Chapter 26
VICINITY OF AL WALEED BORDER CROSSING, SYRIA
AS always, Ibrahim’s contact seemed to appear from thin air.
One moment, the chair across the table from him was empty.
The next, a man was sitting in it.
He wasn’t much to look at. A slim build, dark complexion, and sleepy eyes. His clothes were neither rich nor poor and his Arabic bore the same inflection as countless other Syrians. Taken in sum, his appearance neither commanded attention nor provoked immediate dismissal.
He was an average man and thereby instantly forgettable.
Which seemed to be his aim.
“How are you, habibi?”
“Fine,” Ibrahim said, “thank you for coming.”
“Of course,” the man said with a smile. “I always have time for you.”
Like everything else about him, this was true after a fashion. The man, who went by Tareq, always did have time for him. This was because Ibrahim only reached out when he had something the man valued.
Information.
A waiter wandered by and Tareq ordered coffee and a sweet pastry.
The waiter looked to Ibrahim, who declined.
Life as a smuggler might sound adventurous, but it mostly consisted of sitting.
Hours and hours of sitting. While Tareq seemed to have no problems maintaining his trim waistline, Ibrahim could no longer consume sugary treats like he had in his twenties.
More than once, he’d found himself wondering what Tareq did to keep in shape.
He never asked.
There were some things he was better off not knowing.
Once he was sure the waiter was out of earshot, Ibrahim leaned forward. “I saw something on my last run that would be of interest to you.”
Though his face still wore a look of bored indifference, Tareq’s eyes told a different story. As always, they brought to mind a drowsing hound, but a familiar spark now burned in their depths.
“Excellent,” Tareq said. “Will the standard arrangement suffice?”
As was the case every time Tareq asked this question, Ibrahim had to battle the urge to renegotiate his arrangement with the sleepy man.
Ibrahim was an Arab and a smuggler to boot.
Haggling was in his blood. If Tareq had shared the same heritage, Ibrahim wouldn’t have hesitated for an instant.
But therein lay the problem. As much as Tareq’s appearance suggested otherwise, Ibrahim was not convinced his business associate was a smuggler.
Or even Arab.
Besides, Tareq was very generous even without the necessary haggling.
He always paid the agreed-to amount, and if he deemed the information especially useful, he included a healthy bonus.
Tareq had first approached Ibrahim with his business proposal a little over a year ago.
In the ensuing months, Ibrahim had met the man half a dozen times, and those meetings had been responsible for almost a third of his annual income.
Though it went against his instincts, Ibrahim had forced himself to be content with the payment structure.
He might be Arab, but he was also a smuggler.
In his business, one learned early the wisdom of not pushing your luck, or you quickly found yourself in another vocation.
Or worse.
“Of course, of course,” Ibrahim said. He paused as the waiter deposited Tareq’s pastry and found himself regretting his earlier decision.
Yes, he wanted to remain healthy, but what was life absent delectable pleasures?
Forcing his gaze away from the baklava, he locked gazes with Tareq.
“The guards manning the Al Waleed way station were Iraqi DGS.”
Tareq’s features narrowed. “How do you know?”
Ibrahim relayed all that had happened in a series of concise sentences. By the end of his story, he knew he had the other man’s attention. While Tareq’s droopy eyes and bland expression remained unchanged, the baklava sat uneaten.
“Were the Iraqi agents still in place during your return crossing?” Tareq asked.
“No. We came back the same time the next day with a load of electronics. Our standard border guard, Omar, waved us through.”
“Did you say anything about his absence?”
Ibrahim nodded. “In a roundabout way. It would have been strange for me not to have done so, since I pay this man each time we transit his checkpoint. I didn’t ask where he was or anything so obvious.
I just said that I hadn’t been able to pay him on my trip into Syria, so today’s envelope contained extra. ”
“Excellent,” Tareq said. “What did he say?”
“That he appreciated the extra contribution, but I was mistaken. He’d been guarding the crossing the previous evening as always.”
“Interesting. Any idea when the DGS officers came on duty?”
“I can provide a rough estimate.”
Ibrahim paused for a moment to take a sip of coffee.
Just because he wasn’t going to negotiate with Tareq didn’t mean he was above using dramatic pauses to underscore the value of certain information. He was, after all, still an Arab. After taking an overly long swallow, he set his coffee cup back on the table and continued.
“Many truckers fill up at the same petrol station prior to returning to Iraq. Drivers will often gather for coffee and to swap information about road conditions. Another convoy came through two hours after I did. He said that the border guards were back in place.”
“Fantastic work, habibi,” Tareq said. “Your payment will reflect my appreciation. Anything else?”
Ibrahim shook his head.
“Then I will leave you it. Safe travels and may Allah smile upon you.”
Tareq got up and melted into the crowd. Though there was nothing particularly urgent about the man’s mannerisms, one glaring tell suggested the information Ibrahim had provided was more than just idle gossip.
Tareq had left the pastry.