Jan coffey, p.20
Jan Coffey, page 20
He agreed. "We will take both of you there. And in Halabja we have contacts with some of the Iranian border guards. We will arrange for you to cross over when there will be the least trouble."
It was all too good to be true.
"Okay?" he asked in English.
"I want to say yes, but let me talk to them first," she told him.
He shrugged. "Firishte never asks anyone's permission. She is in charge. She does what she thinks is right. You should do the same."
"I am not asking their permission, I'm going to tell them," she told him. "But I do not want American helicopter gunships chasing us through the mountains."
He smiled. Fahimah noticed his top four teeth were missing. This close, she could also tell that the unshaven face hid old scars. He was a young man, but he had obviously earned his position of authority.
The Peshmerga forces had been around since the advent of the Kurdish independence movement in the early 1920s, following the collapse of the Ottoman and Qajar rulers who ruled jointly over the area always known as Kurdistan.
Being a Peshmerga, "those who face death," was a great honor, but it was an honor that was not easily won. The Peshmerga did not lead easy lives. Many fought and died young. Many had suffered brutally at the hands of Saddam's torturers. From what she had gathered from Ken's words and from what she read on Sutton's laptop, many of the Peshmerga had only left the mountains and their long decades of guerrilla warfare after Saddam's fall.
She started out the door, and he walked out behind her.
"I need to talk to them alone - as you wanted to talk to me alone - so they do not feel that you are pressuring me to do this."
He smiled again. "Baleh, Dr. Banaz," he said with a salute.
It was touching, in an odd way, to have so tough an individual as this young fighter be so respectful.
Fahimah crossed the road, weaving between the cars that were stopping at the roadblock security check on their way into Erbil. Both Austyn and Ken ignored their armed guard and met her in front of the van.
"What was that about?" Austyn asked.
"First, let's get out of here before they change their mind," Ken suggested. "We're so short-handed around here that no backup to speak of will be coming."
"There is no need for backup, as you say," she said to Ken before turning to Austyn. "Some new arrangements have been made for us."
She explained the reason for the stop and how Ahmad and others believed she was still their prisoner. She also told them about the offer to have Peshmerga fighters escort them to Halabja and from there to arrange for them to cross the border.
"That's crazy. We don't need their help," Ken said, stunned by her words.
"But we are better off with it," she said flatly. "The Peshmerga are worried about me. Considering my past treatment at the hands of Americans, they have every right to be concerned."
"I don't like it. I was given the task of taking you both to Halabja, and frankly, I don't-"
"Ken, this is nothing personal against you, but we will be safer with them than with you."
"How do you know they're not going to drive you into the mountains and cut your throat?"
"How many years have you been here?" she asked him quietly.
Ken looked over his shoulder, avoiding her gaze.
Fahimah spoke gently but firmly. "These fighters see it as their duty to protect the Kurdish people. You know that. They stopped us because they were worried about me."
"Yes, but-"
"Besides, you were taking us only as far as Halabja. We still need to find a way to cross the border. This man, Ahmad, will take care of that second leg of the trip."
Ken didn't say anything more. She looked at Austyn.
He shrugged. "You trust them. That's good enough for me," he said. "Did he tell you that he knows where Rahaf is?"
"He mentioned two of the camps where he worked with her," she told him. She thought for a moment. "Another thing. The last time I crossed the border, I was a teenager. There is so much that I don't remember. It will be a relief to have a guide who knows the area."
Austyn patted Ken on the shoulder once and went to the van to get their bags.
"You're still upset," Fahimah said consolingly. "I appreciate your concern, Ken. And I am grateful for your help. But Austyn is in charge and he does not seem to have a problem with this change in plans."
'That's fine. I follow orders." He shrugged.
He looked at Austyn and then kicked the dirt a couple of times with the toe of his boot. He finally looked up at her.
"So, will you come back with him or are you going to stay in Halabja?" he asked, looking a little like a teenager.
The realization was slow in coming, but she finally got it. Ken was attracted to her. Fahimah didn't know how she should feel about that. She couldn't really decide if she liked him or not… as a romantic interest, that is. Sometime during the past five years, all thoughts of this kind simply disappeared. She never thought anyone would ever look at her this way again.
"I haven't had time to think what I will be doing or where I will be going. Up to a few days ago, I would not allow myself to think of tomorrow or next week or the week after. And since my release, other matters have been pressing."
"If you decide to come back to Erbil, will you let me know?" he asked.
She frowned. "Pardon me for saying this, but you never answered Austyn's question about being married."
Ken actually blushed. "No. No wife."
"So you're not married?" Not that it made a difference, but Fahimah sensed that he was not being entirely truthful, and she found herself getting some enjoyment out of seeing him squirm.
"We're separated."
"Naturally," she said. "You are here, and I assume she is in the United States."
"No… no... We were separated before I came over here. It just works better this way, as far as benefits and all that."
"I have our bags," Austyn said, joining them.
Fahimah was relieved. She shook Ken's hand and thanked him repeatedly before crossing the road and allowing Austyn to make whatever arrangements he needed to make with the other man.
The peculiar feeling of having someone show this kind of interest in her tugged at something within Fahimah. The last time she'd actually dated someone had been when she was twenty-four years old and in graduate school in England. Her last offer of marriage had been when she was twenty-eight and teaching at the university. A Kurdish physician who worked in Toronto, and whom she'd never met, had asked for her hand in marriage by sending a delegation to her house. The delegation had consisted of his mother and sister, who was a student of Fahimah's at the university. Fahimah's answer had been no, and that had been the extent of her love life.
She was past that stage of her life, she thought, reaching the other side of the road and looking for Ahmad. She had another path to travel now.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Bagrarn Airbase, Afghanistan
Airman First Class Joseph Sawyer had yet to get a letter from his mother, but he didn't really blame her. A single mother, she worked two jobs to put food on the table. She just stunk when it came to picking husbands. Twice now, she'd been dumped with an infant and no child support or help of any kind. Still, making a mistake like that twice in her life, almost fifteen years apart, wasn't too bad.
Joe and his friend Ron Miller, members of the 455th Air Expeditionary Wing, came to Bagram together in the summer of 2006. The 455th served the Central Command Air Force, providing strike, rescue, survey and airlift capabilities to U.S. and Coalition forces, and they had been here since the beginning of Operation Enduring Freedom. They both shipped over from Goodfellow Air Force Base in Texas, where they'd met the first time. While Joe had left only his mother and his teenage brother back in Mobile, Alabama, Ron came from a very large family in northern New Jersey.
Naturally, Ron got mail almost every stinking day. Besides the almost daily letters, he got a care package sent to him at least once a week from his mother, or one of his sisters, or sisters-in-law, or some PTA people in his niece or nephew's school.
The Miller family's generosity was, of course, a sweet deal for Joe. Ron got too much of everything, and after he went through the gifts himself, he let Joe have first dibs on picking what he wanted.
Paperback books were a frequent gift, as were CDs and personal hygiene items. Cookies, Joe could do without. Even though they were homemade, by the time they arrived they were rock hard. Salsa and chips fared better, but Ron usually invited a whole bunch of guys over, and they attacked that food like a swarm of rats.
The bars of dark chocolate were Joe's absolute favorite. And since he'd included a thank-you note in with one of Ron's letters home, he could always count on his friend's family to add a few for him.
A couple of hours ago, Joe had seen Ron walking back to the containerized housing unit they called home, along with the four other guys in their squadron they shared it with. The housing units were better than tents, but they were nothing like what they had at Goodfellow back in the U.S.
When Joe saw him, Ron had another package under his arm.
Both of them were off duty this morning. Usually, they'd spend the time in the gym. This morning, though, Ron was feeling worse. He'd been fighting a sore throat for a few days now, but he never was one to go to the infirmary, and Joe knew better than to bug him about it.
The door to the unit was ajar, a big negative with all the dust in Bagram. It was as hot as summers in Mobile, but dry as hell and dusty as the inside of a Shop-Vac.
Joe went in, sure his friend would be feeling better. A care package from New Jersey always seemed to do the trick.
"Hey, Ron, you in here?"
The room was dark. The shades were drawn to keep out the unbearable sun, but it was still stifling in the unit. The fan wasn't running, which meant the electricity was out again… for the third time this week.
"Christ, it stinks in here," he muttered. "Ron?"
The way it smelled, Joe figured his buddy was using the crapper. At one end of the rectangular room, a faux-wood panel partitioned off the small bathroom. Six cots and built-in lockers lined the wall. There was no shower in these housing units; the showers were in a special unit down the row.
Joe's gaze focused on the open mailer sitting on Ron's cot. He crouched down next to it.
"Ron, you alive in there?" he asked over his shoulder. "Jeez, boy. You should get your folks to send you some of that potpourri shit. Man, you're killing me out here."
It looked as if Ron had already sorted through the box. New paperbacks were stacked against the wall. Joe's bars of chocolate were sitting in front of them, and there was an envelope in front of the chocolate with his name on it.
"Bless you, good people," he murmured, opening the envelope and reading the note. It was from Ron's mother, inviting him to stay with them when he and Ron came stateside for their two weeks' leave in the fall.
"Boy, you must have been adopted or something," he called to his friend, pawing through the items on the bed. "Your folks are too good to have birthed a shithead like you."
Ron's mother had sent cold medications - bottles of over-the-counter stuff, vitamins and samples of all kinds of things. Joe noticed that Ron had already opened a couple of the boxes of cold medicines and vitamins. The wraps and cotton balls were next to the carton.
Out of habit, Joe gathered up the trash. Being in the air force had turned him into a neat freak.
"Are you coming out of there?" he asked. The sealed package of chocolate chip cookies at the bottom of the carton was still untouched.
A piece of trash had been dropped back into the box, on top of the cookies. Joe reached in and picked it up. It looked like the wrapper for a Band-Aid, but it wasn't. He smoothed it flat between his fingers. The words Sample and Not for Sale were printed all over it. He read the back.
"'Reynolds Strep-Tester Home Kit.'" Joe remembered that one of Ron's sisters was a sales rep for a pharmaceutical company. "Huh! Good idea."
He pushed to his feet. It occurred to Joe that he'd gotten no response from Ron since coming into the housing unit.
"Hey, Ron. You in there, boy?" he asked, walking toward the bathroom door. The smell was horrendous.
Each unit had its own self-contained sewage tank, with water brought in through a flexible hose. One problem with these units was that the small tanks under each unit had to be pumped out regularly, and it seemed like every day one bathroom or another along the rows would back up.
Joe walked toward the bathroom. The door was cardboard thin, made out of some kind of pressboard designed to look like wood. He knocked on it.
"Ron?"
He tried the door. It wasn't locked. When he pushed, it gave slightly and then closed again. It felt like a weight was propped against it on the inside. Unless someone was in there, that wasn't too likely.
"Ron?" he called louder.
Again there was no answer.
Joe pocketed the trash and put both hands on the door. He gave a hard shove. The door opened a couple of inches and slammed shut. There was no doubt in Joe's mind that someone was leaning against it. Most likely, that someone was sitting on the floor, since the top of the door gave easier than the bottom.
"Shit, man. Open up. You need help?"
Joe stepped back and looked at the door. Moving across the small living space, he yanked open his own locker and pulled out a small mirror he had taped to the door. Going back to the bathroom, he put a shoulder to the door, holding it open at the top and sliding the mirror through the opening.
He angled the mirror and saw Ron on the floor, his head tipped forward onto his chest.
"Ron? Christ, Ron? Say something "
Joe knew the right thing to do would be to run out and call for help. Instead, though, he gave the door a couple of hard shoves. The fake-wood outer panel of the door buckled. Sliding his fingers into the opening and putting everything he had into the next pull, he ripped the outer panel halfway out of the door.
Punching through the inner panel was easier, and in a moment Joe had created enough of an opening to put his arms through.
When Joe touched him, Ron slumped sideways, his head cracking on the toilet on the way down.
"Christ, boy! What happened?" Joe didn't know where the extra burst of energy came from, but the next thing he knew, he was ripping the door off its hinges.
"What's all that racket in there?" a voice called jokingly from the doorway.
Joe recognized T.J.'s voice. T.J. lived two units down. "Get in here and help. Something's wrong with Ron."
Instantly, the man was beside him. A moment later, the door was lying on the floor by a bunk.
"Pull him out," Joe ordered. "Grab that leg.... Watch his head!"
Each man took hold of a leg, and together they gently pulled him out of the small bathroom.
"I never knew how goddamn heavy he was."
They laid him flat on the floor.
"What the hell...?" T.J. blurted out, immediately backing away.
Joe looked at Ron's face for the first time. His skin had a purple hue. There were raw, open sores on his neck, on his face. A foul-looking fluid was oozing from his nose and mouth. He smelled like a week-dead dog.
Even as Joe looked at him, the skin seemed to peel right off Ron's flesh.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Kurdistan, Northeast Iraq
Austyn was perfectly happy with the new arrangements. As he'd discussed with Faas Hanlon, he would need to put more control of the mission in Fahimah's hands once they reached Halabja. Traveling with the Peshmerga just meant the transition had started a little earlier than planned.
Ahmad turned out to be a better ride and escort than they'd had before. Two cars were taking them to Halabja. Four Peshmerga soldiers were split between the cars. The vehicle Austyn and Fahimah were riding in - along with two of the fighters - was an older SUV, a 2002 BMW X5, and much nicer than the old van Ken had been driving. This one also had working air-conditioning. The other car leading the caravan was an old military four-wheel drive that looked like it had risen from the ashes of some scrap heap.
Austyn had been told that one way of going to Halabja from Erbil was through Kirkuk. But because of the daily violence in that city, they were going from Erbil to Lake Dokan to Sulaimaniyah to Khurmal to Halabja.
Fahimah had translated for him that this was slightly longer but more scenic… and safer. So far, Austyn wholeheartedly agreed. The view was beautiful. The well-paved road snaked through mountains carpeted with touches of green.
His only complaint was the driving. If it weren't somewhat bloodcurdling, the entire situation would be comical. Both of the Peshmerga fighters liked to gesture with their hands as they spoke. There had already been a few instances of the driver talking and gesticulating energetically. They would be off some cliff by now if the soldier in the passenger seat hadn't reached over to hold the wheel or make an adjustment. He did it all calmly, though. Obviously, this was the way everyone drove a car. Luckily, there weren't too many cars coming along the opposite side of the road.
"What are they saying now?" Austyn asked, seeing the Peshmerga fighters smile as they talked.
The two sitting in front only spoke Kurdish, and they never seemed to stop talking. The man behind the wheel was older. Fahimah said he was the one who had told her at the checkpoint not to be afraid. Austyn liked both of them. They were very pleasant and polite… now that they knew he was no threat to Fahimah. Anytime they said something over their shoulder to Fahimah, they'd follow it with the word tarjomeh.. .which she told Austyn meant "translate."
"One is telling a joke to the other," she whispered. "I need to wait for the punch line."
The two men burst into laughter a moment later. Austyn saw Fahimah smile and shake her head.
"Tarjorneh, tarjorneh!" they both called to her.
"You need to realize that jokes in Kurdish are quite different than what you Westerners are accustomed to," she told him.
