The Republic’s capital was of course Baghdad, where Saddam owned houses in each of the city’s major districts, with the notable exception of Sadr City. Back when Mustafa and Samir had worked for Halal Enforcement, Saddam had split his time between the Mansour lake estate that adjoined the Baghdad Airport and the downtown mansion in Karkh that many Baghdadis regarded as a shadow city hall.
After 11/9, increased security around the airport had made the Mansour estate less attractive—the TSA really had a bug about people firing rifles into the sky. Then in 2003, a mysterious fire gutted the mansion in Karkh; rumors of the cause ranged from faulty wiring to Uday. Saddam had been trying to rebuild the place ever since, but the Baghdad City Planning Commission, on orders from a certain mayor-turned-senator, kept delaying the necessary permits, and in the interim squatters had invaded the property, turning it into a palace of the homeless.
While Saddam’s lawyers tried to cut through the commission’s red tape, he had relocated the headquarters of his Republic to his compound in Adhamiyah. The walled estate occupied three hectares of prime riverfront property and had its own dock and helipad. It was patrolled night and day by a uniformed security force known colloquially as the Republican Guard.
Having raced across town, Mustafa and Samir were now parked at the end of the street that led to the estate’s main gate. The package they were hoping to intercept had been sent standard overnight delivery, which meant that in theory it could show up anytime between now and 6 p.m., but Mustafa doubted they’d have to wait long. “Think about it: If you were a deliveryman and Saddam Hussein was on your route, would you keep him waiting until afternoon?”
“I see your point,” Samir said, “but by that logic, couldn’t we already have missed him?”
“Let’s give it an hour. If the truck hasn’t showed by then, we’ll give that helpful fellow at the airport another call.”
They passed the time by speculating about the occupants of a jeep parked half a block behind them. Mustafa thought he’d seen the same vehicle at the APS hub; Samir was sure he had, but feigned uncertainty. “Who do you suppose they are?”
“Al Qaeda, most likely,” Mustafa said. “Unless the Mukhabarat has taken an interest in us.” Mukhabarat was a nickname for the network of Iraqi private investigators who donated free labor to the Baath Union in exchange for police favors, in effect serving as Saddam’s personal intelligence bureau. “What do you think, shall we go introduce ourselves?”
“You go right ahead.”
Mustafa shot him another concerned look, but didn’t push. “All right,” he said. “You stay here, I’ll go talk to them.”
But even as he opened his door, a brown truck rounded the corner, a familiar trademarked question on its side: WHAT CAN AL ARABI DO FOR YOU? Mustafa flipped out his ID and hurried to flag it down.
“Your mother cannot help you.”
There was a sculpture park adjacent to Amal’s mother’s office building. It was a popular open-air lunch spot, but at this hour of the morning it was empty except for a pair of elderly backgammon players and a few women pushing strollers.
Amal sat on a bench alongside an enormous bronze jug. A hole had been cut in the jug’s side, making a window onto the miniature city within. The city’s outline and the river that bisected it suggested Baghdad, but a Baghdad from an alternate universe: The sort-of-familiar landmarks were all in the wrong place and the streets were laid out differently.
Amal switched on her cell phone. She had two missed calls, both from Mustafa. She was about to check messages when a ninja sat down beside her and began speaking in Gulf Arabic. It took Amal a moment to realize the woman’s words were addressed to her.
“I beg your pardon?” Amal said.
“I said, your mother cannot help you.” The woman raised a hand and pointed to another of the park’s sculptures. “You see that globe over there? It models the world as the Abbasid cartographers knew it. If you walk around to the other side, where the Western Hemisphere should be, there’s nothing. No Americas. The lines of latitude and longitude don’t meet. From this angle, though, it looks almost whole. A tourist might even mistake it for the Unisphere.” The woman chuckled. “Your mother’s authority is like that. Hollow and incomplete. A trick of perspective . . . A mirage.”
Amal slipped her cell phone into her pocket and turned to face the woman fully. “Who are you?”
“A servant of a true servant of God. Someone whose power is real. Someone who can guarantee your son’s safety.”
“Osama bin Laden,” Amal said nodding. “And should I take it as an insult or a compliment, that he sends a woman with his message instead of Abu Yusuf?”
“It is a sign of respect.” The ninja sniffed behind her veil. “Perhaps you are unfamiliar with proper decorum.”
“Perhaps you are unfamiliar with the penalty for threatening a federal agent.”
“I do not threaten. I speak the truth. Salim bin Anwar will not be saved by Anmar al Maysani—or by Amal bint Shamal. But the man I serve can remove him from harm’s way.”
“In exchange for what?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Do nothing. Mustafa al Baghdadi has chosen a path to self-destruction. Do not follow him. Do not help him. Do not interfere.”
“You expect me to just sit on my hands?”
“Ask to be taken off the investigation. Your mother’s name is good for that much, at least.”
“That’s your idea of nothing, is it?” Amal laughed. “And once I’ve made it clear to my colleagues that I can no longer be relied upon, then what? Just wait and see whether the senator holds up his end of the bargain?”
“Give me your word that you’ll ask to be reassigned and Salim will be on his way home in forty-eight hours.”
Amal fell silent, still skeptical but also not wanting to believe it.
“Here, let me show you something.” The ninja took out her own cell phone. “The other day on your computer you looked up Abu Salim’s file, but you didn’t look up the boy’s. That’s understandable, but before you decide his fate you really should see his face.” She passed the phone to Amal, who accepted it reluctantly. “He is a handsome boy,” the woman continued. “A good Sunni Muslim, strong and intelligent. He should have a bright future, if—”
But Amal, suddenly livid, cut her off: “Is this a joke? Are you mocking me?”
“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.