Black Storm (19 page)

“I am Major Yaqoub Al-Qadi,” said the older man. “Yaquob is the same as your English Jacob. So you can call me Jake.”

“Pleased to meet you. Jake.”

“It's a pleasure for us too, believe me. We've talked to others of your alliance. An Italian and another American. Pilots.”

“Am I being held by the army?”

“By an associated agency,” said Al-Qadi.

This sounded ominous, but they gazed on him so benevolently he dared to think the worst might be over. He tried, “Do you think I could have my clothes back?”

“Oh, no, no, we are still interrogating you,” said the
major pleasantly. “We find our clients cooperate more quickly if we show them how agreeable things can be when they work with us. We both have the same goal, after all: to keep you alive and well. Things can go well for you if you choose. We can feed you and clothe you, and hold you for return to your home and family when this war is over. Are you a family man, Dan? Are you married?”

Giving them personal information didn't seem like a good idea. He thought of Betts and Nan. No longer his; the way he'd lived his life had somehow made that impossible. But in a sense still his family. His mother, back in Pennsylvania. He hadn't answered her last letter. And Blair; not yet wife, they weren't there and might never get there, but the closest to it he'd come since his marriage blew apart.

He said, “I'm only required to give my name, rank, and serial number.”

The Iraqi shook his head. “Not a smart answer, Lieutenant. If we don't get what we need, you'll never see your family again. Which you choose is up to you.”

“No, it's up to you. Iraq has obligations to POWs under the Geneva Convention.”

“Only toward captured prisoners.”

“Well…that's me. I'm a captured prisoner of war.”

“No,” said Al-Qadi. When he gradually stopped smiling, he resembled Stalin. “Not yet. When
we
say you are a POW, then we will turn you over to the army and you will be treated under the convention. But if we decide you are a spy and terrorist, things will go badly. If you do not tell us the truth, you will be sorry you came to Iraq.”

“I've told you the truth.”

“I am very sorry, but you have not.”

Al-Qadi raised his voice, and the man whom till now Dan had not seen behind him went to the door and opened it and called.

Two more men, enlisted, he guessed, dragged a naked mass of blood and meat into the room. Dan stared
without recognizing him until Sergeant Zeitner lifted his head. His eyes were swollen closed and blood covered his chest. The sergeant had obviously been beaten much more thoroughly than he had. No one spoke. The stoves gave off a hiss only slightly louder than the assistant team leader's stertorous breathing. A bright red bubble swelled and broke at his nostrils.

“I'm sorry to say Sergeant Zeitner's account of your mission is at variance with yours. Who are we to believe? You or him? Or more likely, neither of you, since you are both concealing what you are really here for?”

Dan stared at Zeitner. His eyes peered out like those of a heavily beaten boxer, blinking slowly and leaking fluid or tears. He couldn't believe Zeitner had told them what UAT-12 was actually out here for. Had he lied too, made up a story? And then of course their fabrications hadn't matched. Good going, Lenson, he told himself accusingly.

He told the major, “His name's Jacob too.”

“Well, this Jacob is even more stubborn than I am.” The others chuckled. The major lit another cigarette slowly. “Sure you won't have one?”

“No.”

“Sergeant?”

Zeitner stared from under swollen lids. He noticed Dan then and blinked, raising his head a little as if to see better. His lips moved but nothing emerged.

“Sergeant?” Dan said. Zeitner didn't respond. He asked Al-Qadi, “Is he wounded? Or did you do that?”

“He was wounded in the battle,” said the major. “Actually pretty badly. Our soldiers shoot straight.”

“Can't you get him medical attention?”

The major got up and took a turn around the room, fingering his mustache. “Well now. Let us think about that. America has been bombing us for four weeks now. Many, many children hurt and killed. Who do you think should get medical care first? Him, or our children?”

“If you have a medic here, he could look at him. Maybe it wouldn't stop him from helping the children too.”

“I'm thinking about it. It might be possible. Tell me something, though. You say you are part of a reconnaissance team. How many men are in this team?”

He was about to answer, figuring that wouldn't tell them much; obviously it was a small unit, recon teams didn't move in force. But instead he caught the warning glance the sergeant gave him. It was just a microsecond of awareness peeping out and then slipping away again, furtive but saying as plainly as any speech:
Don't talk to them
.

Then he understood, and felt shame at his willingness to play. The coffee taste was bitter in his mouth. Zeitner hadn't bothered with games, or guessing what the Iraqis did or didn't know or would or wouldn't believe.

“He hasn't told you a different story,” he told the major. “He hasn't told you anything. He hasn't said a word.”

“No, he hasn't. But he will now,” said Al-Qadi. He spoke to the guard.

Dan didn't see what they did to the man beside him. He'd closed his eyes. He was a fucking coward, that was all. He just couldn't look. But he heard the screams. When they stopped he took a few deep breaths and forced his eyes open again.

“What is your mission, Sergeant?”

Zeitner said, in a hoarse but perfectly clear voice, “All I want is to start a Firestone station.”

None of the Iraqis spoke for a few seconds. Dan saw that though the other two officers didn't speak much English, or had not spoken it so far, they looked puzzled, as if they'd understood that. The major said, not taking his gaze off Zeitner, but speaking to Dan: “What is he talking about?”

“I have no idea,” Dan said. “He's probably delirious.”

“No, I don't think that's it. I think he's laughing at us. He thinks we are stupid!”

“I don't think—”

“You Americans think Iraq is a backward country. You think Saddam is a dictator, that we follow him through
fear. But Saddam is our father. We obey him because we love him.”

The major launched into what sounded like a rehearsed speech, walking back and forth and talking half the time to the portrait of Saddam. “Before he showed us the way, our country was weak and divided. Coup after coup. Worse than that: we were strangers to our inner selves. Our moral spirit was weakened by the Zionists and their friends the Persians and Kurds. Now it is strong, and therefore our country is strong. We are an advanced country now. There are no more rich and poor, like there were under the king. I remember those days very well. If you were not rich you were dirt under their shoes. Now every child is a child of Saddam. Iraqi citizens are proud to follow such a leader. I myself have fought for him against the Pesh Merga rebels and against the Zionists and the Persian invaders.”

Dan thought about answering, but now every word felt like a betrayal of Zeitner's stubborn silence. So he didn't. The major went on for some time, telling them how much Saddam had done in Iraq, how he had won victory against Iran despite America supplying the Ayatollah with weapons and cash. The others sat silently. A pencil was scratching. Dan saw the one on the right was the note taker. Every so often the major paused, waiting for him to disagree, but he didn't. He didn't speak at all.

Finally the major switched back to Arabic, then took his seat again with the others. There was a discussion; then one of the guards left. He came back with a blanket, plain olive drab wool, dirty, with spots of what looked like brown paint. He draped it around Zeitner's shoulders and stood back. Dan felt a shiver run over his own body, his icy flesh craving that blanket. Now that Al-Qadi'd gotten his defense of the Great Saddam off his chest and on the record, maybe he'd get one too.

The guard went over to where the stoves hissed. He came back with a gallon can, an unmarked shiny tin can. He held it up, and the major nodded. The guard
unscrewed the cap and poured a stream of fluid around Zeitner's head. It soaked into the blanket, turning the drab wool dark, like a dark collar around his neck.

Dan smelled it from across the room. It was kerosene, or diesel. Whatever they were using in the stoves. He couldn't speak as the man kept pouring. He told himself they wouldn't do it. It was an interrogation trick. Zeitner was moving his head around, blinking, looking down at the blanket as the fuel soaked in. He didn't look as if he understood what was going on. Dan wondered what they'd done to him before they brought him in.

Another enlisted man had come in with fresh coffee while this was going on. He gave the guard with the can a wide berth as he passed, and set the tray in front of the major.

Al-Qadi pulled the sleeves of his sweater down and poured coffee. This time he didn't offer any to Dan. He looked unhappy, as if he didn't want to be part of this, but he didn't look all
that
unhappy. More like someone who had to do a lot of it. He went over to Zeitner and tilted his head back. Looked into his eyes, then let his head drop back down.

“This one doesn't cooperate,” he told Dan. “But you will.”

He took out the lighter and flipped open the cover. He flicked flame and held it off to the side. Zeitner's gaze followed it. Dan knew from that that he was still there. The flame rose straight and clear, heat shimmering the air.

“Your mission here,” the major asked Dan. “Tell me now.”

“I told you, we're hunting Scuds—”

The lighter went down to the blanket. The flame played over the wet wool for a moment, then a blue flame curled up. It turned a smoky yellow as the wool wicked fuel up to it. It was only a few inches from Zeitner's face.

“There are no Scuds this close to Baghdad.”

“That's what we're here to find out.”

“I think you're an assassination team. Sent here to poison our wells. To kill our children.”

“No. We're reconnaissance. Marine reconnaissance.”

“Yet
you
are navy.” Al-Qadi looked down at where the flame had grown, expanding gradually out over the wool as it heated fresh fuel along its edges. It sent a wavering tongue up not far from Zeitner's ear. The marine must have felt the heat, because he rolled his head away; though he couldn't move it far. “Tell me again why you're with them. I just find it interesting.”

“I told you, I'm here to call in the air strikes.”

“When you find these Scuds.”

“That's right. Put the fire out!”

“But the marines must have their own means of calling in air support,” the major said thoughtfully. “I believe I have read that in the intelligence about US forces. Yes, I am sure I have. There must be another reason the navy is here. Something to do with the invasion.”

Dan said, “What invasion,” before he could stop himself. As soon as it was out of his mouth he understood what a mistake it had been. Each word he uttered increased their danger. He should not have spoken at all.

“He's badly wounded,” said the officer who was taking notes, speaking English for the first time. His accent was thicker than the major's. “Without medical help he will not live.”

“Get him some medical care. Then I'll tell you everything I know.”

“No, I think you'll tell us now,” said Al-Qadi. He sounded more interested than he had before. “Yes, I think you should tell us more about this invasion. An amphibious landing, is that right? The navy and marines are going to land in Kuwait and drive us out. Of course we are ready. But I wonder just what it is you don't want to tell us. Oh, I can tell there is something you don't want us to know. I have been doing this for many years, you see. You don't have to say a thing. I can tell just by the way
you are sitting. I can tell by the way you are holding your head.”

Zeitner began to move, jerking against his ropes. The chair rocked. The flames had moved around his head now. They were coming up all around his face. The fuel burned dirty, lifting a dark haze of soot particles and gray smoke. The air in the bunker, or room, or wherever they were, began to darken. The major and the other men watched, looking bored.

Dan thought then, I have to tell them. They mean it; they'll burn him to death.

No one knew they were there. They were totally and completely at their captors' mercy, and Zeitner wasn't going to talk. He, Dan, was the only one who could save them.

Then he understood. To tell them would save Zeitner, and perhaps himself. But it would doom hundreds, maybe thousands, of others. Marines and Coalition allies. Men who'd die if the Iraqis redeployed the Republican Guard from the threatened beaches to the southern border.

This was the hard edge that cut to the heart.

He had to let Jake Zeitner die.

 

WHEN THE
screaming ended, when the charred, blistered face stopped moving, Al-Qadi said something to the guard behind Dan. He heard the slide of metal on leather and a click. Then a shot cracked, deafening in the enclosed space, and he felt wetness and fluid on his naked skin, and smelled the sickeningly sweet scent of brain matter.

When he looked again, Zeitner lay still. The blanket was still burning. Most of the forehead had been blown away by the exiting bullet. He saw the glistening surfaces of brain and blood, the dark cavities of sinus before he looked away, back at the bored men at the table.

The major was talking on the telephone. The conversation was rapid and somehow muted, as if he was making
a report to a superior. He listened at the end, said, nodding rapidly,
“Nam, Sayidi,”
and hung up. He seemed to ponder for a moment, and one of the others asked him a question. He replied in a word or two, then looked at Dan.