“We’ll pay you afterward.”
Abu Ahmet sat back, his heart aflame with avarice. That money, and what he’d already been paid, was more than most Iraqis would earn in their entire lifetimes. “Yes, it’s only fair.” Abu Ahmet stood and cracked the knuckles on a gnarled hand. “Maybe we can see those Americans you took at the power plant?” he half joked and immediately regretted those words.
Mukhtar froze for several heartbeats; then his face darkened as his eyes flashed with hate, tickling Abu Ahmet’s mind with old tales of djinn . “They are no concern of yours.” He raised a hand and slammed his palm against the tabletop. The slap triggered a bloom of fear in Abu Ahmet’s heart. “No more talk. You have work to do.”
The home of any respectable Iraqi sheikh is in two parts. Half the home is for his family, but the other half is for the tribe. The tribe’s room is a large, single room devoid of furniture but for a few garish couches and single-cushioned seats at the far end of the room. As sheikh of the al-Qarghuli tribe, Majid had the obligation, but never the privilege, to host men of his tribe. The meeting room couldn’t hold the nearly one thousand men in his tribe, but it could hold the two dozen older men and senior fighters.
Majid ran his hand over the gold-colored fabric of his chair. His fingers caressed the thinning fabric, worn down to almost nothing after years of gripping the armrests as he sat in and listened to his relatives bellyache about everything from crops, stolen sheep, and the poor state of the roads through their farms. The bellyaching was always worse in a large gathering like this, since the presence of an audience drove the speakers into fits of attempted eloquence. The occasional turn of a phrase in classical Arabic could liven up a gathering, but it rarely swayed Majid’s decision when holding court. His son, Abdullah, would point out the poor grammar and general ignorance of the attempts once the meetings were done and the room empty. Abdullah had attended a year of college in Baghdad before the Americans came, and that bit of schooling was all Abdullah needed to lord over the mostly illiterate men of the tribe.
Majid adjusted the gold-lined black robe he wore over his clothes and nodded along as one of his tribesmen spoke. The robe was the only official symbol of his sheikhdom and a constant irritant as he sat. He endured yet another complaint about the American lockdown. No one could drive produce to the Baghdad markets or buy fuel for the tractors; the crops would rot in the trucks before anyone could sell them. It was the same litany since the two Americans had been taken.
The tribesman finished his complaint and sat against the wall, squeezing between two men, who fiddled with prayer beads snaked around their hands and wrists. Another man leaped to his feet and cried, “The Americans! They brought their search dogs into my home, and now my wives say angels can’t enter the home for a week. My first wife is pregnant and—”
“Brother.” Sheikh Majid raised his hands, palms out to the angry man. “I know what the Americans are doing. I have been to their base every day to reason with Captain Shelton, but he can think of nothing but his missing men. It is the same as the last time the crusader Soldiers went missing. The Americans will flail about for another day before they exhaust themselves.”
“It isn’t quite the same, Father.” Abdullah rose from his seat next to Majid and addressed the gathering. “When the Black Heart Soldiers raped and murdered that girl and her family, the Janabi tribe took their revenge. That time the Americans found the bodies right away, and their mad search ended. No one knows where the Americans are but al-Qaeda.” Abdullah stretched his gangly arms wide, as though to hug the entire room. “No one in this tribe knows what happened to the Americans. No Qarghuli took part in the attack,” he said as a command, not
Abu Ahmet sat back, his heart aflame with avarice. That money, and what he’d already been paid, was more than most Iraqis would earn in their entire lifetimes. “Yes, it’s only fair.” Abu Ahmet stood and cracked the knuckles on a gnarled hand. “Maybe we can see those Americans you took at the power plant?” he half joked and immediately regretted those words.
Mukhtar froze for several heartbeats; then his face darkened as his eyes flashed with hate, tickling Abu Ahmet’s mind with old tales of djinn . “They are no concern of yours.” He raised a hand and slammed his palm against the tabletop. The slap triggered a bloom of fear in Abu Ahmet’s heart. “No more talk. You have work to do.”
The home of any respectable Iraqi sheikh is in two parts. Half the home is for his family, but the other half is for the tribe. The tribe’s room is a large, single room devoid of furniture but for a few garish couches and single-cushioned seats at the far end of the room. As sheikh of the al-Qarghuli tribe, Majid had the obligation, but never the privilege, to host men of his tribe. The meeting room couldn’t hold the nearly one thousand men in his tribe, but it could hold the two dozen older men and senior fighters.
Majid ran his hand over the gold-colored fabric of his chair. His fingers caressed the thinning fabric, worn down to almost nothing after years of gripping the armrests as he sat in and listened to his relatives bellyache about everything from crops, stolen sheep, and the poor state of the roads through their farms. The bellyaching was always worse in a large gathering like this, since the presence of an audience drove the speakers into fits of attempted eloquence. The occasional turn of a phrase in classical Arabic could liven up a gathering, but it rarely swayed Majid’s decision when holding court. His son, Abdullah, would point out the poor grammar and general ignorance of the attempts once the meetings were done and the room empty. Abdullah had attended a year of college in Baghdad before the Americans came, and that bit of schooling was all Abdullah needed to lord over the mostly illiterate men of the tribe.
Majid adjusted the gold-lined black robe he wore over his clothes and nodded along as one of his tribesmen spoke. The robe was the only official symbol of his sheikhdom and a constant irritant as he sat. He endured yet another complaint about the American lockdown. No one could drive produce to the Baghdad markets or buy fuel for the tractors; the crops would rot in the trucks before anyone could sell them. It was the same litany since the two Americans had been taken.
The tribesman finished his complaint and sat against the wall, squeezing between two men, who fiddled with prayer beads snaked around their hands and wrists. Another man leaped to his feet and cried, “The Americans! They brought their search dogs into my home, and now my wives say angels can’t enter the home for a week. My first wife is pregnant and—”
“Brother.” Sheikh Majid raised his hands, palms out to the angry man. “I know what the Americans are doing. I have been to their base every day to reason with Captain Shelton, but he can think of nothing but his missing men. It is the same as the last time the crusader Soldiers went missing. The Americans will flail about for another day before they exhaust themselves.”
“It isn’t quite the same, Father.” Abdullah rose from his seat next to Majid and addressed the gathering. “When the Black Heart Soldiers raped and murdered that girl and her family, the Janabi tribe took their revenge. That time the Americans found the bodies right away, and their mad search ended. No one knows where the Americans are but al-Qaeda.” Abdullah stretched his gangly arms wide, as though to hug the entire room. “No one in this tribe knows what happened to the Americans. No Qarghuli took part in the attack,” he said as a command, not
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