He shrugged again. “It happened when I was young. It was a terrorist bombing. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Gee, Eli.”
“Your mother is dead, too, isn’t she?” he asked.
“Yeah. She died of cancer when I was fifteen.”
“And your father… is he still an ‘international salesman’?”
She looked at him sideways. “You say that like you’re skeptical.”
He laughed. “It’s just that you don’t seem to know much about what he does for a living. You never have.”
“That’s true, I guess.”
“You see him much?”
“No, not really. He lives in Baltimore, or rather a suburb of Baltimore.”
“That’s near Washington, D.C., you know,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s probably in the CIA.” Eli said it facetiously.
“Actually he did work for the CIA a long time ago. Not anymore, though. He was in the CIA when he met my mother.”
“No shit?”
“That’s right.”
“What was he, like a spy or something?”
“I really don’t know. Some kind of diplomat’s aid.”
Eli laughed. “Yep. Spy.”
She laughed with him. “I guess, maybe. Anyway, I don’t know
“I see.”
“So, Eli, are you going to stay in Israel or are you coming back to the States to get your degree?”
He took a sip of wine and said, “I’m thinking of going to Juilliard. I have an audition in the summer. I just have to get a visa.”
“Really? Juilliard?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So you won’t come back to Chicago?”
“I don’t think so, Sarah. But, listen, why don’t you come live with me in New York after you graduate? You’ve got one more year, right?”
The question took Sarah by surprise. “You want me to come
“Sure. Why not? You like me, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah, but that’s… that’s like we’d be married or something.”
“No it’s not, silly. We’d just be living together.”
She was flustered. “I’ll have to get back to you on that one, Eli.”
“There’s plenty of time, I think,” he said. He reached across the table, placed his hand over hers, and lightly squeezed it. Sarah was taken aback by his show of affection. She had no idea that he cared enough for her to ask her something like that.
What would a future with Eli Horowitz be like? she wondered. As an English major she could probably get a job teaching somewhere in New York. She’d have to get a certificate from that state, of course. Or maybe she’d just stay at home and be a writer. That’s what she really wanted to do. Wouldn’t it be an idyllic existence? She a best- selling author and Eli a famous orchestra conductor?
Sarah turned over her hand so that she could squeeze his in return.
It just might work, she thought.
9
I set out in the Toyota Land Cruiser and head north from Baghdad. The Iraqi security forces stop me at two different roadblocks on the outskirts of the city. They’re very thorough. At the first one they ask to see my identity papers and passport. They ask me if I’m armed even though the papers indicate that I’m cleared with the Iraqi government to carry firearms. I comply by revealing the Five-seveN, but the SC-20K remains in the duffel bag. After a few minutes of suspicious looks and some frowns, they let me drive on. The second roadblock is much the same. They ask what I plan to do in Mosul and how long I’ll be there. I tell them what I think will appease them and they let me go.
The highway is a modern one — newly repaved after the beating it took during the war and subsequent months of unrest. The city was brutal with stop-and-go congestion on every major street, but here there isn’t much traffic. The open road feels good. I occasionally see military vehicles, even U.S. ones. Dilapidated pickup trucks and wagons carrying produce and other goods are fairly common.
The intensely bright sun beats down on the car, and I’m grateful that I remembered to bring an ordinary pair of sunglasses. The landscape is flat and barren. As I said before, it reminds me a little of southern Arizona. It’s a rugged, cruel country and I wouldn’t want to be stuck in the middle of the desert with no transportation. Thank goodness someone invented the air conditioner.
“Sam, you there?” Lambert sounds like what I imagine the Voice of Conscience to be. It’s tinny and small and is lodged deep within my right ear.
I take one hand off the steering wheel and press the spot on my neck to activate the transmitter. “Yeah, I’m here, Colonel.”
“How did everything go with Petlow?”
“Fine. He’s got his hands full, though. This is still a very rough place.”
“I know. Listen, I take it you’re headed up to Mosul?”
“I’m on the road now. I’ll be in Samarra in less than an hour.”
“Forget Mosul. You need to go to Arbil,” Lambert says. “That’s why I’m contacting you via the implant instead of with text. We’ve just received word that the Kurdish police there have captured a brand-new shipment of weapons. Nasty stuff, too. Lots of AK-47s, but a nice little pile of Stingers, too. They’ve made an arrest — the truck driver that was bringing them in. He’s not talking. The shipment is sitting in police headquarters in the town center. Since this is a fresh lead, I suggest you check it out before they move it. If you can determine where the arms came from, then you can follow the trail back to the source. Remember, that’s Kurdish territory. You have no authority there, so you’ll have to get in and out without the police knowing.”
“Right,” I say. “What’s the best route from where I am?”
“Our intelligence suggests that you continue on to Mosul and then go east from there to Arbil. The main highway from Baghdad to Arbil runs parallel to yours, and the connecting roads aren’t safe.”
“Roger that. Anything else?”
“That’s it for now. Good luck, Sam.”
“Roger that. Out.” I grip the wheel and keep driving. I eventually pass through Samarra and head toward Tikrit, the birthplace of Saddam Hussein. When I finally get through the roadblocks there, repeating the routine I perfected outside of Baghdad, I see nothing special about Tikrit. I’m happy to say there are no road markers proclaiming that “Saddam Hussein Was Born Here.”
Mosul is Iraq’s second-largest city. It’s just on the edge of what is considered Iraqi Kurdistan. From what I understand, we get the word
Another roadblock, another song and dance with my identity papers, and I’m now driving east to Arbil. This is officially Kurd country, for Arbil is considered the Kurdish capital in Iraq. Both of the two main Kurdish political parties, the KDP and the PUK, have their headquarters in Arbil. Considered to be one of the world’s oldest cities,
