Zinat kept a picture of her family taped above her bunk. A second photo showed Zinat and several other Lionesses gathered around the Persian war correspondent Christiane Amanpour, who’d done a special report on the women’s unit earlier this year. Zinat stood to Amanpour’s right, cradling a .50-caliber sniper rifle that was almost as big as she was. “Do you bring this weapon on patrol?” Amal asked.
“No, that was just for the photo,” Zinat said, sounding a bit wistful. “We were at the combat range and I talked the gunnery sergeant into letting me pose with it . . . If you’d like, I could probably take you over there for some practice shooting.” She raised an eyebrow. “They’ve got flamethrowers, too.”
“That sounds like fun,” Amal said, less interested in flamethrowers than in locating Salim. But perhaps this girl could help her with that. As for what she would do once she actually found her son . . . Well, Amal was still working on that. One step at a time.
Reveille for the troops was a muezzin’s call piped through the Watergate intercom system. After washing up, Amal followed Zinat to the top-floor lounge that served as the women’s prayer room. Attendance at prayer was voluntary, but it looked as though most of the Lionesses, save the few who were Christians or Jews, were there. The majority were Zinat’s age, but among them were a number of older career Marines.
The Lionesses’ commander was a fifty-two-year-old from Yemen named Umm Husam, who also served as the women’s prayer leader. As the last of her charges entered the room, she turned to face the northeast wall and raised her hands beside her head.
“God is great,” Umm Husam began.
The main banquet room in the Watergate Hotel was now a Marine chow hall. A portion of the seating area had been reserved for the Lionesses, and during Christiane Amanpour’s visit that section of the hall had been cordoned off by folding screens. Today, with no reporters present, the screens had been exchanged for orange traffic cones, and even these were largely ignored, the women and men fraternizing openly with only an occasional disapproving glance from Umm Husam.
At a table just on the men’s side of the divide, Mustafa, Samir, and Amal took breakfast with Colonel Yunus, Zinat, and two male Marines. Mustafa asked a question about the African-American civilians working the serving line; like the iconic homeowner in Amal’s pamphlet, they were all wearing tri-cornered hats.
“The tricorne is a symbol of the Minutemen,” Colonel Yunus explained. “Most of our support staff are former National Guard. We give them jobs to discourage them from taking up arms against us. The hats are a touchy subject—insurgents like to wear them, too—but we’re trying to win hearts and minds so we don’t make a fuss about it.”
“What kind of Christians are they?” Mustafa asked next. “My reading suggested that black Americans are more often Protestant than Catholic, but it didn’t say what denominations they favor.”
“I’m afraid I know nothing about Protestant denominations,” Colonel Yunus said. “But these men aren’t all Christian. Some of them are Muslim.”
“Muslim?” said Samir.
“Yes. Islam is still a minority faith in America, but it has made inroads, particularly among the marginalized.”
“Which sect of Islam?” Mustafa wondered. “Sunni or Shia?”
The colonel seemed disappointed by the question. “Surely that’s of no consequence. Islam is Islam.”
“I agree,” said Mustafa, “but still I’m curious.”
The colonel shrugged. “If it were considered polite to inquire, I imagine most would answer Sunni.”
“That’s interesting,” Amal said, guessing at Mustafa’s train of thought. “If they’re Sunni Muslims, that would make them eligible for membership in Al Qaeda, wouldn’t it?”
“Al Qaeda!” Zinat snorted laughter. “What fantasy is this?”
Samir looked alarmed. “You really think Bin Laden would recruit Americans?”
“If I might change the subject a moment,” Colonel Yunus said, clearly uncomfortable with this turn in the conversation. “I’d like to talk a bit about your mission here . . .”
“Of course,” said Mustafa.
“I’ve discussed the matter in some depth with Lieutenant Fahd.” The colonel indicated one of the other Marines at the table. “The address you are interested in visiting is about thirty kilometers from here. There are insurgents in the vicinity—they’ve been quiet lately, but we know they are still there, and if we try to secure the area in advance it might just encourage them to mount an assault. Lieutenant Fahd proposes instead that we dispatch you with a light reconnaissance force—four Humvees, plus air support—and try to get you in and out before the insurgents can react. Do you know how much time you’ll need on site?”
“It depends what we find there,” Mustafa said. “Obviously we won’t stay any longer than necessary.”
“Very well,” Colonel Yunus said. “I’ll reserve some additional forces in case it does become necessary to secure the area—or in case there’s trouble. This will take another twenty-four hours to arrange. I suggest you spend today resting, and be ready to leave tomorrow after breakfast.”
“Thank you. That will be fine.”
“If you’d like some diversion, I can have one of my men give you a tour of the Green Zone. Or if you don’t mind waiting while I take care of a few matters, I can show you around myself.”
“Sir,” Zinat said. “Amal has expressed interest in visiting Potomac Park. With your permission I’d be happy to take her.”
“The combat range?” The colonel gave Amal a quizzical look, but then shrugged. “Of course . . . If that’s what you wish.”
He said something else but Amal didn’t hear it. She was staring at the chow line, where the ghost of her father was bantering with a black man in a tri-cornered hat.
The ghost was not Shamal as she had known him. This was the young Shamal, a newly minted BU grad working off his ROTC scholarship, still a year or two away from meeting the ambitious woman from Maysan Province who would become his wife. The uniform was wrong—he’d been an Army cadet, not a Marine—but other than that he might have stepped right from the family photo album, so uncanny was the resemblance. Likewise his mannerisms—the way he stood, the way he tilted his head to listen, the easy way he laughed, which would become less easy as time and Saddam wore him down—were all just as Amal remembered.
Zinat saw the ghost too. While Amal sat motionless, fearful of dispelling this vision with a careless gesture, the Lioness stood up, cupped her hands to her mouth, and called out: “Hey! Salim! Over here!”
“Target right!”
This Minuteman was a white American, with big teeth and a big nose, angry eyes, and slashing eyebrows beneath a tricorne that looked a size too small for him. Like the restaurant in whose window he had so suddenly appeared—a painted stage flat adorned with golden arches—he was also two-dimensional. And he was armed with a revolver, which made him a bad guy: Amal pulled the trigger on her rifle and put three bullet holes in a tight grouping between his eyes. The Minuteman continued to glare at her for another full second before succumbing to his wound and dropping out of sight.
A chime sounded and Amal walked another ten paces down “Main Street”—actually an indoor lane lined with fake buildings. Her next target swung out sideways from behind a building marked KRISPY KREME. He had the same exact face as the Minuteman, but instead of a tricorne he wore a jersey with the word REDSKINS on it. “Target left!” Amal said. But the man was holding a soda cup, and after double-checking that the straw wasn’t really a lit fuse, she held her fire. After three seconds, the man ducked back into cover.
The rules of the game were simple. There were four kinds of targets—Minuteman, sports fan, woman, child—each holding one of four objects—revolver, pipe bomb, daisy, or soda cup. The goal was to shoot only those targets holding weapons. Hit three unarmed adults or one unarmed child, and you lost. Miss even one target holding a gun, and you lost. Miss a target holding a pipe bomb, and everyone on the shooting course lost.