“The mukhtar say a fatwa has been put on your Muslim soldier. For disturbing a wake. A death sentence fatwa.”
I knew what a fatwa was, though I’d believed only Iranian ayatollahs could issue them. The Cleric, whoever he was, had declared it on Ibrahim, Saif, and any of the jundis who’d unearthed the bones at Abu Mohammed’s. The bounty for their deaths was “large.” Why just them? Because the rest of us were infidels, Fat Mukhtar explained. “You don’t know any better. They do.”
“Don’t worry, Lieutenant.” Fat Mukhtar’s face rose into a fleshy grin. “There are thirty thousand, maybe forty thousand people in Ashuriyah. How many will listen to the fatwa? Very few. Your man has nothing to fear. You know what happened the last time an American soldier tried to be one of us. You will keep him safe.”
I thanked him for the information and staggered away, not sure whom I needed to alert first. Names cycled through my mind, though only one kept reappearing: Saif. I elbowed my way to the front table, a rickety white foldout. Saif sat in a chair behind it, counting out dollars and crossing names off a list. The fatwa filled my mouth like poison, but I couldn’t spit it out until the Sahwa guard being paid walked away. Behind Saif stood a ring of jundis and soldiers from my platoon, all armed. Dominguez, on the far right of the upside-down horseshoe formation, waved to me. I cut through a gaggle of midtown Shi’as in blue armbands and asked how things were going, trying to act normal.
“This? Bullshit, but standard bullshit,” Dominguez said. “Just another day in the green machine. I need to talk to you about something else, sir.”
“Send it.”
He looked to his left and right and dropped his voice. “This split-platoon shit is bad juju. Us in the day, we’re doing one thing. The guys at night? Totally different Iraq. I’m hearing things from the youngbloods.”
That goddamn word again, I thought. Even Dominguez is using it now. But it wasn’t Chambers’ word, I reminded myself, it was the army’s. So I just asked Dominguez to explain himself.
He shook his head. “You know, sir. Rumors.”
“You want to check things out? It’d be too easy to get you on a night mission, if you want.”
He furrowed his brow, chipmunk cheeks sagging. “No, sir,” he said. “That’s not what I’m asking.”
I said I’d check things out, more out of fear of Dominguez’s judgment than anything else.
“You’re the platoon leader. The head motherfucker in charge. Don’t let him push you around.”
In his own way, Dominguez was pushing me around, too. I walked away, exchanged knuckles with a few jundis, and took a seat next to Saif, now between payments.
“I’m thankful for your men,” Saif said. “They brought order. Arabs, we hate lines.”
“Fatwa?” I hissed. “A fucking fatwa?”
He rolled his eyes and called up the next Sahwa. “It’s nothing,” he said. “A scare tactic.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re used to this. What am I supposed to tell Ibrahim?”
He arched a bushy eyebrow soaked in sweat. “Whatever you think is wise, Loo-tenant. Things like this are why you’re here. You’re the officer. He’s just — what do you all call them? A young blood?”
I snorted and began plucking my eyebrows the way Captain Vrettos did when he became overwhelmed. I was losing control of things again. Meanwhile, Alia’s story kept tugging at me. And what was going on in Ashuriyah at night?
Saif counted out dollars for the last of the midtown Shi’as, a skinny teen in desperate need of braces. Fat Mukhtar and his khaki browns were next, a long, grim face with a flattop among them. Dead Tooth’s older brother stared at me, hard.
The skinny guard slinked away. I put up my palm, signaling the escorting jundi to hold the line. “Saif, I need a favor.” I’d made a decision. A couple, really. “Between us.”
He bobbed his head slightly.
“I need to know where Rana lives,” I said. “If she’s still alive. But it’s important no one else know.”
“I see.” Saif tapped his chin and considered. “My men need laser sights for their rifles.”
“And?”
“And Americans keep extras in storage, but only Iraqi officers get them. To find the sheik’s daughter, ten laser sights would be most helpful.”
“You serious?” Something like a wrecking ball crashed through my gut. “Those things are crazy expensive. What happened to being partners, not allies?”
He shrugged. “Even partners make trades, Loo-tenant Porter.”
“Three.”
“Five.”
“Done. But it’ll take me a week or so, my supply connection is at Camp Independence. You know I’m good for it.”
After a moment, he nodded. I patted him on the back and walked away from the table, fleeing the bitter, red-cheeked stare of Dead Tooth’s brother, now pushing to the front of the line. Saif motioned the next Sahwa forward. The Son of Iraq walked up with a reckless smirk, a need in his step that could never be replicated by someone who’d known a full stomach and a warm bed his entire life.
Once through the crowd, I moved up the stairs, tottering a bit. Rather than face the Mother Hajj and Pedo bin Laden, I studied the ten smiling children in front of them holding the tricolored Iraqi flag. All of them had two dots for noses, not unlike the disfigured girl on the Sunni Strip who worked at the falafel shack. Halfway up, the low roar in the foyer rose sharply. I turned around and watched a pair of midtown Shi’as in armbands push and shove with Sunnis in khaki brown; it looked like some of the Shi’as had arrived late and attempted to cut the line. There was shouting and fist shaking, and more Sahwas on both sides packed in close to join. I smelled the loose flesh of violence, all hot sweat and young rage, and fingered the ammo magazines in my pocket. Dominguez and two tall jundis stepped into the center of the throng and charged their rifles, restoring temporary order. Saif stood on the table brandishing a fistful of dollars to try to maintain it. From the center of it all, Fat Mukhtar laughed and laughed.
This is the legacy of Shaba and the sheik, I thought, in all its twisted, messy ambiguity. None of the Sahwa had been allowed to take a weapon inside the outpost, be they Sunni or Shi’a, sheik or guard, old or young. Allies or partners, I figured, would still have their guns.
At least we had meant well. Or something.
I continued upstairs and moved into our boxy, windowless room. Chambers was asleep in bed, resting for another night mission. I poked his shoulder and avoided looking at the black skulls on his arms.
“I’m coming tonight,” I said.
He smacked his lips. “Sure thing.”
“Awesome.” I breathed out. “Any idea what we’ll be doing?”
“Yeah.” He sat up and cracked his neck. “While you were talking to the cleaning lady, battalion got a tip from the Rangers. Passed along the location of one of Dead Tooth’s sleep spots. It’s raid time.”
My chest seized up and my mind turned to cream. He knows, I thought. How? Don’t ask. Don’t blink. He’s probing. Acting like he knows more than he does. Be cool, Jack, I told myself. Be cool. A raid? I don’t want to go on a raid. This is all Dominguez’s fault. How. Does. He. Know?
“Looking forward to it,” I said.
I turned away, hell-bent on getting to a Porta John to think things through. I was halfway out of the room before getting called back.
“One more thing, Lieutenant.”
I stayed in the doorframe, like we’d been taught to do in elementary school in case of earthquake.
“Drug tests came back today. Few guys pissed hot for Valium. Washington. Tool. Some others. Must be getting it from the jundis. Your buddy needs to rein in his boys. Busting them all down a rank, which means Washington loses his fireteam. You cool with Hog taking his spot? Kid’s fucking ready.”