Chapter 16
AL WALEED BORDER CROSSING, IRAQ
IbrAHIM eyed the beckoning gates with the same sense of apprehension he always felt at this critical moment in his journey.
To the inexperienced eye, nothing about the border-crossing station seemed amiss.
The hour was late and the traffic that was waiting to pass from Iraq into Syria was minimal.
Ibrahim had dimmed his headlights to avoid blinding the soldier standing post on the Iraqi side, but the full moon shed more than enough light to guide his heavily laden truck.
In truth, there wasn’t much to see.
This wasn’t to say that the modern countries of Iraq and Syria had nothing to fight about.
In a turn of events that was hard even for a native like Ibrahim to comprehend, the rulers in Baghdad and Damascus hailed from rival factions of the same political party.
In the way of the Middle East, this meant that the peoples they governed were destined for conflict over slights both real and imagined, with each other and their neighbors.
Repeatedly.
Ibrahim’s father had perished in the 1948 Arab-Israeli War, while his uncle was lost during the Six-Day War, also against Israel.
You could say that fighting was the family business.
Until Ibrahim. After growing up fatherless, he’d resolved to turn his martial legacy into an endeavor that offered greater profit and longevity.
Smuggling.
For the better part of two decades, Ibrahim had moved goods and cash across the border from one nation to another.
Some years goods mostly flowed east into Iraq from Syria, while in others contraband predominately moved the other way.
In truth, Ibrahim wasn’t really concerned with who was fighting who on any given day.
This was the Middle East. Borders might come and go just as kings and empires rose and fell, but in this area of the world there would always be one constant.
War.
And where there was war and the shortages it provoked, men like Ibrahim could be counted on to fill the needs of a population held hostage by its ravages.
Now in his fiftieth year, he’d already outlived both his father and uncle, proving that smuggling was better suited to a long life than soldiering.
But that didn’t mean it was without danger.
“Where is Omar?”
That was a very good question.
Ibrahim turned from his contemplation of the road to his driver.
Azad and his friend Rizgar had both come to Ibrahim searching for work about six months ago.
The men were Kurds and looked to be in their middle twenties.
They were refugees from one of the mountain tribes that had made the mistake of testing Hussein’s resolve and then counting on the Americans for deliverance.
Ibrahim didn’t know the pair’s story, but their haunted expressions did the talking for them.
He’d hired both as drivers despite their Kurdish heritage and hadn’t had cause to regret his decision.
The pair were hardworking, courteous, and intelligent, but they were also young and as such afflicted with a young man’s propensity to act before thinking.
This was why Ibrahim was seated next to Azad rather than his own son, who was driving the truck behind him with Rizgar.
But his youth and relative inexperience did not make Azad’s question any less valid.
“Keep both hands on the wheel and let me do the talking.”
Azad glanced at Ibrahim before returning his attention to the road.
Now that the border crossing was just ahead, the stretch of concrete looked almost empty.
A large metal awning that was high enough for trucks to pass through unmolested spanned the road in front of them.
The structure provided shade for the border guards during the day, and shelter at night.
Omar, the border guard on shift at this time of the night, preferred to stay near the shelter, either in the small guard shack adjacent to it or next to the burn barrel.
He never stood post in the center of the road.
Unlike the figure currently backlit by the truck’s hazard lights.
Azad downshifted as he nosed the truck toward the figure, slowing their progress. Part of Ibrahim’s mind, but only part, noted the sound uttered by the ancient transmission and figured that this truck would need a new clutch soon. The majority was focused on the solitary sentry.
The sentry and Azad’s wandering right hand.
Like a striking viper, Ibrahim scored the back of the Kurd’s hand with his knuckles. The bony protrusions were large and swollen from years of turning wrenches and twisting screwdrivers. Azad yelped and shot an accusing glance across the truck’s cramped cabin.
“Both hands on the wheel.”
Azad’s dark eyes flashed, but he did as he was told.
His right hand grabbed the wheel, leaving the box bolted to the floorboards between them alone.
Ibrahim found himself admiring Azad’s resolve even as he reappraised when the young man would be ready to drive in a convoy absent a minder.
There was a time and place to open the lockbox.
The contraband hidden in Ibrahim’s trucks represented their livelihood and he expected his drivers to defend their cargo with their lives if necessary.
Bravery against Bedouins and bandits was to be commended, but brandishing firearms against border guards fell into another category.
Stupidity.
Especially border guards who were not what they seemed.
Unlike the sloppy manner Omar presented, the figure in the center of the road would have been right at home on a parade field.
His pant legs were tucked into polished boots, his shirt was wrinkle-free, and his beard neatly trimmed.
But it was his rifle that gave Ibrahim the most concern.
Whereas Omar’s rust-covered weapon would have put the AK-47’s legendary ability to fire to shame, no matter the rifle’s cleanliness, the guard’s gun was in pristine shape.
The scarring in the wooden buttstock and dull metal proclaimed that the weapon was not new, but it was well cared for.
This was the instrument favored by someone who actually might use the rifle for more than taking the occasional potshot at a mangy dog venturing too close to the guard post.
A professional’s weapon.
Azad followed the guard’s hand signals, brought the truck to a stop, and rolled down the window.
In another deviation from Omar’s posture, the border guard’s rifle was slung across his chest for easy access instead of over his shoulder.
Rather than reach for the rifle, the man unsnapped his holster, allowing for a quick draw of his sidearm.
Ibrahim swallowed.
He grasped for a second metal box, this one hidden beneath his seat. Unlike the one Azad had tried to access, this box carried something potentially more dangerous than a Tariq pistol.
American dollars.
“As-salamu alaykum,” Ibrahim said with a grin.
Light flooded the cabin as the sentry panned a small but powerful flashlight across the truck’s interior. The man’s other hand remained out of sight, presumably resting on his pistol’s grip. After clearing the truck, the flashlight lingered on Azad’s face before transitioning to Ibrahim’s.
After a long moment, the guard switched it off with a deep click.
Ibrahim blinked away the afterimages, his night vision ruined.
This was no border guard.
“Why are you here? The crossing closes at dusk.”
While this was true in theory, in practice the border crossing’s hours were more flexible.
Especially if a significant sum of American dollars was involved.
Ibrahim’s vocation was technically illegal, but for the most part was overlooked so long as the correct palms were greased.
His smuggling had even enjoyed quasi-government support during the days following the ill-fated war against the Americans, when sanctions had prohibited the sale of Iraqi oil and the replacement parts for the Soviet weapons and vehicles employed by the Iraqi military.
Today, his cargo of foodstuff and livestock was much less controversial, but the penalty levied for smuggling was not based on what was being smuggled.
“Sorry,” Ibrahim said with his most winning smile, “we were delayed in Ramadi. We’ve been using this crossing point for years and Omar was often kind enough to keep it open for us.”
The answer, while not an outright lie, wasn’t precisely true.
Traffic had been bad in Ramadi, but that wasn’t why Ibrahim’s convoy was pulling up to the crossing point now.
His arrangement with Omar had nothing to do with the border guard’s kindness and everything to do with the stack of currency that changed hands each time Ibrahim and his men trundled across the invisible line dividing Iraq and Syria.
The arrangement with Omar had been mutually beneficial, and he was hoping that this stand-in might be persuaded to reach a similarly beneficial agreement.
The sentry stared back at Ibrahim, his face blank.
Normally, there was a way of doing this. A dance between the two participants in which the guard expressed his amenability to payment and the trucker his willingness to provide it.
Not tonight.
“What are you carrying?” the sentry said.
Ibrahim breathed a sigh of relief. At long last, they were back on familiar ground.
With exaggerated movements, he folded down the windshield visor and caught the stack of papers pinned between the visor and the glass.
Turning, he handed the packet to Azad, who passed the bundle to the guard.
Ibrahim had considered adding Omar’s stack of dollars on top, but was worried that might prove to be too provocative.
Better to have the guard ask for the expected handling fee than presume.
Besides, the man was just as likely to decide that a bribe offered so easily was surely a gateway to more currency.
The sentry accepted the paperwork, but didn’t unfold the documents.
Instead, his bright eyes locked onto Ibrahim.