The Baghdad Secret Mission

PROLOGUE

Wow! the tall, slender school girl said, while looking at the smoldering Humvee. She looked at her father. She was actually a little taller of the two. He looked at her.

Shame, isn’t it, he said to her. Then looked back towards the wreck. To die so young so far from home, from mother and father.

It was 11 am on the morning of July 31, 2006. Two more US soldiers had just been killed by a roadside bomb. And the sun was rising rapidly in its blistering heat. The explosive blast had brought together people to look at the latest wasting of human life. Baghdad women and children gazed at the smoldering wreckage and the two unmoving soldiers. Men watched too, unmoving. Everyone was waiting for the Americans to come and clean up their dead mistakes. Little girls held the hands of their mothers. Young girls stood impassive. The tall school girl and her father stood alone, slightly apart from the groupings. She was quite young, not more than eighteen. Like the others, she didn’t seem afraid or horrified. Her dark-brown, serious eyes slowly swept the other observers.

Let’s go, her father said.

I want to stay a little longer, daddy . . .

He looked at her.

Don’t stay too long, he said. And don’t talk to any strangers.

She smiled at him.

I won’t . . . unless he’s tall and handsome.

He looked sharply at his daughter. Then smiled slightly, echoing in miniature her mischievous smile.

Just make sure he’s not married, he said.

So what? We’re all Muslims. I don’t mind sharing. I’m not selfish.

He looked sharply at her again. But then smiled. Nodding his head once, he turned and walked away, heading toward his place of business. The daughter looked after him, then turned her attention back towards the Humvee.

Excuse me.

The man standing close behind and to the side of her startled her by his voice. She hadn’t noticed this one. Where had he come from? There was more than a hint of dangerous mystery about him. Such concealed danger excited her, caused her imagination to come alive. He gazed at her, as though he was trying to read her thoughts. Was he one of the bombers? Or was he one of the undercover government men, trying to ferret out insurgents? His eyes gazed at her, then slowly swept the spectators. He seemed quite calm, but very much on his guard.

Then she noticed his hands. They were thrust into his pockets, but she could see that they were nervously twitching. So much for his assumed calmness. It was just a show, after all. But what was he nervous about? Of course, even if he were a government secret agent, his life was still in danger. And then she noticed beads of perspiration on his forehead, not likely just the effect of the morning’s heat. He obviously was working hard to keep up his façade of confidence. But somehow, she felt that he was not a coward, that he as well as anyone could face death if it had his name.

Yes?

He stood gazing at her, seemingly unable to make up his mind whether to continue his baby conversation with her.

I must continue! he finally uttered softly. Yes—why not? You seem an intelligent girl. You’re not from Baghdad originally?

Yes.

Really?

Are you taking a census?

Are you patriotic?

The girl frowned. "Of course. Aren’t you? Who isn’t? Or, maybe you’re not from Baghdad? Maybe you’re not even from Iraq. Maybe you had something to do with this," indicating the smoldering Humvee. She could just make out the two American soldiers slumped forward and down.

No, of course not, I didn’t have anything to do with this. Actually, I’m from Kirkuk. Don’t become angry with me. You would be patient with me if you knew what was at stake here. I would like to trust you. Especially since you’re a woman.

Because I’m a woman! She was flattered. Because I’m a woman? Why?

Because women and children are not scrutinized so carefully. He swept his eyes around again, and lowered his voice even more. I have some very important papers on me—tremendously important papers. They would make quite a bit of difference to the Americans in their efforts here. These papers really need to be delivered. You would have more of a chance for successful delivery than would I. What do you say?

She looked at him. If he were just testing her, if he were a terrorist looking for an excuse to kill more, she was a dead woman, if she accepted. But then, suddenly, she accepted. She smiled at him.

Sure. I’ll take them. What am I supposed to do with them? Hand them to the next American I see?

"That would be reckless. Keep them safe. Read the Baghdad Times. In the classified ads. Under ‘Personals.’ I’ll begin the ad by saying, ‘Looking for the ideal companion: A literary lady.’ I’ll give you directions in that ad. They’ll be cryptic, needless to say. I’ll try to do it tomorrow. If I can. At the end of three days, if I still haven’t placed that ad, that means I’m dead. Burn the papers, and forget all about it. Or you might be dead too. Got it? I would like to ask you not to read them, under any circumstances—for your own safety. What do you say? Understand? Got it?"

Oh, I got it, all right!

Be ready. Be careful. May Allah bless you and protect you!

What if I don’t hear from you, and I take the papers to the American ambassador?

I don’t think you could gain access to him. So it would be better for you just to destroy them. But use your own judgment. In any event, be careful, Allah help you!

I wish you good luck too.

May I live to have eight children!

If that doesn’t kill your wife . . .

He looked at her slyly, a mischievous slight grin on his mouth.

"May my future wife prosper, and may your future husband labor to provide you with at least eight children."

Heaven forbid!

Goodbye! He extended his hand slightly.

She took his hand. He held a small packet in that palm. She took the packet and immediately put it in her pocket.

He turned and disappeared into the crowd. She followed his departure with her eyes so that she could evaluate whether anyone had been privy to their interchange. She decided not. Not bad looking.

She turned and headed home. This time she wouldn’t wait to watch the Americans come and take away their mechanical and human wreckage.

But how could she wait for tomorrow to come?

Well, she would have to.

1

The young woman from the Humvee bombing looked up just in time to keep from running into her very best friend, Leila, who had been bustling towards her, overflowing with good nature.

Atoosa, you American!

Leila, you Yankee!

The two young women greeted each other lovingly, and momentarily blocked the entrance to Atoosa’s father’s little restaurant. The noun American was outrageous, to say the least. Both young women were as Arab as Arab could be. No one would ever suspect them, here in Baghdad, of being American, especially in their traditional Arab garb. Well, maybe in a badly-lit alley. And then, on the other hand, maybe not. In fact, even had they been wearing Western garb, and of course, Western meant American style, they still would have passed for nothing but Mediterranean. Leila, like her friend, was tall and quite slender, almost skinny.

Where have you been, Anglo? Leila laughed. I haven’t seen you since the last road bombing! Where are you in such a hurry to? You almost knocked me down, flying out of your father’s restaurant like that! Was he beating you? Did he catch you mooning with an American soldier? Huh? Tell me the truth now. It’s bound to come out anyway.

Well, Saxon, Atoosa laughed in turn, I’ve been where you weren’t! Good for me! My, but have you been gaining weight? Here you are, blocking the doorway to my father’s restaurant. No, he hasn’t been beating me, but he’ll soon be beating you, if you don’t move! Why are you gaining weight? Are you also feeling a little queasy in the mornings, hunh?

Atoosa took her good friend by the arm, and they began walking down the street.

No, I’ve not been queasy in the mornings, nor have I been gaining weight. But you seem to be thickening around the waist a little. And she felt her friend’s waist.

Not in the least! Atoosa laughed, knocking her friend’s hand away.

Well, where shall we walk to, Mrs. Bush?

Oh, let’s just walk, Mrs. Rumsfeld.

Whatever you say, Laura? How’s Georgie? Did he kiss you and make you cry yet?

Oh, he’s just fine!

But the very subtle anxiety that whispered out of her friend’s demeanor, in spite of her good humor was not lost on Leila. They had been the best of friends too long for that. And so she began digging.

Uh, you got a new boyfriend, maybe an American soldier?

"Would I tell you if I did? You’d advertise it in the Baghdad Times—"And she abruptly cut herself off, and in spite of her contrary attempts, a show of worry momentarily exhibited itself . . . but then was quickly gone.

What’s up? Leila asked.

Is something up?

Yes!

Really!

There’s something cooking on the stove, and we both know it. You’re not a very good liar, you know.

Oh! I’ll have to work at that. So I can be as good as you.

Leila laughed. Oh, you practice lying enough, you’re just not good at it.

"Well, not like you!"

Well, where were you rushing off to, when you ran me down and left tire marks across my poor body?

"Off to get the Baghdad Times."

You don’t mean you’ve learned how to read?

Atoosa took a swipe at her friend, who leaned back to avoid the soft blow.

Not at all! I just love looking at the comic section. Like you.

What’s the whole paper but one big comic section? What’s good old Chalabi up to these days? Same old tricks?

Well, you know Ahmad, he just can’t keep his little self out of trouble. He’s always on the lookout for temptation. He just loves succumbing.

Are Kakim and Barzani going to kiss and make up? What do you think?

I think Abdul and Masoud are both going to kiss Talabani, if he’ll bend over for them?

Eccch! Jalal would bend over for anybody!

Wouldn’t you?

They both laughed.

Well, what do you want a newspaper for? What’s there to read anyway, but the same old stuff, murders, bombings, raids, kidnappings! I’m ready to move to America.

To be murdered and raped!

"Well, I’d hate to be murdered!"

They both laughed.

Well, listen. It’s hot out, and I’m tired of walking.

Poor thing! I heard that the feet and ankles of old people swell up when they walk.

I just know that, if I’m a little tired, you must be exhausted, you are so lazy, you never do anything physical. Well, almost nothing physical . . .

I’m not the one weeping like a baby.

Well, here’s a nice little restaurant. Let’s go in. I’m a little hungry. And they have a more cosmopolitan menu.

You’re always hungry. And isn’t Iraqi food good enough for you? Sometimes I don’t think you’re even an Iraqi. I think you’re a Syrian undercover agent also doubling for the CIA.

Don’t give me away!

Maybe not.

I know that times are tough, especially since your father hasn’t been able to smuggle very many weapons lately. And she laughed at her own joke.

"Well, if your father would just pay his bills, my father would be rich! And I could marry a wealthy Brown and Root executive and go live in a mansion. And be next-door neighbor to Dick-head Cheney." And she laughed at her own joke.

Well, since you’re poor and I’m poor, each will pay for her own. A good woman practice. Let’s go.

And they went inside the restaurant. The place was fairly full, and so they wandered around a bit looking for a table, and tuning in to scraps of conversation as they passed each table, such as:

My God, did you see the latest bombing?

I did! It was a slaughter. I don’t know why the Americans don’t wake up.

It’s their officers. All officers world-wide are idiots.

That’s why they’re officers.

Everyone is a military expert, Leila whispered to Atoosa.

Of course.

Just then two older gentlemen stood up to leave.

Leila rushed toward their table guiding Atoosa slightly ahead of her. They commandeered the table and occupied it.

They took a deep satisfied breath and looked around. And then they ordered tea, and Leila also ordered a small cake.

"I just love their lokmas! They don’t skimp on the cream and eggs and butter like so many do nowadays.

Ooooh, you’re going to get so fat! Atoosa said. And then what American soldier will look at you?"

American soldiers will look at anything that they suspect of owning an opening.

Atoosa laughed. "Well, if you keep up eating sweets all the time, no one will be able to find your opening."

They both laughed.

Well, I’ll just have to give them a short lesson in Leila’s geography.

If they start from the top and follow your tummy line, they’ll lose control and slide down out of control and hurt themselves. They’ll have to be careful driving their Humvees there. And she laughed hard at her own cleverness.

Leila smiled good-naturedly at her dearest friend. Leila also was wearing traditional Arab dress. It was safer that way. If she had been wearing Western dress, one could see deep, rich, long brown hair framing a beautiful face, a face still shining with virginal innocence.

They both were essentially looking two Arab girls sitting there. They both were not flaming beauties, but they were beautiful nevertheless. Each had character and charm shining forth out of their sweet faces. Neither had cut her hair.

The tea and cake arrived. They poured out their tea and wasted no time tasting their fare.

Now then, Leila said, taking a connoisseur’s bite of her cake, let’s divulge our secrets since last we saw each other three days ago. Have you been in prison?

Of course not. If I had been, you would’ve seen me there.

That’s good they haven’t caught up with you yet. So, what have you been doing?

My dear, I have had a very exciting go of it.

The cake paused in its trajectory towards Leila’s mouth.

Really!

Really.

Yesterday morning, I got up at daybreak and prepared breakfast for the family.

My God! that is very exciting, isn’t it? And she took a good bite out of her cake.

Second unit of excitement: I washed all the breakfast dishes.

No!

Third unit of excitement: I prepared dough for the evening meal. Fourth excitement: I cleaned the kitchen floor.

Oh, stop! I can’t take anymore!

Fifth excitement: I cleaned the entrance to the house.

Oh, my! I’m getting close to being overly excited myself!

Sixth excitement: I washed the clothes.

If you don’t stop, I’m going to have—(and here she whispered after looking furtively around) a climax.

Seventh excitement: I sewed my littlest brother’s torn trousers.

I’m getting closer!

Eighth excitement: I studied my English lesson.

Oh, God! I’m coming!

Ninth excitement: I straightened up the bed-rooms.

I can’t stop!

Tenth excitement: my mother yelled at me.

No!

Eleventh excitement: my father yelled at my mother for yelling at me.

I’m coming! she whispered and leaned forward over the table.

Twelfth excitement: I yelled at my little brother.

Leila moaned softly in her feigned orgasm.

Thirteenth excitement: yours truly left her house with her father and went to our restaurant, but on the way, we witnessed a bombing.

Leila abruptly left off her feigned orgasmic moaning and sat up straight.

Did you see it? Actually? See it actually? Or afterwards?

No. We saw the Humvee come around the corner and, boom! It flew up in the air about five feet and came down and turned over on its side.

Were the Americans . . . killed?

Yes.

They paused. And sat quietly for a few moments.

I wonder if they had girlfriends, Leila said.

All American soldiers have girlfriends.

Do you think so?

I don’t know.

They were quiet again.

I’m so sad when people die, Leila said.

I am too.

No promotions for those two young men.

No homecoming.

No growing old and fat.

No chance to get a date with you.

The biggest tragedy of all.

I don’t want a boyfriend, Atoosa said. Just about the time I got so that I couldn’t live without him, he’d either be blown up in a bomb or kidnapped.

This is not the time nor place for love.

Love is dangerous enough in the best of times.

And here in poor Iraq, it is the worst of times.

We should get away from here. Go to America

If I had the money, I’d leave on the next airplane.

And I’d be sitting right next to you, Atoosa said.

We could wave goodbye in unison.

Why don’t you marry quick an old fat Iraqi and take his money and we’d both run off.

First of all, find me an old fat Iraqi with money, then we’ll see about the rest.

Too bad Saddam’s two idiot sons were killed. Maybe we could have married them.

They laughed.

Saddam for a father-in-law, wouldn’t that be an experience!" Leila laughed.

We need money.

Sell yourself instead of just giving yourself away.

You first.

They laughed.

Did you really see a bombing while it was happening? Leila asked.

Saw it all, from first to last.

Was it awful?

It was worse than awful. It was . . . It was . . .

I can imagine. She put the rest of her cake in her mouth and chewed it slowly in silence.

Oh, dear . . .

Maybe we could run away.

On camel-back. To where? Afghanistan? Syria? Iran? Saudi Arabia?

They both laughed.

Those places are worse than here, Leila said.

If possible.

What about getting a job with the Americans?

They won’t hire anyone anymore, Atoosa said, unless someone trusted will vouch for them.

No one will vouch for you? I will.

"Someone important."

We could turn in Howzakawi for the reward.

If we knew where he was.

I’m getting just about desperate, Leila said. That’s my position."

Me too. I’ve hung around this place just about as long as I can. I’m about to go crazy.

Well, why not? Leila asked. Why not join the rest of us?"

I’ve applied everywhere, I’ve answered every ad— . . . Suddenly, Atoosa stopped in mid-sentence, and her eyes got big.

What’s the matter, my dear?

The ads!

Oh, there’s never anything in there. I check them every day.

I forgot to check the ads today!

That’s all right. I’ve already checked them, nothing in them.

"I’ve got to check the ads right now!"

"Well, for heaven’s sake, check the ads!"

Atoosa started to stand up, to go out to buy a paper.

What’re you doing? Leila asked.

I’m going to go buy a paper, what do you think? In case you didn’t know, the newspaper ads are in the newspaper. Got it?

"Oh, thank you for that information! You know so many things! And you are so wonderful at teaching them to others! That’s it!"

What’s ‘it’?

Get a job as a teacher. You’ll rise to the top in no time!

Sure. Soon as I get my degree.

She started to leave again, but Leila stopped her.

"What is the matter with you, Leila!"

Don’t go out and spend your money on a newspaper. I’ll get you one.

With Leila tugging on her sleeve, Atoosa sat back down, as Leila stood up. Leila wandered among the tables looking for a newspaper.

"It’s got to be the Baghdad Times," Atoosa called after her.

"Oh, great! Sure it doesn’t have to be the New York Times?"

"The Baghdad Times will be fine, dear," Atoosa replied sweetly.

Leila spied a man reading the Baghdad Times. She went and stood timidly in front of him, that is, slightly to his side. Soon, he sensed her presence and looked up at her.

Oh, sir, she said timidly and with the greatest of diffidence, could it be possible that you might be finished with the ad section of your newspaper?

He looked at her for a moment. Then sorted out and handed her the ad section.

Oh, thank you, sir, she gushed. May Allah bless you with long life, and your family as well.

She turned and scurried back to her table. He watched her as she scurried away and even after she had sat down. Before sitting down, she handed the newspaper to Atoosa. Atoosa reached for it, but Leila snatched it back out of reach.

Oh, are we going to play games now? Atoosa moaned.

What’s the magic word?

Please.

That’s a good girl! And she handed the paper to Atoosa. See! I got the paper free. Saved you a little money. Now, with what you already have, you can afford to buy a package of condoms for your next lay, you slut.

Well, thank you! I’ll save the used ones for you. The men who appeal to you wouldn’t know the difference anyway. You slut.

I would really appreciate that. Just lick them clean, would you, like you usually do? You piece of loose trash.

Atoosa scanned the ads with great concentration.

Not here!

What’s not here?

You’re too young to know.

I’m mature for my age.

You probably won’t believe this.

Probably.

But I met this man. Young. Good-looking.

Oh, are you letting yourself get picked up now? You sleazy little slut! Can’t you keep your legs closed for even one day? You are so loose!

Oh, no, sorry to disappoint your prurient nature, you slut, but nothing like that.

Then what? You’re still a slut.

Here’s what happened, you slut.

And she told her friend the story of the man and his secret papers.

Leila sat looking at