Chapter 59
BAGHDAD, IRAQ
IbrAHIM watched as his crew finished inspecting the fleet of trucks that would be making the journey to Syria.
Part of him wanted to join the men as they topped off fluids, verified tire pressures, ensured gas tanks were full, and completed the countless other checks a driver should do before he attempted the six-hour one-way trip west across Iraq, but he didn’t.
He’d trained his men well and they completed their tasks as if they were second nature.
Even the newest members of his crew, the two Kurds, moved with a sense of purpose and carried their share of the work as if they’d been born in the Baghdad suburbs rather than the Zagros Mountains.
His crew didn’t need his help.
But that wasn’t the real reason Ibrahim stood at the front of his truck pretending to examine the map spread across the hood.
This wasn’t just another contraband run.
The nameless man’s lieutenant had paid him a visit last night.
This would be the convoy in which he earned back the satchel of money he’d paid the DGS.
That the cargo he’d be transporting was considerably more dangerous than anything he’d driven before meant that he more than earned the satchel and then some, but he knew better than to push the issue.
Besides, there was something to be said for being a person the DGS considered useful. Useful people didn’t end up in a dank prison cell.
Or worse.
So, while he was worried about his cargo, the contraband the DGS would be loading onto his trucks wasn’t why Ibrahim was anxious. No, his anxiety came from another deal he’d been working in parallel with his new business venture with Iraq’s intelligence service.
A deal with his friend Tareq.
If Ibrahim was able to honor the terms of the agreement he’d brokered during his last visit to the Syrian side of the Al Waleed border crossing, his reward for this trip wouldn’t just be lucrative.
It would be life-changing.
Unfortunately, this deal was now very much in jeopardy. Based on his last conversation with the nameless man, Ibrahim had anticipated having several days between when he was notified of the pending convoy and when he was expected to truck it.
Instead, he’d been given four hours.
Unless he found a way to tell Tareq that the timetable had moved up, his arrangement with the mysterious Syrian would be forfeited.
And perhaps more. Though he’d never had cause to experience it himself, Ibrahim got the sense that violence lurked just beneath the Syrian’s surface.
Would Tareq view Ibrahim’s bad luck as an attempt by the smuggler to negotiate a better deal for his information with a different party?
If so, what would that mean for Ibrahim?
Or his family?
Headlights played over Ibrahim as a car turned down the side street toward the warehouse.
He drew a pistol from his waistband. Up and down the convoy, his men reacted with similar caution.
Heads turned, hands were emptied of wrenches or shop towels, and at least two drivers ducked into truck cabs and emerged with AKs.
One of his warehouse’s main selling points had been the barbed wire–topped cyclone fence that ringed the parking lot.
Another was its isolation. The gravel road leading to the warehouse ended at his front gate and his was the only establishment on the thoroughfare.
Nobody ventured down the street unless they had business with Ibrahim.
At least nobody with honorable intentions.
The vehicle passed beneath one of the big mercury lights he’d positioned just in front of the warehouse’s entrance. Ibrahim got a flash of the yellow livery and relaxed. It was a taxi. Someone was lost. He was about to go back to his map when he heard Azad shout.
The Kurd waved at the taxi and whistled.
The car came to a stop.
The rear door opened and a man emerged. Azad gave another enthusiastic shout, which was echoed by Rizgar. The Kurds ran to the car and took turns wrapping the visitor in bear hugs as the cabbie motored away.
Then the trio turned toward him.
Ibrahim sighed and placed his pistol on his truck’s hood by the map.
He thought he knew where this was going.
“Ibrahim,” Azad said once the men grew closer, “please meet my cousin, Sipan.”
“Nice to meet you, Sipan,” Ibrahim said. “How can I help you?”
“I’m looking for work, sayidi.”
Ibrahim was taken aback by the man’s forthrightness.
Normally, the subject of employment was approached in the same bazaar mentality that influenced everything from commerce to personal relationships in Iraq.
Sipan’s directness was both odd and, at the moment, strangely refreshing.
Ibrahim had much to worry about and little time to effect change.
Forgoing the back-and-forth around the fact that Sipan was here for a job at his cousin’s invitation was very welcome.
“I can always use another good man,” Ibrahim said, “but this life is a difficult one and not without danger. Tell me, Sipan, are you comfortable doing the hard things that a hard life requires?”
Ibrahim prepared himself for a long telling of Sipan’s history filled with rhetorical flourishes and the usual embellishments.
He didn’t get one. Instead, the pistol that had been lying next to his map suddenly appeared in Sipan’s hands.
Ibrahim had been watching the newcomer the entire time, and even he wasn’t sure how he’d moved so quickly.
One moment he’d been standing with his hands by his sides.
The next, Ibrahim’s Tariq had levitated into his fingers.
Ibrahim should have been alarmed. Probably would have been alarmed had there been an opportunity for his brain to process what had just occurred.
But by the time he’d understood that the young man now possessed his weapon, Sipan had already removed the magazine, ejected the round from the pistol’s chamber, and field-stripped the gun.
“These recoil springs wear out quickly,” Sipan said, flexing the coiled wire. “You’re going to need a new one soon. Your barrel and slide could also use some oil. Other than that, it looks good.”
Sipan reassembled the gun just as rapidly before handing the weapon back to Ibrahim, pistol grip first. Ibrahim accepted the gun, held its comforting weight for a moment, and then placed it back on the map.
As much as the pistol felt good in his hands, he’d seen how fast Sipan moved.
If the young man had ill intentions, Ibrahim knew he’d be dead long before he could bring his weapon to play.
“Where did you learn to do that?” Ibrahim said.
Sipan looked to Azad, who dipped his head. Then he turned his coal-black eyes back to Ibrahim. “The mountains are beautiful, but unforgiving. For my people, guns are a way of life.”
Ibrahim nodded. Sipan hadn’t come out and said it, but he was basically telling his new employer that he was Peshmerga.
Ibrahim had suspected as much, just as he assumed that Azad and Rizgar weren’t just down-on-their-luck Kurds looking for work.
Still, his was a hard business that required hard men.
He let his gaze travel over Sipan, seeing him for the first time.
The newcomer was tall and muscular, with olive skin and shaggy black hair.
Though Sipan was of an age with Azad and Rizgar, there was a seriousness about him that the other two lacked.
A sense of purpose that gave light to the intensity that burned in his eyes.
The way he’d moved and handled Ibrahim’s pistol suggested a competence that went beyond the skills of the average mountain warrior.
Though Ibrahim couldn’t put his finger on exactly why, he couldn’t shake the impression that Sipan was a professional playacting the role of an amateur.
Everyone in the smuggling business was hiding something, but this young man was concealing more than most.
Still, his skills were undeniable, the Kurds vouched for him, and Ibrahim could always use more hard men.
“I’d be happy to offer you a place with me,” Ibrahim said.
“We’re about to roll out on a job, but we’ll be back in two days.
Until we return, there’s a cot in the warehouse you can use.
I’m sure you can find something to do. The trucks in the back could use their oil changed and the warehouse needs a good sweeping. ”
“Thank you, sir,” Sipan said. “It’s a very generous offer. I’m happy to clean the warehouse and perform any maintenance that’s required on your equipment once we return, but I think you need me on this trip.”
Ibrahim stared at the young man, who suddenly didn’t look quite so young.
The context of what Sipan was trying to communicate was simple—Peshmerga leadership believed there would be trouble, and the newcomer was here to help mitigate that trouble.
Ibrahim reflexively wanted to tell Sipan and the other two Kurds to pound sand.
This was his convoy and he would run things as he saw fit.
Except that it wasn’t.
The convoy had ceased being his the moment he’d agreed to allow the DGS to add their trucks to his.
In truth, that assessment was too generous.
He hadn’t allowed anything. Ibrahim had made a deal with the devil because he’d had no choice.
Salvation didn’t lie with completing this job for the DGS and collecting his payment.
He was no fool.
If this convoy was successful, there would be other jobs from the Iraqi intelligence service.
Jobs he would not be at liberty to refuse.
No, refuge for him and his family was dependent on the deal he’d struck with Tareq, but only if he could get word to the Syrian that the convoy’s timeline had been accelerated.
In a flash, he realized how he could do just that.
“That’s very generous of you to jump in so soon. You’ll take my son’s place. Please send him to me.”
Sipan gave a solemn nod. “As you say, sayidi.”
As the trio of Kurds walked over to the truck bearing his son, Ibrahim mentally prepared the instructions he was about to issue to his namesake.
There was a telephone number the Syrian had given him.
A number that could only be used once, and only for the direst of emergencies.
Tareq would still get his information, but it would be relayed by the younger Ibrahim rather than the elder.
And if this didn’t satisfy the Syrian, well at least Ibrahim would ensure that his son was far away from the danger shadowing this convoy.
Sometimes, that was all a father could hope for.