The Mirage

  “Mocking you?” The woman glanced at the cell phone’s screen. “That is Salim bin Anwar. What—”

  Amal interrupted again, this time by drawing her pistol. “What are you doing?” the woman said.

  Amal leveled the pistol at the woman’s face and flicked off the safety. “You say your master has power. Can he raise the dead?”

  The woman shook her head. “You are making a mistake.”

  “No, the mistake is yours,” said Amal. She understood now, but understanding did not lessen her fury. “Go back to your master. Tell him I don’t need any favors from him.” She gave it another ten seconds, then put away the gun.

  But the woman didn’t leave.

  “We’re done,” Amal said. “Why are you still here?”

  The ninja held out her hand. “My phone.”

  “Any guesses?” Mustafa said, gazing at the tiny parcel in his palm. It was slightly larger than a cigarette pack. The return address was a shop in Israel, Hillel’s Curios of Frankfurt.

  Samir shrugged. “An antique mezuzah case?”

  Mustafa laughed. “Yes, I’m sure Saddam collects those.”

  The jeep was gone, Samir having waved it off discreetly while Mustafa spoke to the APS deliveryman. But now they had other observers. Their interception of the truck had been noticed by the Republican Guard, and when the driver went to deliver the rest of Saddam’s packages he must have told them what Mustafa had taken. Binocular lenses flashed from behind the gate; their license plate number was doubtless being forwarded to the Mukhabarat.

  Untroubled by the attention, Mustafa picked at the tape seal on the package. “Do you have a box cutter?”

  “Sorry, I left mine at the airport.”

  Mustafa used the van’s ignition key as a crude knife and managed to get the package open. Inside, in a slim plastic case, was a deck of playing cards. Each card bore a picture of a man’s face, captioned with an English transliteration of his name and a job title. Mustafa recognized many of the names and faces—almost all of them were prominent Baath Union members—but the job titles were whimsical.

  Here, for instance, the five of clubs: Barzan Ibrahim Hasan, Saddam’s half brother, who was said to have come up with the idea for the Mukhabarat. The card caption called him a “Presidential Advisor.” Or the eight of diamonds: Hikmat Mizban Ibrahim al Azzawi, a Baathist long suspected of running Saddam’s money-laundering operation. His caption read “Finance Minister.”

  The eight of spades: Tariq Aziz. “Deputy Prime Minister?” Samir let out a snort as Mustafa translated. “What, is he moonlighting as a member of the Persian government?”

  Mustafa shuffled through the deck, looking for the aces. The ace of diamonds was Abid Hamid Mahmud, Saddam’s publicist, identified here as “Presidential Secretary.” The ace of clubs was Qusay Hussein. The ace of hearts was Uday: “Olympic Chairman,” Mustafa read.

  “Yeah, chairman of the bookmaking division, maybe,” said Samir.

  The ace of spades was Saddam himself: “President.” Not “Baath Union President,” just “President.” There should have been another joke here—the biggest joke of all—but Mustafa’s sense of satire suddenly abandoned him.

  A folded sheet of paper had been enclosed in the package with the cards. It was a printout of a private eBazaar auction page, the same one Wajid Jamil had forwarded to Mustafa late last night. The item description was short and cryptic: “From beyond the mirage, Lot #157. Interest tags: Iraq, Saddam Hussein, Baath Party, U.S. invasion.” The winning bid, placed by eBazaar user King_Nebuchadnezzar, was fifteen hundred riyals.

  Mustafa’s cell phone rang.

  “Hello, Amal,” he said. “Nice of you to check in . . . No, it’s OK. We do have a lead, though.” He told her where they were. “How soon can you get here? . . . Fifteen minutes, excellent. Samir will be waiting in the van.” He hung up.

  “Samir will be waiting?” Samir said. “Where will Mustafa be?”

  “Making a delivery.” Mustafa slipped the cards and the paper back into the package. “Fifteen hundred riyals is a pittance for King Nebuchadnezzar, but something tells me he’ll be anxious to get this.”

  “You think he’ll talk to you?”

  “It can’t hurt to try. And I must admit I’m curious to see the inside of that house.”

  “As long as it’s not the last thing you see.”

  “Ah, that’s where you and Amal come in,” Mustafa said. “If I’m not back out in an hour, you come rescue me.”

  “And is there some particular way you’d like us to do that, or should we just blow the gates in?”

  “Improvise.” Mustafa smiled. “But please ask Amal not to shoot the Olympic Chairman unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  THE LIBRARY OF ALEXANDRIA

  A USER-EDITED REFERENCE SOURCE

  Nebuchadnezzar II

  Nebuchadnezzar II (reigned 605 – 562 BCE) was a king of the Neo-Babylonian Empire. His historical feats include the construction of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon and the conquest and destruction of Jerusalem and its temple. He is mentioned in several books of the Hebrew and Christian Bibles, most notably the Book of Daniel . . .

  NEBUCHADNEZZAR AND BIBLICAL PROPHECY

  Daniel chapter 2, verses 31–35 describes a dream in which Nebuchadnezzar saw “a great statue . . . The head of that statue was of fine gold, its chest and arms of silver, its middle and thighs of bronze, its legs of iron, its feet partly of iron and partly of clay. As [the king] looked on, a stone was cut out, not by human hands, and it struck the statue on its feet . . . Then the iron, the clay, the bronze, the silver, and the gold, were all broken in pieces . . . But the stone that struck the statue became a great mountain and filled the whole earth.” As interpreted by Daniel, the statue’s golden head represents Nebuchadnezzar’s own kingdom, and the other parts of the statue represent three other kingdoms that will come after it; the mountain that arises from the stone is a fifth and final kingdom that will rule over all the earth, forever. Although this fifth kingdom is generally understood to be the Kingdom of God, the identity of the fourth kingdom and the nature of the stone that will shatter it is a subject of heated debate among Christian eschatologists . . .

  MODERN LEGACY

  Nebuchadnezzar remains a popular figure in the UAS, particularly in the state of Iraq. The Iraqi city of Al Hillah, located near the ruins of ancient Babylon, has numerous Nebuchadnezzar-themed tourist attractions, including the Six Flags Hanging Garden Waterpark.

  Nebuchadnezzar is also a favorite among aspiring politicians. A survey conducted by Riyadh Week in Review found that of the historical leaders to whom Arabian presidential candidates compared themselves, Nebuchadnezzar was second in popularity only to the holy warrior Salah al Din.

  While the Republican Guardsman patted him down, Mustafa contemplated the Baath Labor Union motto, painted on the arch above the gate: ACT NOW, TALK LATER.

  Words to live by. It occurred to him that he ought to be at least a little nervous, but the only thing that concerned him at the moment was keeping his balance. Shuffling through the cards in the van, he’d felt his vertigo starting, and the giddiness had intensified during the walk to the gate. Now, standing on the border of Saddam’s Republic, whatever apprehension he might have felt was swallowed by that same giddiness, leaving him unsteady on his feet but otherwise serene.

  The first Guard finished his pat-down and a second stepped up to repeat the procedure. Mustafa’s pistol, wallet, Homeland Security ID, and cell phone had already been taken from him, along with Saddam’s package, and all of these were being carefully scrutinized as well. A Guard who appeared to be the leader of the gate detail recited Mustafa’s name and federal employee number into a walkie-talkie.

  Several minutes passed. Mustafa looked up the drive towards Saddam’s mansion and saw a keeper walking a lion on a leash. The big cat stopped to sniff the tire of an armor-plated limousine that was parked at the turnaround. Then a bird flew by overhead and the lion took off aft
er it, pulling its keeper along behind.

  The front door of the mansion swung open and the ace of clubs emerged. Qusay, the “good” son: sober and self-controlled, far less likely than his brother to shame the family with a tabloid headline, and for that very reason more apt to be trusted with jobs requiring discretion. The consensus among Halal and Bureau agents was that Qusay had many more murders to his name than Uday did. This morning he did not appear to be in a good mood. Perhaps Mustafa’s arrival had interrupted his breakfast.

  The leader of the gate detail handed Mustafa’s Homeland Security ID to Qusay. Qusay glanced cursorily at it, then said: “What is it you want here?”

  “I would like to speak with your father about his recent online purchase.” Mustafa nodded at the package. “And about any other similar items he may have acquired.”

  “I don’t know what items you are referring to, but a conversation with my father is impossible.”

  “I understand your father is a busy man and not especially trusting of government agents. But if I may appeal to him directly . . .”

  “You may not.”

  “Then please tell your father for me that I am on a special assignment for the president, who will be grateful to anyone who assists me.”

  Qusay didn’t blink. “And if my father isn’t interested in the president’s gratitude? What then?”

  “Please,” Mustafa said. “I make no threats, only a respectful request for help. If your father says no, I’ll leave and trouble him no further.”

  “Just like that, eh?”

  “Hey.” Mustafa waved a hand at the land outside the gate. “It’s a free country.”

  It was the kind of really big house that seemed designed to make you remark, repeatedly, on how really big it was. The ungodly nature of the excess, the awful tackiness of the furnishings and décor that also begged for comment—those were perhaps less deliberate.

  Baath-affiliated artists had been drafted into the decorating effort. The mansion’s grand reception hall featured a painting of Saddam and his wife Sajida dressed as heads of state of some antique kingdom (Babylon, judging by the ziggurats in the background). That portrait wasn’t so bad actually, but another, which cast Saddam as a knight of jihad defending Jerusalem against Richard the Lionheart, struck Mustafa as a bit much. And a third painting, showing Saddam as the Spartan King Leonidas holding the line against Xerxes’ Persians at Thermopylae—that had to be either a gag or a loyalty test: Look at this without snickering and you may have a future as a citizen of the Republic.

  “This way,” Qusay said. He led Mustafa through an archway into a hall lined with statues. More historical figures, each carved or cast with the same mustached face: Saddam as Hammurabi the Lawgiver; Saddam as Gilgamesh; Saddam as Shalmaneser, as Sargon, as Sennacherib; Saddam as Ramesses the Great . . .

  The hall ended in a circular domed chamber with one last statue at its center. This ultimate king stood seven meters tall, and sunlight streaming through windows in the dome made the monarch’s head glister like gold. But when Mustafa, unable to resist, gingerly rapped a knuckle on one of the royal feet, what he discovered was neither gold nor a mix of iron and clay, but the hollow ring of tin.

  “Wait here,” Qusay said, leaving Mustafa in Nebuchadnezzar’s shadow. “My father will join you shortly.”

  As Qusay’s footsteps faded into the distance, Mustafa heard a low droning sound. Following it to another archway, he gazed into a side room where a boy sat playing with a fleet of toy trucks. The boy was European or possibly American and looked about five years old. There was something forlorn about the way he pushed the same dump truck back and forth, making listless vroom-vroom noises.

  A woman who sat minding the boy looked up at Mustafa looking in. Mustafa nodded to her, then turned to see the real-life king of the Republic coming up behind him.

  The prosecutor at one of his trials had described Saddam Hussein as “a village thug in city clothes.” He was a big brute of a man, tall and thick, like the monument he longed to become. He swam laps daily to keep himself in shape and dyed his hair and mustache to hide his age. Informants said he had back trouble and often limped when out of the public eye. But there was no sign of that now—as he approached Mustafa he kept his stride confident and even, channeling whatever agony this cost him into an air of affable menace, like a cunning old lion strolling out to see what had wandered into his den.

  “Welcome to my home!” Saddam said. As he reached out to shake, his sleeve pulled back to reveal an old gang tattoo on the back of his wrist. His grip was strong and he squeezed Mustafa’s hand to the point where it almost became painful, sizing him up as he did so. Mustafa, still too giddy to feel fear, did his own counter-assessment and decided that the way to play this was to be respectful but straightforward.

  “Mustafa al Baghdadi,” Mustafa said. “Thank you for seeing me.”

  “It’s my pleasure to be of service. I trust I need no introduction, but in answer to your next question, you should feel free to refer to me as either Saddam, or Uncle. Many of my union brothers prefer the latter.”

  “ ‘Uncle’ would be awkward for me, I’m afraid. I’m not a member of Baath.”

  “But you are an Iraqi,” Saddam said. “I consider all Iraqis honorary Baathists.”

  “Yes, well,” said Mustafa, “as I suspect you’ve already been told, I’m also a former Halal agent who spent nine years trying to bust you. So you really shouldn’t do me that particular honor.”

  “Ah, Halal.” Saddam smiled. “An amusing organization . . . Did we ever meet, during those nine years? You look familiar to me.”

  “I attended a couple of your trials,” Mustafa told him. “And I was part of the team that executed the search warrant against the Hakum factory. I tried to speak to you on that occasion but your lawyers wouldn’t allow it.”

  “A pity. I could have told you you were wasting your time. But I suppose you found that out on your own.”

  “We surely did.” The Hakum Seltzer-Water bottling plant, located outside the city of Musayyib, had been identified by several trusted informants as a secret distillery producing thousands of liters of hard liquor, but a two-day search had failed to turn up so much as a drop of alcohol. The incident had been a major embarrassment for Halal, and a lawsuit by the plant’s management had resulted in the firing of one of Mustafa’s superiors.

  “And now you work for Homeland Security,” Saddam said. “A much more satisfying career, I’m sure . . . And my son tells me you’re working for the president?”

  Mustafa nodded. “A special assignment.”

  “And you need my help?” Saddam raised his eyebrows, as if amazed that a humble palace-owner such as himself could have anything to offer.

  “I believe you can assist my investigation, yes.”

  “Then I shall be glad to. Come, let’s go to my office.”

  “If I may ask . . . ,” Mustafa said.

  “Yes?”

  “That boy in there. Who is he?”

  “His name is Stuart. He’s the son of an Englishman I’m doing some business with. He’s staying with me until the deal is completed, to make sure everything goes smoothly.”

  Mustafa blinked. “The boy is your hostage?”

  “My honored guest,” Saddam Hussein said. “Don’t worry, he’s being looked after. He’s getting his milk.” He paused, and a shadow of uncertainty crossed his face. “You there!” he called, to the woman minding the boy. “Is he getting his milk?”

  “Yes, Saddam!” the woman replied.

  “There, you see?” Saddam said to Mustafa. “He’s getting his milk. Nothing to worry about!”

  Saddam’s office resembled a war room, with wall maps of Baghdad and other Iraqi cities, each map decorated with a constellation of pushpins. “Would you like to take some cell phone pictures?” Saddam asked, noting Mustafa’s interest in these. “I’m sure your old Halal colleagues would be fascinated.”

  “They would,” Mustafa said. “Bu
t I’m not here for that.”

  “Good. Very good.” Saddam opened a drawer in his desk and brought out two glass tumblers and a bottle. “You like whiskey? I know it’s early . . .”

  “Ah, no thank you.”

  “I insist. Before we talk business, you must have a drink with me.”

  “I really can’t,” Mustafa said.

  “Of course you can. Halal agents drink all the time, ex-Halal agents all the more so . . .”

  “I’m a Muslim.”

  Saddam chuckled. “So am I!” he said. “I’m not a saint, though, and I don’t trust men who act as though they are.” He poured a finger of whiskey into each tumbler and pushed one across the desk. “Come. Share a small sin with me, so I can relax. God will forgive you.”

  The whiskey was bitter on Mustafa’s tongue and it made his eyes water, which Saddam found funny. “That’s good stuff. You should appreciate it!”

  “I guess I’m not a sophisticate,” Mustafa said.

  “Ah, but you are well informed.” Saddam placed a hand on the package containing the cards. “Who told you about this? Your friend Wajid Jamil I suppose.”

  “I see I’m not the only one who’s well informed.” Mustafa set down his tumbler, which still had half a finger of whiskey in it. “You should know Wajid wasn’t spying on you, specifically.”

  “No?”

  “I asked Waj for help researching something we’re calling the mirage legend. One of his keyword searches turned up several eBazaar auctions, including that one. When he saw the mailing address attached to the winning bidder’s account, he contacted me.”

  “Ah, the mailing address . . . Qusay warned me about that. ‘Rent a PO box,’ he said. But it’s a hassle, for something that’s not even illegal.”

  “Your eBazaar account name isn’t exactly subtle, either,” Mustafa noted.

  “Well, that I couldn’t resist. I’ve always been an admirer of Nebuchadnezzar.”

  “So I gather.”

  “I dedicated my first novel to him . . . He was a great leader. A great Arab leader, unlike Salah al Din, who had the misfortune to be born a Kurd.” Saddam’s expression grew distant as he sipped his whiskey. “You know, the Jews say Nebuchadnezzar went mad. For seven years. Exiled from his rule in Babylon, forced to live like a lesser person . . .”