Page 111 of Whisper
“Something’s off in there.” David squinted back at the prison, rising behind the tall brick walls. Concertina wire gleamed in the punishing sunlight. The American flag flapped weakly over the prison. “Something’s very wrong. Did you see the blood?”
“On the ground? Walking in?”
“In his cell.” David had leaned against the wall, standing on Kris’s right. He’d been able to see into Rashid’s cell at an angle, something Kris couldn’t. “On the walls. Close to the bars. Fresh bloodstains, and older ones.”
“From Rashid, you think?”
David nodded, once.
Kris squeezed his eyes shut. Zahawi, bloody, soaked, and screaming, flashed behind his eyelids. The shrieks, the sounds he’d made as he’d struggled. The way the blood had flowed with the water pouring over him. Red swirling in the water, like ink or paint, indelible confessions of what had happened, written on Kris’s memories for the rest of his life. Onto his soul.
“You think—”
“Something is very wrong in there.”
“The Geneva Conventions apply here.” Kris’s palms slicked with sweat. “The Red Cross, they’ve been to the prison. This prison. They’ve done inspections. It’s not happening again. It’s not.”
David stared at him. Even through his sunglasses, Kris could see his squinted eyes, his disbelief.
“We need to get Saqqaf. We need to find him, destroy his network. Put an end to his attacks before they spiral out of control.” Kris peered at the horizon, lost in a heat haze and the burning sand. Baghdad shimmered beyond, still and silent, but humming with a searing fury. He could taste it, between the diesel fuel and the rot, theeau de invasion. The smells of an occupier unable to provide for the nation. “This city, this country, is on the brink.”
“We need to talk to the Iraqis. Listen to them, and what’s really going on.”
The CIA was focusing most of its angst and anxiety on the region north and west of Baghdad, nicknamed the Sunni Triangle. Extra military units were sent to the region. Kris scanned the multitude of files, the military’s catalog of the region, until he found a name.
“Omar Abu Hussain. He’s a tribal leader outside Ramadi. He was named the local negotiator with the Marine Corps unit. Things haven’t gone well.”
They drove out that afternoon, heading west on Highway 1, the highway going straight through the desert to the Syrian border. They passed Fallujah, passed military checkpoints and slow-rolling convoys, until they reached Ramadi on the edge of the western desert.
Hard stares greeted them—long, lingering looks from men in checkered keffiyehs and billowing robes. One man eventually gave them directions of Abu Hussain’s ranch. They bounced along a dusty road until they pulled up to a low-slung dwelling of sandstorm-blasted concrete. Sheep roamed in a wire pen, chewing on scrub desert grasses. Few trees dotted his land, casting slender parentheses of shade on the baked desert ground.
A stooped man stared at them from the doorway.
Kris and David greeted Omar Abu Hussain with blessings, and he invited them in for tea. His wife and daughter, triangles in black robes in the kitchen, scurried into the backroom. Kris spotted his daughter peeking around the hanging carpet that divided the home.
“Please, Abu Hussain, will you share with us what you have experienced? What is happening here, with the Americans?”
Abu Hussain looked away, staring at nothing and everything. His eyes pinched. “The Americans don’t understand anything,” he murmured. “Nothing, nothing.”
“Please, tell us of your experiences.” David set down his tea and leaned forward. “Please.”
“Iraq used to be the center of the Islamic world. Baghdad used to be the home of learning, of science, of mathematics. This desert, this land, gave birth to language, to algebra, to astronomy. To law, even. Iraq, this land we stand on, is not just some land between lines on a map. The Americans, they believe that history begins with them.” Abu Hussain shook his head. “Iraq, the tribes that make this country, the families who have built this land, have existed for over six thousand years. But the Americans are undoing all of that.”
“What happened?” David spoke softly.
“Promises. There were so many promises. Life would be better after Saddam. But curfews! And roadblocks. Checkpoints. How am I supposed to deliver my meat and my wool to the market with these restrictions? I cannot travel in the morning when it is cool and when the meat can stay fresh. I cannot travel in a large truck, which means I cannot transport enough to sell to make a living. And no one can buy anything! The markets are bombed! No one comes out any longer. People go hungry and my meat goes bad. How can this country function if food cannot be brought to the people?”
“There was a protest against the curfew,” he said slowly. “It was peaceful. But the Americans…” His eyes squeezed shut. “They got scared. They shot at the protestors. A dozen men and boys were killed.” Abu Hussain’s eyes drifted to a picture hanging on the wall, a picture of his son with Arabic circling the frame and written onto the stark walls. “We tried, wetriedto keep calm. To not create problems with the Americans. Finally, we, as a tribe, agreed. We would ask the Americans to give us a tribal solution. They should paydiyya.”
“Blood money,” David whispered, nodding.
“Pay to support the families, we said. Pay to help them with the loss of their fathers, their husbands, their sons. Pay to help the families and to show them you mean no harm. That you are sorry. Pay so that the sons will not grow up to hate the Americans and turn to the fighters.”
“Did the Americans pay?”
Abu Hussain spat. “They offered. We refused. The amount they offered…” Tears filled his eyes. He cupped one hand over his mouth. “They offered a thousand dollars. For a life. Only a thousand dollars. We saw how little they value us. What they thought an Iraqi life was worth.” He rocked back, mournful prayers bursting from him.
David joined in, reaching across the carpet for his hand. He recited the prayers for the dead with Abu Hussain, bowing his head.
