government buildings of Baghdad. I stand next to him and look down at the foam spraying from the propellers. Forgotten Christmas decorations glitter wistfully above the amusement park that we are slowly leaving behind. We have about ten minutes.
‘ Assalamu alaikum, ’ I say.
‘ Wa alaikum assalam, ’ he responds reflexively, surprised. ‘Do you speak Arabic?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘What would you like to communicate? It must be important if the Americans are sending representatives all the way to Stockholm.’
‘Satellite images from the day before yesterday. The Iranian fleet is positioned to blockade your traffic in the Persian Gulf. An artillery unit is moving into position for an attack on Baghdad.’
I look around and then hand the folder to my Iraqi contact. He nods and puts it in his briefcase without looking at it. Although we stand in the lee behind the ferry’s superstructure, the cold is clawing at our cheeks.
‘Is that all?’
The disappointment is plain on his face. No news for him. I shake my head.
‘There is one more thing. We’ve found five companies willing to sell what you want. They want to meet in Zurich in two weeks. The details are contained in the folder. I hope I don’t need to explain to you how sensitive this is?’
There’s another glint in his eyes now. This was what he’d been hoping for.
‘Chemicals?’ He restrains himself, but he’s interested now.
‘Think bigger.’
He nods. The distant lights of the amusement park are reflected in his glasses. I feel the vibrations under my feet.
‘We are indebted to you,’ he says at last.
I nod.
‘Don’t thank me. I’m just the messenger. And of course my political leaders will expect some form of compensation when this is all over. You can discuss that further in Zurich.’
We stand in silence. Let the thumping of the engine fill in the gap. If he’s freezing, his face—behind his glasses, his mustache, the heavy burgundy scarf tucked between the lapels of his camel hair coat—doesn’t show it.
‘As for the rest...’ he begins.
His eyes look out toward the south pier: the big red and white ferry, the city rising up behind it. Atoms of snow, compressed by the cold and as hard as grains of salt, swirl weightlessly between us. I don’t say anything, giving him the time he needs. Electricity jolts through me now, makes me crackle, makes the snow melt at first contact. The roots of revenge are electric.
‘Nobody knows anything,’ he continues. ‘Not us. Not the Syrians. Nothing.’
He turns to me and takes off his glasses. His eyes are warm, surprisingly naked.
‘Was it your family?’ he says.
I don’t say anything but I don’t look away. He knows anyway. All questions are rhetorical. But I have to see his eyes. I have to see straight into his eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ he continues. ‘Really. Especially since you’ve been so helpful to us. I wish I could give a more complete answer.’
I nod now. If he’s lying, he’s a master.
‘You know it doesn’t mean anything that I don’t have any information? You know our systems are more organic than yours? Fewer documents, you know. We have shorter, how shall I put this, decision-making procedures. It’s rare for this type of information to reach anyone outside of the innermost circles of intelligence.’
I nod again. I know all about the organic. All about decision making.
‘Someone sends out a signal, someone else passes it on to a third party. There are many stages.’
‘But there are always rumors,’ I say. ‘Always.’
‘Sure,’ he says.
A nod. A smile tinged with sadness.
‘But you shouldn’t listen to rumors, right?’
‘Only if that’s all you have,’ I say.
He says nothing. His gaze is intense, straight, seemingly honest. He stands like that for a moment. The small granules of snow are dry in his mustache, his eyebrows.
‘Sometimes it’s better to just move on,’ he says at last. ‘To leave it to God. Inshallah .
‘ Assalamu alaikum, ’ I say.
‘ Wa alaikum assalam, ’ he responds reflexively, surprised. ‘Do you speak Arabic?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘What would you like to communicate? It must be important if the Americans are sending representatives all the way to Stockholm.’
‘Satellite images from the day before yesterday. The Iranian fleet is positioned to blockade your traffic in the Persian Gulf. An artillery unit is moving into position for an attack on Baghdad.’
I look around and then hand the folder to my Iraqi contact. He nods and puts it in his briefcase without looking at it. Although we stand in the lee behind the ferry’s superstructure, the cold is clawing at our cheeks.
‘Is that all?’
The disappointment is plain on his face. No news for him. I shake my head.
‘There is one more thing. We’ve found five companies willing to sell what you want. They want to meet in Zurich in two weeks. The details are contained in the folder. I hope I don’t need to explain to you how sensitive this is?’
There’s another glint in his eyes now. This was what he’d been hoping for.
‘Chemicals?’ He restrains himself, but he’s interested now.
‘Think bigger.’
He nods. The distant lights of the amusement park are reflected in his glasses. I feel the vibrations under my feet.
‘We are indebted to you,’ he says at last.
I nod.
‘Don’t thank me. I’m just the messenger. And of course my political leaders will expect some form of compensation when this is all over. You can discuss that further in Zurich.’
We stand in silence. Let the thumping of the engine fill in the gap. If he’s freezing, his face—behind his glasses, his mustache, the heavy burgundy scarf tucked between the lapels of his camel hair coat—doesn’t show it.
‘As for the rest...’ he begins.
His eyes look out toward the south pier: the big red and white ferry, the city rising up behind it. Atoms of snow, compressed by the cold and as hard as grains of salt, swirl weightlessly between us. I don’t say anything, giving him the time he needs. Electricity jolts through me now, makes me crackle, makes the snow melt at first contact. The roots of revenge are electric.
‘Nobody knows anything,’ he continues. ‘Not us. Not the Syrians. Nothing.’
He turns to me and takes off his glasses. His eyes are warm, surprisingly naked.
‘Was it your family?’ he says.
I don’t say anything but I don’t look away. He knows anyway. All questions are rhetorical. But I have to see his eyes. I have to see straight into his eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ he continues. ‘Really. Especially since you’ve been so helpful to us. I wish I could give a more complete answer.’
I nod now. If he’s lying, he’s a master.
‘You know it doesn’t mean anything that I don’t have any information? You know our systems are more organic than yours? Fewer documents, you know. We have shorter, how shall I put this, decision-making procedures. It’s rare for this type of information to reach anyone outside of the innermost circles of intelligence.’
I nod again. I know all about the organic. All about decision making.
‘Someone sends out a signal, someone else passes it on to a third party. There are many stages.’
‘But there are always rumors,’ I say. ‘Always.’
‘Sure,’ he says.
A nod. A smile tinged with sadness.
‘But you shouldn’t listen to rumors, right?’
‘Only if that’s all you have,’ I say.
He says nothing. His gaze is intense, straight, seemingly honest. He stands like that for a moment. The small granules of snow are dry in his mustache, his eyebrows.
‘Sometimes it’s better to just move on,’ he says at last. ‘To leave it to God. Inshallah .
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