Disclaimer wise, I don't know a word of Arabic let alone its grammar and I of course have no ownership interest in anything or anyone save for the word arrangement herein. Al-Hadith is made up. You'llnotice Doublewide and Mrs. B are absent for the duration and that's because I had too much trouble making up a feasible role for them and I'm lazy and this all about Sgt. Hotness anyway.Below is a mini glossary of terms used.
Abaya: an over-garment worn by some Muslim women.
Keffiyeh: a traditional Muslim headdress for men often held in place by a rope circlet called egal.
Maghrib: the 4th of 5 daily prayers recited by practicing Muslims in the afternoon.
Niqab: a veil which covers the face, worn by some Muslim women.
Salat: refers to the five daily ritual prayers (Fajr, Duhr, Asr, Maghrib, and Isha'a) that Muslims offer to Allah.
With only a quarter of the size of Baghdad, Al-Hadith was a double dog dare to any mujahedeen worth his salt. On the maps it seemed to be close enough to Mosül to reach it by car in a day or two but in reality, the tricky topography of northern Iraq meant that the threat posed by insurgents was erratic in rate of recurrence and utterly uninspired in methodology. In the end, remoteness had been a saving grace: it had allowed the city to remain more or less intact in the wake of occupation.
On the roads, car traffic was predominantly made up of outdated vehicles with a dash of polished, high end imports belonging to the scarce upper class and some military presence in between curfews. The better stretches of road were dotted with vendors, garden variety storefronts and torched billboards advertising fast foods, cigarettes and a variety of fruit juices of questionable origin.
It had been a long day for the five soldiers inside a hummer rolling back within city limits. Twelve hours of roadblock duty had been tedious and fruitless and the fact that the day was not yet over proved even more inhibiting. It was quiet inside the car sitting five and everyone reeked of each other's sweat. Pvt. Williams; slumped in the backseat sat up.
"Hey check that out," he said elbowing Pfc. Nassiri to his left. "Look at that plane. Look it, look it's going around in circles." Nassiri who'd been startled awake from an open-eyed nap managed only an unintelligible grunt.
"It's probably just waiting for a runway man. You act like this is the first plane you ever saw. Did they ship you out in a special boat?" Pvt. King said from his end of the backseat where he had been trying to shake sand out of his helmet without taking it off.
"No look man it's going down too. Look at that. First it was up by that little Arabic doodle in the water tower and now it's all the way down to the dude's face."
"It's just a matter of perspective," Pvt. Dumphy piped in looking over the glare of his glasses at the airport on the right. His hands left the wheel for a second as he pointed out the window for emphasis.
"Shut up all of you," SSgt. Silas interrupted in a tone a decibel under a scream. He followed the plane with his gaze for a minute until the air shook the flapping nylon windows. In a softer voice he added, "Smoke was right Dim. It lands in circles to avoid RPG fire."
His attention returned to the window and the bright yellow courier plane beyond it. Red lettering in bold type on the side of the fuselage read DHL. Traffic thickened slightly as the hummer began to overtake smaller, lesser cars. SSgt. Silas looked at his watch and then at the sun to confirm. The head of the fake, Baghdad Rolex affixed to cheap Velcro on his wrist was set to New York time. Maghrib salat was creeping up. With less than thirty minutes before the call for prayer, Pvt. Dumphy picked up the sergeant's subtle time check and put his foot down on the accelerator.
"Where is it we are going again Sergeant?"
"Well Dim since your curiosity bears an answer for a change, we volunteered to make up Brigadier General Mustafa Suqur Al-Sharani's personal security detail until a local arrangement can be made. He's Al-Hadith's brand new chief of police and Mustafa's five body guards got themselves blown up in Baghdad last week so he needs a stand-in."
"Something's rotten in the state of Denmark and it smells like Lt. Underpants is behind it," he said shaking his head. He had itched to correct SSgt. Silas' pronunciation but self preservation had kicked in on time.
"If he's such a high-roller why does he need so much help finding his own damn staff?" Nassiri asked.
"He didn't. He has already hired his wife's brother but intelligence wants to make sure he's kosher before Mustafa goes up in flames too. Elections are expensive and he won by a landslide."
It was Pvt. King who first saw the house they were looking for. The only identifying numbers on a tall whitewashed wall were painted to the right of an imposing iron gate, in crude strokes painted with tar. An eleven year old boy in modern western clothing smiled a gaping smile of perfect white teeth and motioned the car forward as he opened the gate to the driveway. Driving over the sidewalks to fit, Dumphy moved forth. Behind them a black Mercedes Benz blocked the alleyway and honked three times. Four pairs of hands moved four M4s to ready positions on pure instinct but nothing changed. The boy waved again and pointed a spot beneath an improvised carport.
The imposing black Benz, no older than the war itself roared down the short driveway and into an open garage opposite the hummer. Through the rearview mirrors, Silas, Dumphy, Nassiri, Williams and King watched enraptured while two heavily veiled women in extra conservative closed abayas with matching niqabs scurried out of the car and were herded into the house through a side door by the uniformed driver who had delivered them. The boy cleared his throat to regain their attention.
"Assalamu'alaikum," he said directing his attention to Tariq.
"Wa alaikum assalam," he answered.
"Peace be upon you," the boy repeated in accented but fluent English to SSgt. Silas. Met with silence he added, "you are supposed to say 'and on you be peace'. That's what I said to him and then what he told me."
"Peace be upon you," Silas said raising an eyebrow. Missing Tariq's warning the boy shook his head.
"I say that. You say the other one. It's a rule."
"We are looking for General Mustafa Suqur Al-Shahrani. Is he your dad?" Pvt. Dumphy cut in.
"I am Nadim. General Al-Shahrani is waiting inside." The second leg of his introduction was spoken on the move, leading them through a Moorish wooden door whose shape resembled a vintage keyhole. "Take off your shoes to come in please or I have to pay a fine from my wages."
The expression on Nadim's face was so well executed that each of the five men sat on the wooden benches alongside a larger, second door and slipped their feet into the proffered rubber flip flops that the boy laid out at their feet. Imposing from the ankles up, they followed Nadim down a tiled hallway which opened into a central courtyard of pavered stone.
"Wait for him here," the boy said with too much authority for his eleven years. Picking up his pace he cut around a three tiered fountain and disappeared into the house. "Don't look at his wives," the childish voice warned trailing off.
"Did he say wives?" Williams whispered. Behind him a curtain fluttered.
"Shut up Smoke," four voices responded in unison.
Pvt. Dumphy tuned his ear on the background noise in the house. Satisfied no one was coming he walked closer to the fountain and fingered the middle tier's rough texture. It looked hand carved and seamless and it was, having been commissioned a hundred years earlier from one very large block of natural stone. He walked around the octagonal base stealing furtive glances of the rooms as he moved. The living and dining rooms faced each other on opposite sides of the entrance hall and each room seemed to be accessible through the main courtyard. Long colorful curtains made of a rich gold fabric he did not recognize swirled with the afternoon breeze allowing short glimpses of what appeared to be a sitting room. He focused his attention back on the fountain as the tapping of a cane got progressively louder.
"Welcome to my humble residence," a booming male voice said in perfect English with a slight London accent and not a hint of irony in the inflection of 'humble.' "I hope Nadim has made you feel welcome," he added shaking hands five times from left to right. Affirmative nods and straight faces accompanied each handshake. To the far right, Nadim sighed relieved.
"If you show us where you want us to bunk down for the night we'll secure the house and get out of your way General." SSgt. Silas said sporting his trademark poker face.
"Oh no no no don't call me General. I am only Mustafa in my home, I am but Allah's devoted servant. Follow me please."
Allah's devoted servant negotiated the space between the courtyard and the living room with surprising agility for a man both his age and with his pronounced limp. He parted the curtain to reveal the lavish room beyond and pointed to two 'l' shaped sofas arranged around a Persian rug in the middle. Lined in dark, opaque silk the opulence of the sofas and the room itself was matched and perhaps even eclipsed by Mustafa's himself. His business suit was expertly tailored by one of those rare, gifted men able to disguise a gut until it gave the appearance of executive power. Even the red and white keffiyeh on his head seemed regal though their cut was standard. Short for a man, Mustafa had other means of commanding respect. He ran a hand through his thick graying mustache and took in his new personal security entourage.
"This house is built like a bunker Sgt. Silas. I fear my American friends overreacted in sending so many of you to help me today. There are motion sensors on the roof to deter anyone who'd want to climb in the hard way and of course only the one entrance which is electronically monitored at all times. All the exterior windows are high and narrow. We even have a state of the art sprinkler system," he said looking up. "Why I agreed to such nonsense I forget now, our kitchen is detached from the main house!"
"We'll still need to walk through sir," Silas replied.
"I understand. I'll give you the tour myself so you can meet my wives and the staff. They'll be preparing for maghrib very soon, as will I so we should get started." Mustafa leaned on his cane to stand up.
"Let us begin," he said clapping his hands. "You will notice all the rooms are accessible through one another although some of them only to myself sure enough."
They looked at the den off the living room first. Luxury was the constant through the General's office as well as the dining space where a table was already set for six. Mustafa led the way up the stairs and pointed into the bedrooms of each of his wives without setting foot inside himself. There were no windows anywhere on the second story and short of climbing on the roof, the entire floor could be secured from the stairs.
"This is more or less unofficially the women's wing if you will. It is very secure as you saw for yourselves," Mustafa prattled to no one in particular. "I'd appreciate it if your men stay on the first floor from here on in sergeant. They are easily upset, my darlings, by strange faces and who needs to upset a wife let alone four right?"
The unsettling cackle that followed his statement sounded nervous and flat. Again, they negotiated the stairs quickly and this time cut across a corner of the courtyard in tandem to reach one of the rooms they had skipped on the first walk-through. It was the only space where it was clear people were gathered, not by the noise they made which was nonexistent but by the shadows their presence reflected on the closed curtained doors.
"I'll introduce you to the women show you to your quarters for the night," Mustafa muttered jiggling the doorknob in his hand until it clicked and the door gave way.
He spoke to the women in Arabic, formal greetings, and motioned for the five men outside to come in when every head was covered and the shuffling in the room ceased. SSgt. Silas stepped inside first with Pfc. Nassiri bringing up the rear. Tapping each woman in her shoulder as he called their names Mustafa moved down the line.
"First is Raja and Zukia then of course Fatima and at last Jamila. Highest bride price in all Al-Basrah. Ever," Mustafa added with an unidentifiable lilt to his voice.
None of the women so much as stirred. They, in fact, stood still as statues draped in plain, black abayas keeping their heads tilted towards the floor and eyes averted even as Mustafa tapped each of their shoulders. It was the slight twitch of her right hand as the good general gloated that made Jamila stand out from the other four black blurs in the room and SSgt. Silas had been the only one close enough to notice. As Mustafa moved away dragging his cane on the carpeted hardwood floor, Jamila, glanced up. The look of daring defiance in her face was fleeting and so quick Chris Silas would later, staring at the ceiling fan unable to sleep, remember only her haunting green eyes.
That's part one then, slightly edited on this day mostly to fix a prayer time boo boo.