Chapter 16 #2
“What are you carrying?”
To Ibrahim’s ear, the question had more menace behind the words the second time the guard asked it.
Judging by the way Azad stiffened, he wasn’t the only one that heard the change in the man’s tone.
Perhaps the headstrong youth’s initial inclinations had been correct.
Something was off with this sentry, but he was a single man guarding a desolate post in the dead of night.
Accidents were known to happen to such men.
Ibrahim leaned forward in his seat as if to see around Azad’s shoulder. In truth, the movement was a convenient excuse to allow his left hand to linger by the front of his ripped seat cushion.
Or to be more precise, the Tariq pistol secured beneath the seat cushion.
Ibrahim’s fingers had just touched the weapon’s cool metal frame when Azad grabbed his leg and squeezed. First his driver wanted to shoot the sentry on sight and now the youth had gotten cold feet?
He might never be ready to captain a truck crew alone.
Then Ibrahim saw what had attracted the Kurd’s attention.
Before, the empty concrete behind the sentry had stretched to a pair of abandoned structures.
Now, men poured from the two single-story buildings like ants from a disturbed mound.
Men who shared the sentry’s look. If Omar and his fellow border guards brought to mind old dogs—long of tooth, stiff of movement, with much barking and few bites—this crew reminded him of a pride of lions.
Lions on the hunt.
Ibrahim swallowed to cover the sudden dryness in his mouth and scratched a nonexistent itch on his leg. “We are carrying livestock and dry goods. On our return trip, we will have cigarettes and electronics.”
He’d considered lying, but the squad of fake border guards had swung the balance toward truth.
While the men were certainly geared up for something, they didn’t seem interested in his trucks.
Another convoy must be coming this way. A convoy that required a level of security beyond what standard border guards could provide.
Or secrecy.
Either way, Ibrahim and his vehicles were an obstacle to this plan.
Such an obstacle could be cleared in one of two ways.
He was hoping that his truthfulness would permit the sentry to deal with his unexpected presence and clear the obstacle in a manner that did not involve splattering his brains across his truck’s windshield.
The sentry held Ibrahim’s gaze for a long moment, seemingly oblivious to the activity behind him.
After a beat, he slowly nodded.
“The arrangement you had with the previous border guard has changed.”
“How?” Ibrahim asked.
“You must pay an additional ten percent of the value of your cargo each time you intend to move goods from Iraq to Syria. You will make this payment in person prior to reaching the crossing. After you make payment, you will be given a receipt to show the border guard. Understand?”
Ibrahim somberly dipped his head, fighting to keep his sense of relief from showing.
This man and his compatriots might know a thing or two about soldiering, but they had much to learn when it came to extortion.
He should have demanded a flat fee. While requiring Ibrahim to tithe a portion of his cargo was more lucrative on paper, in practice it would be much harder to enforce.
Who but Ibrahim and his men would know how much they transported each month?
Smuggling was a dangerous business and sometimes loads were lost.
The extra payment to whoever the sentry represented would be an inconvenience.
Nothing more.
“Of course,” Ibrahim said. “Where should I bring my payments?”
“The Directorate of General Security’s office in Ramadi. You know it?”
Ibrahim swallowed, not trusting himself to reply.
The DGS was to Iraq what the KGB had been to the Soviet Union.
Ostensibly charged with maintaining domestic security, the organization was Iraq’s version of the secret police and had put down numerous popular uprisings by kidnapping, torturing, and executing Iraqi citizens.
The DGS had undoubtedly played a large role in the Iraqi government’s campaign to eradicate the Kurds in the late eighties.
A fact not lost on Azad.
The Kurdish man stiffened.
“I know it,” Ibrahim said, squeezing Azad’s shoulder.
“Good,” the sentry said with a grin. “Don’t force us to come looking for you.”
Ibrahim nodded and the sentry’s smile widened.
Then the man stepped back and waved the truck forward.
For once, Azad kept silent as he cycled through the gears, leaving Ibrahim alone with his thoughts.
Paying ten percent of his profit to the DGS wasn’t just an inconvenience.
It might just end his family business. The organization was staffed with men to whom killing was second nature and whose appetites were insatiable.
This month, they might be happy with ten percent, but the month after that the tax might change to twenty-five and the month after that fifty.
To have any hope of surviving, Ibrahim would need another source of income.
One beyond the DGS’s purview.
Fortunately, he was now in the possession of something more valuable than his present cargo—information.
And Ibrahim already had a buyer in mind.