleeve.

Kinza snaked forward. The spring-loaded knife tip took him in the throat, severing all the arteries. Poison flooded his mouth. The edge of his blade crashed into the old man's outstretched wrist, taking it off. As they both fell, Kinza's second knife slashed upwards, scoring along Avicenna's belly, ripping up everything.

“Dagr,” Kinza whispered. “Run.”

Something in his bag began to beep.

EPILOGUE

H
OFFMAN OPENED A THERMOS AND POURED SOME COFFEE
. H
E
fished out two tin mugs from somewhere, filled them, and offered one to Dagr. The helicopter thumped the air, clawing up with brute force. Kinza, in the end, had settled his accounts with an explosion that had rocked the entire city. Avicenna's house was gone, the bodies of the dead vaporized in a gaping crater. The fire had spread, and the outer buildings, rigged with explosives, were starting to blow up like firecrackers on a string. The heat from the blasts rocked the helicopter. Far below, hapless policemen and firefighters were trying to come to grips with the madness.

“You alright, man?” Hoffman asked.

“Numb,” Dagr said.

“Me too,” Hoffman sighed. “Love is hell. This is not how I thought it'd play out.”

“Me neither.”

“So,” Hoffman said. “Where d'you wanna go?”

“I don't know,” Dagr said. “What about you?”

“Sabeen ran off,” Hoffman said. “And I don't even want to know where the witch went. I'm thinking we should get out of here before someone comes to look at the mushroom cloud.”

Dagr looked out of the window to the east. The gray of dawn was lighting up the sky. He looked at the watch on his wrist and then the wad of paper Hamid had given him.

“I still have the Druze watch,” he said finally, putting the paper away.

“Yeah?”

“It gives directions to some place,” Dagr said. “You want to see where it goes?”

Hoffman tapped the helicopter pilot's shoulder. The insubordinate bastard rolled his eyes. “I'm still telling everybody I know,” he said. “Whenever we get back.”