Middle Man (16 page)

I
grabbed a fat German in the lobby. “The Prime Minister has been shot,” he said in perfect English. “It's a revolution.” He pushed his way to the elevators. The traffic was bumper to belly. Some wanted to hide in their rooms, some wanted to peek out the windows or shout at hotel employees for information or for help escaping. I wanted to get to Bannion's. Between the bar and the front door, two Kurdish men in their thirties grabbed me by each arm. The one on my right said, “Come with us, Mr. Hewitt.”

“Where is that?” They did not answer. I relaxed my arms for a moment, then jammed both elbows down. The Asayish were caught off guard and I slipped free. I pushed away from them and clawed through the mass until I caught a wave that carried me toward the elevators. The cops were falling behind.

The stairs were empty. A valet rushed into the garage kiosk, grabbed a set of keys, and rushed to a Toyota. I grabbed the key to a Mercedes and found the car and drove out. At the top of the garage exit ramp, one of the cops was waiting. I steered toward him and made him jump away.

I did not get far. Cars jammed every inch of pavement. The drivers who stayed inside played their horns without rhythm, a frustrated toneless bleating. Pedestrians flowed toward the colored lights and the Citadel beyond. Everyone moved fast to reach the thick mass where movement slowed. I opened my car door and a man crashed into it. I tried to help him up. He shook me off and moved on. The Asayish kept coming.

The crowd was thick and fluid. The fastest way forward was to ride the current. The cops would not outpace it. Flashing their badges would get them trampled. The bridges sliced the crowd into wide lanes. Fountain mist swirled in pastels. I was pushed toward the left, toward the souk. Gunfire sounded in lonely bunches like neighborhood fireworks set between beers.

Strobed stills of the battle in the stalls of the souk between looters and merchants flashed as I slid past. The Asayish were out of sight. A skinny teenager emerged with a bundle of women's scarves, which dripped from his grip as the crowd jostled him. A man in his sixties, dirty, with a beard and a red-checked ghatra raced to the edge of the souk and stopped to decide where to push into the flow. He held pistols in each hand like a cartoon cowboy. Two shots hit him in the back and he fell flat on his face and the guns clattered on the pavement. A kid bent to get one. But the shooter loomed over him. It was the gun merchant's son.

The crowd flowed on. Only a few stepped on the body, just one wreck in a long-awaited cavalcade. Another, oozing more obvious agony, undoubtedly waited ahead. The proximity to violence sustained the feeling of release, extended it to the point of ecstasy. And the ecstasy foamed in a chain reaction, feeding on itself, surging, overflowing, devouring its own fascination.

A man spoke in Kurmanji, feedback screeched, the man began again, “My fellow Kurds, my people . . .” I recognized the voice: the King. A faint echo bounced around the plaza and fought with the thickness of the cheap sound system and the intermittent feedback. I scrambled and pushed and elbowed toward the Citadel, where the voice seemed to come from.

I could understand most of it and could fill in the rest since it was only a slight variation on every speech the King made.

“Our moment of destiny is upon us. The rights of the Kurdish people of all regions cannot be denied any longer. From Turkey to Iraq to Syria to Iran, we are uniting as one people. Now . . .”

On a bridge, approaching blue and green and red lights, the railing broke. People fell into the shallow pool and bathed more in faint color than water: too minor a catastrophe to earn any wonder. I was swept across. First I saw the huge Kurdish flag hung against the wall of the Citadel. Beneath it stood the King with a microphone in his hand, gripped lightly, the way a crooner would. He was standing uneasily on the top of the cab of a black pickup truck. Goons guarded the truck from the crowd and two stood in the bed with Zoran next to them.

“Peace with our neighbors that we might all prosper. Peace among us. Safety for non-Kurds . . .”

I moved to a spot on the left, in the lee of a column, and stood about two feet off the ground, on its base. For the first time, I realized how much the temperature had dropped. The pickup blocked the gate to the Citadel, causing the crowd to swirl away like smoke blown against a window. The goons were not scaring anyone. The King of all Kurds might have been a street performer for all the attention he received. His speech was background noise, part of the wall of sound essential to prolonging the exhilarating sensation of fear and danger.

“I am ready to assume my rightful throne, my ancient seat, my legacy. Our former glory can be restored only with the restoration of our glorious kingdom . . .”

To the right of the black pickup, on a low cinder-block retaining wall, the red-haired TV star stood tall and faced her cameraman on the ground below. She waited until he signaled, then she tore off her scarf with a dramatic flourish and began talking. The soundman struggled against the jostling to hold the mike close enough to her. She gestured her frustration. The cameraman swung around to catch the King. The redhead was yelling at him, but he had sense enough to document the better performance.

Hundreds of shots tore up the sky. Floodlights beamed from behind me, toward the Citadel. The King was caught in the glare, and as he moved, the microphone cord wrapped around his ankle. He stumbled. Maya stepped out from behind Zoran in the truck bed as if to steady him. He signaled that he was okay and resumed his speech. She stared adoringly. I saw more faces turned toward her than toward him.

Bullhorns announced, in Arabic, that the crowd should disperse. I looked behind, into the spotlights, where Peshmergas in riot gear made their way forward over the bridges. The crowd squeezed toward the Citadel. The cameraman jumped onto the wall next to his star and kept his focus on the King. A line of Peshmergas in the rear fired volleys again into the sky. Flares went up and their bright, cold light drenched the faint colors of the fountain lights. The crowd had nowhere to go. The vortex swelled with frantic energy. Zoran scowled at the crowd. His hands went up, palms out, as if he could push them away. The pickup rocked. The goons jumped down. Maya reached toward her father, still talking, though no sound came through anymore. The plug must have been pulled.

The pickup toppled over. The King went down the way a statue does: erect, stiff. The crowd rushed into the Citadel.

______

I jumped into the back of the taxi. “Go. Go.” I spoke in a desperate whisper. Dark stone two-story buildings lined the quiet street in the old city behind the souk, just about a half mile from all the tumult. Dueling tailor shops faced each other across the road. They both featured headless mannequins sporting dark men's suits. A police cruiser came around the corner two blocks ahead and the headlights hit us. Both of us turned away from the light. I looked behind. The Asayish who had been chasing me appeared down the street. The driver started to put the car in gear. “No,” I said. “Wait. Pretend to sleep.”

I lay on the floor of the back, facedown, gun underneath me. I waited.

Footsteps. Men catching their breath. They spoke Arabic. “Oh, come on. Come on. Did you see a man running past?”

The driver apologized profusely, admitted to sleeping. “I cannot sleep at home. The children . . .”

The men ran on. After a minute, I asked, “Has the police car come past?”

“He turned around.”

I sat up and pulled five one-hundred-dollar bills and tossed them on the seat beside him. “If you can help me find anyone connected to the PKK, I'll give five more of these.”

The mirror occupied him more than the road. He turned south through a run-down section, then west into a large park. We were the only vehicle. A black monolithic monument stood guard. A long lake ran on the left, and to the right a fatter one was dotted with fountains. Erbil liked fountains. Headlights hit us. Then others came from behind. The cabbie did not wait to find out who they were. He stopped in the middle of the road and pulled the money from his pocket. I stopped his hand. “Keep it and go.”

“Do not tell them, please.” He got out and ran.

I ran in the opposite direction. I did not get far.

T
he hood smel
led of gas. Wherever we were smelled of rotting food. Cuffs dug into my wrists. I hung, my feet just barely touching the floor. The tall man's torture chamber must have been occupied. I was stripped down to my underwear and I was cold. My feet were cold.

Fariz was more offensive than the odors or the pain. His cultured voice grated like a steady siren. “Diyar is a terrorist. Your own government calls him a terrorist. Yet you do business with him. How do you justify this? What is your relationship?”

I did not answer through the hood. Someone cuffed me around for a little while, but it could have been much worse. “Can you see my breath? It's cold in here.”

The door creaked and slammed and no one answered, though they might have been there. They wanted what I did not have. That was the secret I had to keep. If I convinced them I was useless to them, they would want to get rid of their mistake. I wanted to extend our time together, though I knew I would like it less than they did. Again, Fariz spoke. “Why are you looking for Diyar?”

“You asked me to. I was trying to please you.”

Someone hit me in the gut with a stick. The blows were predictable, but each one held a surprise in its timing and location. The cold was worse. I did not want to give in to shivering, which would take over like an alien force once it turned on. Shivering on a mountaintop in Afghanistan came to mind, shivering in Big Bear, shivering in a closet the first time angry men came for Dan; I fought all those memories. It was easy to come up with sweating stories, but they did no good. The sun. I tried to bask in the light that shined on me.

“What are you and Diyar planning?”

“We're planning on finding out about you and Bannion.”

“How do you contact Diyar?”

Cold water drenched me. Don't shiver
.
Where was Dan? I needed him to tell me not to shiver. No, Dan did not give orders or advice. I needed an old story about the time he refused to shiver, no, refused to sweat, no, ignored the charges against him and eventually they disappeared, like this cold. But Dan was busy elsewhere. Tempting the devil. Reliably unreliable whenever you need him to be.

“Diyar is your partner. I heard you say this.”

“Bannion is your partner.”

“Diyar is a terrorist. You are a terrorist.”

I felt the tickle in an armpit and almost gave in to the shivering. The earth exploded and my body split, every inch spread out, fire covered me. Fire filled my lungs and gut. Freezing fire. The fire went out, but I still burned. More cold water and I was sure my skin was smoking and fizzing like a dying campfire.

“Did I ever tell you about my father?”

Fariz laughed. “Tell me about Diyar.”

“He's dead. He's having dinner with Diyar.”

The tickle again. The blast. My lungs came up my throat. My balls burst. I was in two dimensions, just a flat flash of lightning. More water. More sizzling. A door creaked open. A conference. A shadow moved in front of the light, and I shivered at last.

“Get out of the light,” I said. I sounded like an old man trying to read the small print. The figure moved, but the chill stayed. The hood came off. My arms went slack and I fell to the concrete floor. I kept my face to the light, though it blinded me. Someone put me in a chair. Feet shuffled. The door opened and closed.

Gill threw a towel. I was reluctant to rub hard, certain the flesh would peel off. As soon as I was done, I threw the towel at Gill and dove into him. I hit the concrete right after I hit him. There was no difference between the two. He lifted me back into the chair and threw a blanket over me. I took a look around the room. The floor was concrete and so were the walls. Above me was the hook I had been hanging from. Two fans were installed just below the ceiling on either side of the very heavy steel door. They swiveled enough to cover the room. There were no windows. Gill sat in a chair opposite me.

“Tell me where Diyar is and I can get you out of here.”

I understood then why Major Hensel could not find him. My bait caught the wrong fish. “You must be at the bottom of the CIA ladder to get a job guarding the King. Probably typecast you because of all the muscle.”

He did not answer. He did not move. “Tell me how you contact Diyar and you can leave here. We'll send you home. Anywhere you want. We need Diyar.”

We had been set on parallel paths: assigned to the King. Maybe he knew Bannion beforehand from his Special Forces stint in Kirkuk. Maybe there had been Maya infatuation, too. He repeated his demand for Diyar.

“It was you tipping off Bannion from the start. The SUV that first night wasn't following Maya. It was following me. Darrell White was your contact. He alerted you that an oilman with PKK contacts was in town. You're the one who took his call and told Bannion I was coming.”

“I told you I did a lot for them.”

“Why kill Arun?”

“He attacked me.”

I laughed at the picture of that pouchy little old guy attacking Gill. His insecurity was grotesque, festering behind the stolid wall of silence. “What could you be getting from Bannion?” But that was a wasted question, I knew. Bannion had the chests full of fake emeralds and rubies waiting to be loaded onto anyone's ship.

“Where is Diyar?”

“What does ‘DS' stand for in DS Security?”

“Who cares? Where is Diyar?”

“What does the CIA get out of this? Why kill the Prime Minister?”

“Diyar. How do you contact Diyar?”

“I would have to know why.”

“Are you always bargaining?”

My turn to use the silent stare. I could have told him who I was and asked him to contact Major Hensel, but I told myself that wouldn't work, that he would find out my identity but keep my whereabouts hidden. The truth was that I didn't want him releasing me and pretending we were on the same side. I was never going to be on the same side as Gill. I did not want any orders to the contrary.

He stood and took the blanket from me.

Before he got to the door, I said, “Hey, Gill. You better kill me. You better kill me here. Because if I get out of here, you're dead.”

Gill shrugged.

Two men in heavy coats entered; one held a bucket. The other one was Eddie, my pal from New Jersey, even more sheepish now. He met my eyes, asking me not to acknowledge him. I didn't see why I should. His partner poured ice water over me and any big ideas I had. They didn't stay to watch the show. Maybe they had other buckets to empty.

Don't shiver. I could have sat in full lotus and lost myself, but those fans were the enemy, the source of all my problems, and they had to be dealt with before any meditating took place. Standing on the chair and yanking at the fan did nothing. Lifting the chair and smashing the fan worked. The cover flew off. Sparks flew when I smashed the spinning blade. It bent and stopped. The chair was wrecked, too. I stomped on it to separate the two parts. Holding on to the two back legs, I moved over to work on the second fan. The door creaked and opened. I swung the chairback right into Gill. That hurt him. He yelled, but he kept coming. Another man came in behind him.

I measured them for another swing. Gill just stood in the middle of the room, next to his chair, waiting for me to make a move. The second man tried to slip around behind me. Gill yelled at him, “Get out of here.” The man hesitated. Gill repeated it in Arabic. The man left. Gill slammed the heavy door with a flick of his wrist.

I circled left, holding the chair fragment by the legs, and jabbing at Gill. He did not reach or lunge. I moved toward the other broken section and stumbled over it on purpose. Gill stepped in to take advantage. I hopped to the right and swung the chair. The edge hit him in the neck. I swung again. He ducked and his fist hammered into the back of my left shoulder. The force drove me into the wall. I swung the chair again. He leaned back to avoid it, but I let go and it clipped him above the ear. I punched him in the middle of his face and felt his nose crunch. He deflected my next punch with his forearm and hit me in the gut and then the jaw. My head slammed against the wall. I stayed there wanting him to try again. If I could make him miss, he would break his hand on the concrete. But he hit me in the gut again and moved in close and grabbed me. I kneed him in the groin, but Gill kept his hold. He was stronger than any man I had ever fought and he was well trained, too. I was finished. He slammed my head against the wall again.

______

Gunshots woke me.

The shivering started. The chair remnants were gone. I was slumped against the wall. Blood marked the spot above me. Very little of it came off the back of my head onto my finger. I figured it was frozen. The shots were coming from some distant part of the building. I hopped around for about two minutes, but the insides of my head were bumping against the skull. Just as I was about to sit again, the door creaked open. Masked men carrying rifles rushed in.

On the way out, I saw Fariz slumped in a hallway with a bullet hole in his forehead. I did not see Gill. Or Eddie.