States of Exile, page 9
For some reason, he thought of Liz McDermott’s observation that everyone seemed to be fleeing something, exiles from something other than just one’s homeland. The abrupt truth of her sentiment stung him, in spite of the fact he had fought that realization to a draw on more than one occasion. The therapist he and Adele had once consulted had suggested as much, outright asserting that Luke’s melancholia stemmed from the fact he was anchorless; exiled from his lifetime career, exiled from a marriage that was floundering. Even his relationship with Maggie felt stagnant. All too often their time spent together seemed an afterthought. No matter where he turned, he seemed to be in some state of exile.
He put this thought aside as he deleted Adele’s message, but then out of some unconscious urge, opened up the phone’s photo gallery and began scrolling through the images. He stopped at one of him and Maggie on a beach on Kauai. He had taken her there as a reward for graduating from law school. Adele had begged off due to some vague work commitment and the length of the flight. Fortunately, her absence provided Luke and Maggie with the infrequent opportunity to catch up and renew their relationship. To his regret, he had been absent more often than not during Maggie’s formative years. Still, their relationship had always seemed to weather these interruptions. It remained unclear whether this was due to the transitory impermanence of youth or Maggie’s innate resilience.
He flicked through several other images. One of him and Adele on a motorcycle in Scotland. A photo of Adele in dress uniform receiving a citation of some sort, Maggie in cap and gown at her law school graduation, he and Adele on either side of her. Another of the three of them on a hiking trip in the Dolomites. In all of them, there was a suggestion, an impression of happiness, if not contentment. Where it had all fallen apart remained the source of many a late night self-reflection.
He slumped back on the bed, overcome by a sudden fit of despair. The incident at Bardarash had shaken him and made him realize just how precarious all his connections had become. And seeing the young woman’s corpse had carved out some part of him, her battered image a familiar visitor to his nightmares. He sat up as if jolted. It did no good to dwell on the past, not now. He turned off the phone, grabbed his jacket and seaman’s watch cap and set out to find the eatery that Masoud had pointed out.
12
Five minutes later, he came across a narrow side street and recognized the heavy wooden sign jutting out from above a deeply set doorway. Masoud had provided a rough translation. “The Blood Of My Favorite Ox.” He stepped inside and was immediately overwhelmed by the smell of roasting meat, garlic, and some other spice he couldn’t place. The small, adobe brick dining room was dimly lit, the majority of the tables occupied by locals gauging from their appearance. A tinny sound system blared out Middle Eastern music. Out of some subconscious and long practiced habit, he took a table in the corner with his back to the wall.
The waitress appeared to be barely pubescent, most likely the daughter of the woman rattling pans in the open kitchen; the squat man behind the counter likely her father. To his surprise, the girl spoke passable English. He ordered dolmas, a lamb stew, flatbread and a bottle of Ava Zêr, a Kurdish beer brewed in the Czech Republic that he had sampled in Erbil. When she returned with his beer, he showed her Maggie’s picture on his phone. She simply shook her head no.
The lamb dish reminded him of a similar stew he and Adele had eaten at a small roadside diner near Monument Valley, the most prominent item on the diner’s menu Navajo stew. The taste brought back a sudden flood of memories of that trip and starlit desert campsites and bathing in cold streams. At the time, their relationship was still fresh, on the cusp of commitment.
His thoughts were interrupted when a pair of men rode a gust of wind through the front door. They wore rather tattered, soiled hiking pants, muddy boots, and expensive looking, though well worn, shell parkas. Both appeared youngish, thirties maybe, with long hair and unkempt beards. They looked sun baked and might have even passed for locals except for their clothing and bearing. They surely didn’t seem to be Kurds or Arabs. They scanned the small dining room and chose the table nearest to Luke. They each nodded to him a greeting and began studying the menu. When the waitress took their order, he caught their accents. One was a Brit for sure, the other sounded as if he was French.
As Luke ate, he watched them out of the corner of his eye and tried to catch snippets of their murmured conversation. They both appeared haggard, their faces slack with exhaustion. The one who seemed British had reddish hair, a long thin face with ears flat to his head, and hooded eyes. His companion’s face was soft, almost feminine and his beard displayed at least a crude attempt at grooming. Even from three feet away he could smell their rank body odor. He could tell by the way they downed their beers that they were trying to satisfy a thirst that wasn’t necessarily in their throats. He waited until they ordered their second round of beer before leaning over and asking them how well they knew Duhok.
The Brit mumbled though a mouthful of flatbread. “Don’t. Actually we just got here. You?” His accent sounded Cockney.
“I just arrived here, too. I’m curious. Do you work for any of the NGOs?’
The Brit looked at his partner briefly before replying. “No. We’re journalists. Least ways, Oliver here is. I just take the pictures. We just creeped over from Syria.”
“Is that easy to do? To cross the border?”
The Brit shook his head. “Not likely. We’d been pissin’ around in this shaggy village waiting for someone to shuttle us across. It’s not as easy as it seems.”
“Are there still refugee camps on the Syrian side?”
“Sure. Not so many though. None of them are very large. It seems that everyone that could make it already skipped to the camps over here on the Iraqi side. It’s not easy over there. A lot of brown bread if you catch my drift. Grim is what I mean.” He flashed a toothy, inappropriate grin. “Not much aid coming in to those places. Dangerous, too. Creepin’ around Syria, I mean.”
Luke turned on his iPhone and searched for the picture of Maggie. “Is there any chance you might’ve seen this young woman?” He held it out to the Brit who studied for several seconds and shook his head.
“Sorry, can’t say I have.”
“How about you?” Luke asked, holding the phone out to the other man.
The Frenchman took a long pull of his beer, wiped his hands on his pants and took the phone. He studied it for no more than two or three seconds and nodded. He kept looking at it for a moment longer. “Yes. I am fairly certain I saw her.”
“What?” his friend asked. “A twist like her I would’ve remembered.”
“I saw her before you arrived at the village. I saw her twice.”
“You’re sure?” Luke asked, taking the phone back. “Where? What village?”
“The place is called Tel Sayyid. It is in the hills above the Euphrates. Not far from the border.”
“What was she doing there?”
Oliver shrugged. “I was being concealed there by our courier. Waiting for Ian here to show up,” he said nodding at the Brit. “You couldn’t walk around the village because of informers and the chance of militias. But there was a window from where I could see a neighboring house. I could only see part of it because …a lorry…a truck was parked with its bed against the front of the house. There was someone always sitting there, in front of the truck as if they were…” He pointed at his eye and flicked his finger. “Keeping the eye on things. Isn’t that the American expression? The first morning I was there, it was just after dawn, I saw this woman come outside to wash up at the water pump. She was with a man that seemed… he seemed as if he was anxious for them to return inside. He was shouting at her. She was blonde like the photo you showed me.” He held a finger in the air, and paused to take a swallow of his beer,
“The next day I saw her again. I saw her face more clearly because she looked directly at me. I stepped away from the window, but I am positive she saw me. It was this woman you showed me. The same. I am very certain of it.”
“What was she doing?”
“This second time she seemed angry. She shouted at the man who followed her outside. She kept pointing to the truck and screaming in what I thought at the time might be German and then it sounded like English. I couldn’t really hear it that well. After a few minutes, another man came from the house and they dragged her back into the house. I never saw her again. Ian came later that day and we left that very night.”
“This was when?”
“Three. No. Four days ago.”
“Is there anything else you remember?’
“No. Nothing else.”
“How about the men she was with. What did they look like?”
“The men? Young. They might’ve been Kurds. At least they didn’t look to be Arabs. I’m sorry, but that is all I can tell you.”
“So who is the girl?” Ian asked.
“Someone I need to find. This village. Tel Sayyid. How would I find it?”
“We arrived there at night,” the Frenchman replied. “We were hidden in a truck so I did not see it well. It is on the Syrian side of the Euphrates. We had to cross the river in a dinghy to reach the border which wasn’t far.”
“Yeah, that fookin’ dinghy,” Ian added. “Cold crossing that river at night. It might be on a map. Or maybe not. From what I saw the place wasn’t very large.”
“And the house? What did it look like?”
The Frenchman thought for a moment. “It was built of stone. Like flat stones. Stacked? Yes?” he said, motioning with his hands. “The door was painted blue. And wait, I remember. Behind the house was a water tank. On a wooden platform.”
“A water tower?”
“Yes, a water tower. With something in red painted on the side. Something in Arabic.”
”Was the village patrolled by the militias?”
“Not that I saw, but it seemed everyone kept hidden inside for most of the day.”
Luke sat back and thought for a moment. He couldn’t see where he had much choice but to check it out. The description the Frenchman gave surely matched Maggie. How many women like that could there be roaming around in northern Syria? Going there, however, would require some planning and surely more help than Masoud alone could provide. He wished there was a way to contact Masoud tonight, but unfortunately he would have to wait until morning. He paid his bill, and stood to leave.
“Good luck, mate. I hope you find her,” Ian said. “A word of advice though. You go rabbitin’ around over there you’re likely to get your arse in the knockers. Best go with someone who knows his way around.”
Luke nodded his thanks and left. Outside, the night had grown colder, the wind stiffer, and he could smell the snow in the air. As he walked back to the hostel, he decided he would try calling Adele.
13
JOHN F. KENNEDY INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
NEW YORK
November 22nd
Adele hung back and waited behind the throng of her fellow passengers lining up beside the baggage carousel. She glanced up at the screen for the third time to make sure she was at the correct carousel for it seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time for their bags to arrive. She felt done in, having not slept on the plane, much less the night before back in her apartment in Munich. For a moment, she toyed with the idea of getting a hotel room and catching a few hours of sleep, but there really wasn’t sufficient time to be procrastinating. She felt secure in her mind as to what needed to be done. It was how she should proceed that was giving her second thoughts. She checked her watch. 8AM. Sleep would have to wait.
She rubbed her eyes and when she lowered her hand, she became aware of someone standing next to her, close enough to brush shoulders. She gave the person a quick appraisal out of the corner of her eye. It was a man of average height, wearing a raincoat and staring up at the monitor. She picked up her carry-on and moved a few steps closer to the carousel.
“Ms. Marchand.”
She turned and looked at the man, but he kept his gaze fixed on the monitor. Upon closer inspection, he appeared to be almost purposefully nondescript, fortyish, thick glasses with heavy black frames, pale complexion, thinning reddish hair, and a nose that seemed to have seen its share of abuse gauging from the thick scar just below the bridge of his glasses. His raincoat looked cheap and rumpled.
“We should talk,” he said, lowering his gaze and looking over his shoulder, still not meeting her gaze. “How about that bench over there? The bags will be a while,” he said, turning and giving her what looked to be a hint of a smile. He turned and walked to the bench without waiting for her reply.
She could guess what this was about. For some reason, perhaps because of her old job, she was probably on a watch list of some sort. Or was it something else? The phone call last night came quickly to mind. She hesitated a moment before walking over to the bench. She recognized his type, having worked with them enough times. Mid-level desk jockey, she guessed, possibly an ex- field officer now in harness by choice or decree. They all seem to exude a certain aura. Something in their posture perhaps, the way they surveyed their surroundings; a kind of bored vigilance born of groomed habit. The question was which one of a dozen or so intelligence agencies he worked for. She suddenly realized the error of her ways in reaching out last night to her friend at Langley.
“Would it be out of line to see some credentials?” she asked, making no effort to sit.
At first, he didn’t reply, but after a moment, he reached into the pocket of his jacket and produced a wallet which he flipped open just long enough for Adele to see the logo and catch the last name. The brief glance allowed her to see the photo roughly resembled the man sitting before her.
“So what can I do for you, Mr. Graham?” She sat down a couple of feet away, placing her carry on between them.
“You look tired,” he said. “Too many late night phone calls, maybe? Look,” he said when she didn’t reply. “I’m aware of your background, so I’ll come straight to the point. We’d just like to know the reason for your inquiries about a certain Mr. Ozbek.”
She paused to watch a young man turn and glance at her as he passed by. She had noticed him in line at the boarding gate in Munich. She had subconsciously profiled him. Middle Eastern, no carry on, only a book. Nervous, maybe. Or was she simply being paranoid?
“I am not so naïve as to think you don’t already know. Okay, maybe you don’t know. My daughter was romantically involved with Ozbek. They went to Syria together. She wanted to visit the refugee camps, and he said he was going to visit family in Kurdistan. Satisfied?”
“We know what the BND told you. So you must realize he was lying.”
She stared at him for a moment before replying. “Something tells me you are not here to provide me with further information.”
“No, I’m afraid I can’t add much, at least nothing of substance.”
“Can’t or won’t? So, you’re wasting both our time. Perhaps you would be willing to tell me though why the interest in Ozbek.”
Graham shrugged. “That’s above my pay grade. I was just told to ask what your interest might be and report back. I’m just the conduit of information.”
“A one-way conduit.”
“You surely understand how these things work. So I tell the powers that be that you’re simply trying to find your daughter. Is that it?”
“I am flying to Baghdad tomorrow night, but I am sure you already knew that. I am going to Iraq to find my daughter. The end of story.”
“You’re going there to find your ex-husband, too. Right?” When she didn’t reply, he went on. “Do you know what you’re getting into? Going there, I mean.”
“I can guess. Tell me. Have you ever been over there?”
“You mean Iraq? Sure. Desert Storm. Fallujah. I was a S2 intelligence analyst. Your file says that’s what you did. Why do you ask?”
She started to reply but paused as the luggage carousel started up. “Goodbye, Mr. Graham,” she said, getting to her feet.
“The fact remains you called one of our analysts in an unofficial capacity requesting classified information.”
“Tell me. Is my friend in trouble?”
“Let’s just say he’s probably not your friend any longer.”
“He didn’t disclose anything I didn’t already know.”
“It makes no difference. You were asking questions about something you had no need to know about.”
“Which only makes me more curious why you’re interested in a Turkish intelligence agent posing as a Kurd who happens to go into Syria a week before Turkey invades Syria.”
Graham cocked his head. “Let me give you some advice. You need to keep your distance from all this. It’s for your own good.”
“Are you trying to frighten me, Mr. Graham?”
“Something tells me you’re not the type that frightens easily. I’m just warning you. Consider it a professional courtesy. All I can tell you is that when you asked about him, some red flags went up. I don’t know why. Like I said, it’s above my pay grade.”
“And what if I happen to stumble across this Ozbek? Should I give him your regards? Shoot up a signal flare?”
Graham didn’t reply. She sensed he wanted to tell her something more, but just then his cell phone chimed. He glanced at the message and then nodded at the baggage carousel. “By the way, we checked your bag. You might be interested to know the Iraqis don’t always check that closely any more flying into Baghdad.”
