Barney exhaled nasally. This was how it always started. The pseudo-politeness, following by the punch in the face for emphasis. He heard the giant behind him move, cocking back for a flat-handed blow to the back of the head. He steeled himself.
“No need, Sucio,” the man said. “Not just yet.”
Barney could smell the big guy’s disappointment.
“Let’s skip the patty-cake, shall we?” said the man. “Instead I’ll ask, what are you doing here? Why have you involved yourself?”
“What’s the point?” Barney said. “Get on with it.”
“Here’s your situation,” said the man, walking around to lean on the front of the desk. “For irrelevant reasons, our friend Carl chose to make a contact outside our explicit circle, which was prohibited. No doubt he lacked the honor to conclude the deal which he himself negotiated; no matter — you are now involved. What do we do with you?” His voice had the same curious lack of inflection or accent that Barney had noticed over Carl’s cell. “Do we let you free if you promise never to whisper a word of this to anyone? Unlikely. Do we manhandle you and hope the damage serves to insure your silence? No, just look at you. Beating you up would do us no good although I think Sucio would enjoy aspects of it.”
“Carl is a shitbag,” said Barney. “He conned me. Do whatever you want to him and his accomplice wife. I just want out. I don’t care what any of you do. I made an error in judgment. I’m willing to pay for that however you like. But your operation is not in danger. I have no stake.”
“That sounds very ethical, my friend, but there is still the matter of Sucio’s cousin Jesús.”
“Mi hermano,” said the giant behind Barney, with a voice like two cinderblocks grinding together.
“Excuse me, his brother.”
“I was going back to the motel to set him free, once I found out about Carl. I’m sorry about the misunderstanding.” He noticed that the man, who had never introduced himself, seemed to have one lazy eye. Barney did not look at him directly all that much, but when he did, it was a toss-up as to which eye to follow. Bell’s Palsy, perhaps — the left side of his face seemed less active, which might account for the squint.
“It’s more than a misunderstanding, my friend. Jesús is dead. He bled to death, reading the bible. This is Mexico. I’m afraid it doesn’t look very good for you.”
“No one dies from a bullet in the ass.”
“Ah. But as I believe an autopsy will confirm, Jesús died from a brain hemorrhage caused by your other gunshot. I have a doctor working on that right now.”
“He shot at me first.”
“Mm. But Carl was not supposed to return fire, nor was he allowed to have anyone with him, much less an expert shot such as yourself.”
“I didn’t know about Jesús. It was an accident.” It was all Barney had.
“You do realize how that sounds?” said the man.
“Yes, but it’s the truth. You guys butchered Estrella just to leave a memo; you realize how that sounds?”
“Her actual name was Salvación, and she was recruited from a group that does not concern us.”
“Who was she related to? The other women you find to donate fingers?”
“Again, not your concern.”
“Listen — just get Carl and his black widow wife in here and they’ll tell you. Obviously you’re not going to believe anything I say, so stop playing the movie bad guy and jerking off with your little speeches, okay?” Barney was resigned to whatever beating or retribution was coming; it was the only way of staying level in the face of chaos.
“Unfortunately, that is not possible. Carl and his wife are on their way back to the United States. The proper funds have changed hands and our deal with them is done, which leaves you as a loose end. And there is the matter of Sucio’s brother, not to mention the difficulty you have caused by your uninvited involvement. They mentioned — that is, Carl and his wife mentioned — that you might actually have some value as a hostage yourself, that your government may be willing to pay for you. Your military record and so on. We are looking into that. In the meantime, I’m afraid you have no option but to remain here as our guest.”
Then Sucio hit him, hard, in the back of the head with what felt like an iron dictionary.
All of the lies Barney had lived by, all his isolationist maxims and misanthropy, his fables of a higher calling, the thin tissue latticework of rationalizations that he was somehow purer, better, more dedicated than ordinary humans, all the rules by which he had ordered his existence, were about to evaporate in the crucible of his pain.
Part Two
The Bleeding Rooms
A lot of grunts in the unit have heard of RICO statutes, but few of them know what the acronym stands for: Racketeer-Influenced and Corrupt Organization, which handily defines most of Iraq’s assorted Ministries — the Ministry of Health, of the Interior, Education, Water Resources, Oil, Labor and Social Affairs. The list goes on unto boredom, with each ministry more corrupt than the last. Untouchable by investigators and immune to prosecution thanks to militia support from Shia leaders, each formerly legal enterprise has been overrun by criminals and there is no operative difference between the terms “militia” and “gang.” It is like Chicago during the Roaring Twenties, but without the charm, the music, or the tuxedos.
(At least you had the security of knowing everyone around you was the enemy, said a small voice in Barney’s head.)
The majority of casualties to Barney’s unit have been the result of Improvised Explosive Devices — IEDs — which are left lying around with the frequency of litter, waiting for some stupid American in body armor to disturb them. Boom, and the guy who gave you a cigarette and lit it for you while sitting across from you in the Humvee ships home with no legs and half his eyesight.
Paranoia is not only rampant in the Sunni Triangle, it is wholly justified. You essentially cannot even go to the head without a buddy watching your six. Patrols are wired tight and your areas of safe movement are strictly limited by arbitrary (and sometimes illusory) boundaries. You shoot hoops with your crew, you have to designate one of them to watch for snipers because you’ve dared to be outdoors.
Sometimes guys just disappear. No record, no rescue, just sucked off the face of the earth as though they had never existed. The fear level acts as a practical version of the boogeyman.
You are either bored to within an inch of self-mutilation because of no action, or scared to death from too much. No middle ground.
The heat is a living, malignant thing. Even the climate seeks to destroy and demoralize you. You do your job while trying to ignore the sound of your eyeballs pan-frying in your skull, wait for your DEROS, and hope you do not lose any vital parts in between.
Virtually every long stretch of road is nicknamed a “highway of death.” The US forces in Iraq face the same problem the Soviets had in Afghanistan — lack of adequate security forces for travel or any kind of troop movement. Whenever a vehicle hits a land mine, eats an IED, or is taken out by an RPG, there is usually an insurgent with a video camera to record the flaming vehicles and dead or dying Americans and deliver it via the Arab TV networks to show the enemy is vulnerable. You need a whole armored division to adequately protect a road, and as long as the troops are there, nothing ever happens.
Until something does.
(Who ordered you to take a nap? said the voice in Barney’s head. Snap to.)