Chapter 38
RAMADI, IRAQ
IbrAHIM gazed at the single-story building through his truck’s windshield.
There wasn’t much to see.
A brown-brick exterior with deeper brown windows and stone accents. A sign out front announced that the structure was the home of a benign and instantly forgettable government agency of some sort.
That was a lie.
The building actually belonged to the Ramadi detachment of the Directorate of General Security, meaning the people inside were responsible for keeping the citizenry of Iraq safe from threats both foreign and domestic.
In theory. The reality of what the DGS did was much darker.
DGS officers had ruthlessly put down countless uprisings by imprisoning, torturing, or murdering Iraqi civilians.
Sometimes all three.
Ibrahim took a moment to assess his chances of leaving the building alive. In a nod to the desert sun, the unassuming glass doors were tinted a dark black, but this could be as much to hide what transpired inside from prying eyes as an attempt to keep the building cool.
He put his odds at fifty-fifty.
Maybe slightly better.
As with most Iraqi government officials, DGS officers were not above a little graft.
Ibrahim was a smuggler, which meant that his livelihood existed outside the bounds of what passed for the law in Iraq.
One could not work on behalf of the thriving black market and not expect to pay for the privilege of transporting illicit goods.
At first blush, it made perfect sense that he would be required to kick up a bribe to the local DGS contingent once his activities came to their attention.
In fact, as long as he made the required extortion payments in the correct amount on the correct date, it was in the Ramadi contingent’s best interests to keep him healthy and working.
Why kill the golden goose?
Except that Ibrahim hadn’t just bumped into a DGS officer who’d decided to extract payment after learning what was in his trucks.
He’d come across the border at the wrong time and witnessed something.
He still didn’t understand the significance of the DGS presence at the Al Waleed crossing station, but he knew one thing beyond a shadow of a doubt—whatever had been going on the other night had been meant to be kept a secret.
A secret Ibrahim now shared.
“Sure you want to do this?”
Ibrahim looked from the building to his driver. Again, he was riding with Azad, but his reasoning for crewing with the Kurdish man was different for this trip. Before, he’d wanted to rein in Azad’s impetuous nature.
Today, he was counting on it.
“No choice,” Ibrahim said.
“There’s always a choice,” Azad said, his features fixed in youthful certainty. “You could take what you’ve saved and disappear. I know people—”
“None of that,” Ibrahim said, talking over the Kurd.
He’d suspected that Azad and his friend Rizgar had connections to a Kurdish independence movement, but suspicion and certainty were two different things.
He couldn’t be forced to reveal to interrogators what he didn’t know.
“I will do what is required for the sake of my family and employees. But if I don’t return, I want you to help my son and his family hide. There’s money—”
This time it was Azad interrupting him. “I will take care of it. You took a chance on Rizgar and me. This is the least we can do to repay your kindness.”
Ibrahim nodded.
Part of him wanted to confess that it wasn’t just the goodness of his heart that had prompted him to provide the Kurds with jobs, but he remained silent.
What wasn’t known couldn’t be revealed.
Instead, he squeezed Azad’s shoulder.
Then he slipped the satchel resting on the floor between them over his shoulder, eased the door open, climbed down from the cab, and slammed the door shut. As he walked toward the building’s entrance, he saw his truck’s reflection in the glass.
He hoped it wasn’t for the last time.
“It’s all there.”
Ibrahim took another sip of tea, as if the pronouncement were of no concern, but this was an act.
He was terrified. The DGS officer seated behind the desk in front of him gave off an air of nonchalance.
In perhaps imitation of his country’s leader, he was dressed in an expensive-looking Western-style suit worn without a tie.
He could have been a banker or perhaps a minor government official.
He didn’t offer a name, and Ibrahim didn’t ask for one, even though the man looked about as dangerous as Ibrahim’s tea.
The nameless man’s lieutenant was a different matter.
He’d just finished counting Ibrahim’s money.
Twice. His stubby fingers had touched every bill, and his thick lips were in constant motion as he muttered sums under his breath.
The lieutenant wore a pair of fatigues that were absent patches, badges, or markings of any kind.
The uniform was a sun-bleached light green, and as with the pistol belted to the man’s waist, seemed to be both well cared for and well used.
It was the wardrobe of a man who was most at home when he was at work outside of the building doing whatever it was that DGS officers did.
Ibrahim suppressed a shiver at that thought.
“Excellent,” the nameless man behind the desk said. “Please leave us.”
The lieutenant placed the satchel on the desk. Then he snapped off a parade field–worthy salute, spun on his heel, and exited the room.
Ibrahim took another swallow of tea and settled in the plush, leather chair.
The tea was excellent—black, sweet, and piping hot. He tasted a bit of cardamom and maybe a hint of cinnamon. Ibrahim wasn’t sure if this was truly the best tea he’d ever had or if it tasted so good because it might be the last cup he ever enjoyed.
“You followed your instructions to the letter,” the nameless man said, “and you can be trusted.”
He tapped the satchel as if to emphasize his words.
Ibrahim didn’t reply.
Whatever was happening went beyond the stacks of dinar rubber-banded together in the leather pouch. Wading into a conversation with a DGS officer unprepared was the equivalent of attempting to pet one of the mangy but sometimes cute stray dogs that roamed the city streets.
The perceived benefits never outweighed the actual risks.
“Finding both of those traits in the same person is rare.”
Ibrahim set his empty istikin on its matching saucer, folded his hands across his lap, and asked the required question.
“How can I be of service?”
“Have you always been a smuggler?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever been caught?”
“I’ve never lost a load.”
The man smiled at the distinction, revealing a set of perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth.
“Where do you smuggle your loads?”
“Usually between Syria and Iraq.”
“Sometimes other places?”
“Sometimes,” Ibrahim allowed.
Lying to this man could be a death sentence.
As could telling the truth.
Better to listen much and say little.
“That money is not an insignificant sum,” the nameless man said, gesturing at the satchel. “Would you like the opportunity to earn it back?”
Ibrahim would not.
In fact, he would rather drag himself across broken glass naked.
“Of course,” Ibrahim said.
Another wide smile. Somehow, the man’s teeth looked even whiter.
“Excellent. Then this is what you must do.”
The longer the nameless man spoke, the more grateful Ibrahim was to be traveling to Syria next.
He and his friend Tareq would have much to discuss.