II: Mohammed's Radio

The kerosene line was longer than it had been the last few days. As he headed towards it, an oilcan tucked under each arm, Sayid could see the people in the line murmuring about something, a blur of shifting, fidgety folds of cloth. He squinted against the Tikriti sun to get a better glimpse of the situation, closing in one the end of the line.

"No more kerosene, they say." Turning to face him was a fellow the same age as he, wearing a jacket that might have been fashionable in the West back when they were teenagers. Sayid recognized the man as a schoolmate and army compatriot: Ibrahim Mahdi. "They ran out. They say the next shipment will be coming in the following week."

Sayid's eyes widened, but he just nodded. Even smiled, though he didn't feel like it. It was best to be polite. "Very well. We'll just have to get used to a week without kerosene. It's happened before, Ibrahim. Republic Radio says that we're bound to – "

" – Suffer these indignities while the Westerners live off our oil, yes." Ibrahim paused, his eyes flicking away for a moment. "But don't you want to do something? I mean, shouldn't we do something?"

This was a dangerous question. To answer no would be a lie, and it would also probably get him in trouble. To answer yes would mean that he might get dragged into some scheme, and those days were past. "If you feel you should do something, Ibrahim, then it is your duty before God."

Ibrahim didn't seem pleased by the answer, but he nodded. "It will indeed be my duty."

That was worrying. He could see it all going badly right then, but he could say nothing against is friend. Everyone would notice, and that bore a distinct potential for harm to himself, if not Ibrahim as well. He lifted his gaze to the crowd to survey them, suddenly realizing that the other people in line had moved on to get their oil and the line itself had dissipated. They were alone. He could take the chance.

He hesitated, felt his arms grow tight around the oil cans where they rested against the flat surface, his hands curl as if in some preliminary means of self-defense. Ibrahim was still looking at him, now curious. Sayid leaned in, dropped his voice. There was no sense in taking unnecessary chances. "You will get yourself killed, Ibrahim, if you do something alone."

"Then I will be a martyr."

Sayid fought back laughter at that, took a better look at Ibrahim, sizing him up. Bookish, bespectacled Ibrahim had been the student against whom he had always competed as a schoolboy, and Sayid had been jealous of him when younger. The maturity that the ensuing years brought had made both first acquaintances and then fast friends, especially after combat, but Sayid had never been able to shake the image of Ibrahim as all too studious, and nowhere near martial or mercenary. He is not martyr material, Sayid thought, and although he felt badly for thinking it, he knew it was true.

"You may be a hero. You will not be a martyr. God does not demand this of us over a week's worth of oil. It is demanded it if we have suffered a loss to our persons or our families, and you have suffered no such loss."

"Then I will find a way to be a martyr, sadikie. You have helped me find one."

There was a certain calculation in Ibrahim's voice, but he couldn't quite identify it. He would have to watch his friend, Sayid knew, sizing him up. But what could he say? He grasped at straws, trying to find the words that would show his friend why it was not right to go out and kill Westerners.

"Ibrahim, you don't just – " Sayid began. He shook his head, started anew, but only repeated himself. "You don't just decide that you want to be a martyr against the Westerners. The world doesn't work like that. You went to college in Cairo too, didn't you? Surely you have more sense than a ten-year-old, or have I overestimated you?"

Ibrahim was silent.

–––

Republic Radio had always been popular in the province of Salah ad Din. As he moved through the Tikrit streets, Sayid could hear a broadcast from the radio drifting in from one of the sets someone owned in the marketplace. It was choppy and full of static, but he was used to that. Since the aerial attacks on the radio stations that the Westerners had delivered during the war, it was rare that they would get a broadcast that was either uninterrupted or wholly audible.

He stopped at a stall, finding it about to close. Perhaps he could get a better deal, for the food kept overnight might be less desirable the following morning. The shopkeeper seemed to be absent, however. Sayid would have to wait for a few moments for the fellow's return, so he leaned back on his heels to stay and watch for the vendor's return.

Three minutes. Five minutes. Nothing happened. Even a polite 'Excuse me?' cast to the alleyway that led back from the kiosk merited no reaction. And the more he looked at the food, the hungrier he got. Perhaps he could just leave the money with the food and go. It was not the most businesslike manner in which to act, but it would have to do. He pulled out his money, checking it to ensure he had enough, and then stepped around to the side of the kiosk.

At first, he thought that maybe the flies were buzzing around some spoiled fruit in the back. Swallowing hard to try and choke down the contents of his stomach, he leaned in, a bag of dates in one hand and his spare coinage in another.

They were buzzing around a body.

He would not shout aloud. Whomever had killed the shopkeeper might still be around. He had to make sure that the shopkeeper was dead, and that he could do nothing for him. His sense of ethics demanded it. Shuffling in a little closer, he toed at the body to try and turn it over, and found it surprisingly resistant.

The only thing he could think, however, was, I should have remembered how heavy a body gets after the person that was within it is dead. And then he hated the thought. It quickly disappeared when he saw the hole in the side of the man's head, amidst matted and blood-soaked black hair. It had been made by a small pistol, and he had been shot close to the head, from the pattern of impact. Bits of brain had leaked, squishy and soft and now beset by flies and worse.

Should he call the police? Certainly not, he thought. He did not know whom the shopkeeper was or why he had been killed. Perhaps the police had killed him, in which case he would do well to avoid being sympathetic. What should he do, then? If only the shopkeeper's relatives were here, or someone he could to whom he could hand the body off. He had barely said a dozen words to the man in his life, and now he was being charged with the man's soul and afterlife.

Anything for a diversion. Near the body was a small radio, and he was surprised to find it on. As he tried to figure out what he should do about the body, he listened in. "… possibility of attacks by rebel forces against the noble people of Iraq..."

Sayid almost laughed at that. Here he was, with a body at his feet, and the broadcasters, the Husseins' spoiled rich-prince friends, were telling him that he just might be attacked. No great prophets, they.

–––

He had left the body. It had disappeared over night. He was not sure why, to where, or by whom, but he figured it was best not to ask such questions. Receiving the answers might be more danger than he wanted to brave.

Home to read, then, and study up on the advances in mechanics. He had managed to inherit a couple of Popular Science magazines from an old university friend in Cairo, and so what if they were ten years old? He could still learn the fundamentals. Besides, it was good that they were American magazines, too. The more he could learn about the Americans' tactics and advancements, the better he could serve the Republican Army if it came to that. Maybe this time, he would get a position that did not involve interrogating childhood friends. One could hope.

They were talking about radio waves and communications in the issue that he hadn't yet read. That was good. Communications were his forte, and he settled onto the seat near his bookcase, flipping a few pages absently until he got to the article. It took a moment for him to switch his mind to this convoluted form of English, but not terribly long. After a while reading the articles, they had gotten easier to sift through. "As the ionosphere gets colder, the ability of short waves to broadcast lessens. Thus, short-wave radio broadcasts in a ionosphere affected by pollution or other diverse environmental conditions can be interrupted or suffer in performance."

Perhaps that was happening to Republic Radio. Sayid had to grin at the possibility, briefly envisioning an array of American politicians deciding just how cold they had to make the air around Iraq. It was an entertaining thought. It was a thought that he had better not tell Ibrahim.

–––

Uday Hussein's Voice of Youth radio was running broadcasts of popular Western music again, but he felt too old for that, even at merely thirty. Perhaps there was a clandestine station on which he could find something different. His finger dotted the search button, and he felt it quaver as he heard a familiar name.

"Ibrahim Mahdi is described as a hundred eighty centimeters, of a medium build and in traditional dress." Crackle, crackle. Static-laden as the broadcast was, it made Sayid nonetheless flinch and stare at the radio. "… the day after his uncle, a shopkeeper in Tikrit was found dead, Mahdi was rumored to have killed the local Ba'ath party official, blaming the government for his uncle's death. Such a clearly insane man will be dealt with severely when apprehended by authorities, but the government urges – "

"Caution." That was not his voice. It was Ibrahim's. "Do you leave the door to your apartment unlocked all the time, Sayid? You never know who can walk in through the door – or perhaps you were distracted. I wonder why."

Eyes wide, Sayid swung around to face the fellow. He saw the gun in his friend's hand. A pistol. That pistol. He could tell. "You gave me a good reason to be distracted," he tried for humor, smiling a little before he felt the grin fail. "You hope to kill the Westerners by murdering your uncle and the Ba'athists? There's a flaw in your logic, Ibrahim."

Ibrahim shook his head. And it all became clear: "I hope to kill the Ba'athists. Killing my uncle gave me a pretext. I had not expected to be seen in the commission of the second killing, and I certainly had not expected it to be aired on the radio, least of all so that my friend from childhood could hear it."

Friend from childhood? Sayid thought. Now was not the time to wonder about that, though. There were certainly more pressing concerns before him. "Then why are you here? Why come here?"

"To show you what I've done. So you can see what needs to be done." Ibrahim's fingers tensed on the gun; Sayid noted the shift in the grip from something extending towards him to something more clutching, as if he might throw the gun at any given moment. That's a strange grasp with which to try to shoot at someone.

"So you are not a martyr, but a murderer," Sayid said slowly.

"They are destroying us, Sayid." Ibrahim took a step closer. Sayid did not dare take a step further away. "They have destroyed you. You told me what happened with that girl, how you did not get shot by her and inadvertently allow her to escape. You said how you set that up. You were weak. They are weak. And you are reading," Ibrahim's glance took in the chair, the English writing on the magazine thereupon, the glossy cover, "American magazines. That shows how far gone we are. We need a return to Sharia, to Islam."

"We have Islam. We are a devout people. You know that. We merely do not have the extreme ways that – "

"GLORY TO GOD!"

Ibrahim's shout cut him off, and he could only stare, momentarily dulled into inaction. It seemed to happen in hours, but in reality he knew it was only a few seconds between the pistol's being lifted, planted against Ibrahim's head by his friend's own hand, a hand that was already shaking, and the reverberation of the shot in the tiny apartment. He staggered back from the sight before him, collapsing awkwardly into the chair as Ibrahim dropped to the floor.

He could not act. He could not think. He could only listen to the noise in his apartment, and the sounds outside, the commotion of shouts and sirens that was already beginning. As he stared in shock, the radio picked up on the next station. Over in Baghdad, Uday Hussein's station, Voice of Youth, was playing that song from Titanic.