‘See for yourself,’ Jason said, moving over to Meat’s laptop and bringing up the side-by-side pictures. ‘Took these myself. Ran facial rec on them. Perfect match.’
Crawford sat rigidly in the chair and gave each image a critical, dismantling stare, his sharp chin protruding outward. Finally, he said, ‘Well fuck my mother. This raghead is supposed to be in Afghanistan.’
‘They were trying to move him through the mountains.’
‘Sure they were. Slippery bastards are probably trying to bring him over the border to his buddies in Iran. Shit.’ He exhaled heavily. ‘Heard you called in an air strike. You sure some of that gunk smeared over those rocks isn’t him?’
‘Negative. Called off the strike on his position. I saw Al-Zahrani run into the cave. I’ve got video of that too.’
‘And he’s not buried under all that stone?’
‘Already pushed a Snake through the rubble. All clear on the other side. So far, we’ve seen no blood or bodies. And one of the hostiles managed to smash the camera. We’re pretty sure they’re all still trapped in there.’
Crawford nodded. ‘All right, Yaeger.’ His covetous eyes stayed glued to Al-Zahrani’s digital portrait. ‘I need this fucker alive.’
And there it was, thought Jason - the colonel’s subtle jockeying for claiming the prize as his own.
Then in the reflection of the computer monitor, Jason caught Crawford staring sideways at the cracked-open ID badge casing and its extracted chip which Meat had left beside the laptop. He swore he saw the colonel’s eyes go wide with alarm. It lasted only a fraction of a second.
‘You should know that that’s no ordinary cave up there,’ Jason said.
Crawford stood up, squared his shoulders and crossed his arms tight across his chest. ‘How so?’
Jason told him about the blown-out security door and the strange images carved into the entry tunnel’s wall. For now, he refrained from telling him about the ID badge they’d found - a calculated, risky move.
Crawford took fifteen seconds to mull the facts. Then he said, ‘All right, Yaeger. I get it. So what do you say we go ahead and plunge this toilet?’
13
Thirty kilometres south of the cave, the Blackhawk glided over a lush plain framed by the Goyzha, Azmir, Glazarda and Piramagrun mountains. Hazo peered out the fuselage window to Kurdistan’s economic hub, As Sulaymaniyah. The city was a dense wheel of three- and four-storey buildings, spoked with roadways. He mused how from the air, he could see satellite dishes on practically every rooftop. Kurds loved their television, he thought.
Instead of heading for the international airport a few kilometres to the west, the pilot eased to a hover along Highway 4 and set the chopper down in a vacant parking lot. At the far end of the lot, Hazo spotted the Humvee escort the copilot had arranged while en route. Two severe-looking US marines in desert fatigues and mirrored sunglasses stood in wait, each clutching an M-16.
The pilot killed the turbine and the blades wound down.
The copilot assisted Hazo out from the chopper. As he escorted him to the Humvee, he asked, ‘How long will you be in Suly?’
‘Maybe forty minutes,’ Hazo yelled.
‘We’ll wait here.’ A thumbs-up and the copilot trotted back to the Blackhawk.
Hazo jumped into the Humvee with his two chaperones and provided them with the name of a restaurant located in the city centre, off Sulaymaniyah Circle. Hazo was not surprised that the marines knew its precise location. The restaurant was a hotspot for tourists and US military, thanks in part to its central location and fine Middle Eastern cuisine, but more so for its immaculate bathrooms and chic Arabian decor, which appealed to finicky Americans and Europeans. The marines got chummy when Hazo told them that the jovial proprietor and restaurant’s namesake, Karsaz, was his cousin.
The Humvee zoomed through the busy streets, its massive tyres humming along the potholed pavement. The marines gave Hazo some moist towelettes so he could scrub his grungy face and hands, and blot the blood spatter off his sleeve. He did his best to pat the sand and dirt from his pants.
Hazo was delivered to the restaurant’s doorstep in less than ten minutes. He hopped out and made his way into the foyer, where he was immediately overtaken by the heavenly redolence of cumin, mint, frankincense and rich tobacco. From behind a podium, a pretty hostess in a shiny taffeta dress glanced out the door to the idling Humvee then gave his attire a disapproving once-over. She offered a cautious greeting.
Hazo told her he’d come to speak with his cousin. She perked up and rounded the podium. Threading her arm through his, she proceeded to take him through a pointed archway leading off the main dining room and into the sumptuous hookah lounge.
Arabian-style arches set atop honey marble columns separated a dozen cosy seating areas adorned with Persian rugs, silk ceiling swags, and ornate Moroccan lamps set to a warm glow. Patrons lounged on plush floor cushions, puffing dreamily from hookah pipes. This was their safe zone, he thought - the womb where war and economic chaos had no place. Towards the rear of the lounge, they found Karsaz among a group of young Americans in business suits, talking in his animated, mayoral style.
The hostess led him to the service bar at the room’s centre. ‘Just a moment. I will tell him you are here.’
She walked over to Karsaz and waited patiently with hands folded behind her back until the rotund, moustached owner addressed her. She pointed in Hazo’s direction. When Karsaz made eye contact with Hazo, his face brightened. After telling the waitress to bring his guests a complimentary dessert, he hurried over to Hazo with hands spread wide.
‘
‘
‘Things are good, thank God,’ he boasted. ‘My cousin, why do you wait so long to come and see me! Are we not family?’
Hazo gave a boyish shrug.
‘You look like hell,’ Karsaz teased.
‘And you still need to lose weight,’ Hazo jabbed back.
Karsaz burst out laughing. ‘This is true! So true! My wife, she tells me this every day.’ He hooked a heavy arm over Hazo’s shoulder and held him tight. He swept his hand over the lounge. ‘How do you like this, eh? Finally we finished the renovations.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ Hazo replied truthfully. ‘You are a blessed man.’
‘Yes. I’m very happy with this.’ He gave another affectionate squeeze with his arm. ‘Come, let us sit and talk.’
Karsaz kept the arm around Hazo’s shoulder and towed him into the bustling dining room, stopping twice to introduce his cousin to some of the regulars. Finally, they settled into a booth set off in a quiet corner, and Karsaz asked the waitress to bring some coffee.
Under the bright light, Karsaz contemplated Hazo’s languid appearance. ‘Really, Hazo … you’re not looking so good. Makes me think you’re still patrolling the mountains with those American mercenaries.’
Hazo flashed a guilty smile.
Karsaz tsked in disapproval. ‘I worry for you, cousin. Outsiders don’t understand this place. And these foolish Americans? They think terrorism can be found on a map,’ Karsaz said, ‘even though it is but a few men drifting like ghosts around the world. Why do you bother with them?’
‘I try to explain things to them, help them, so that innocent lives may be spared,’ Hazo explained. ‘It was you who said, “See with your mind, but hear with your heart.”’
Karsaz chuckled. ‘Ah, cousin! Remember: I also told you, “Do not shoot the arrow which will return against you.”’ He reached across the table and clasped the side of Hazo’s neck with his meaty right hand. ‘Perhaps your cause is a noble one,’ he appeased. ‘Though being a Christian in Iraq, I wonder if
They had a good laugh and Karsaz pulled back his hand.
