eastern half of the city, bright lights shone along the wide, modern avenues, gleamed from the windows of barricaded government ministries, and illuminated the still-crowded bazaars.
West of the Tigris River, the cramped alleys of the Snnni-dominated Ad-hamiya district were lit only by the dim lamplight spilling from tiny shops and shanty teahouses, and out through the latticed windows and gates of older homes. The night air was cool and crisp with just a hint of the clean smell of rain lingering from a brief storm earlier that evening. Men in traditional Arab kaffiyehs, checked pieces of cloth worn over the head, lounged in small groups outside the teashops, smoking cigarettes and exchanging the day’s news and gossip in low voices.
Abdel Khalifa al Dnlaimi, a former colonel in Iraq’s once-feared Intelligence Service, the Mnkhabarat, walked unsteadily down one of the narrow alleys. He was much thinner now than in his days in power, and his hair and mustache were streaked with gray. His hands trembled. “This is madness,” he hissed in Arabic to the woman following modestly in his footsteps with a full shopping basket in her arms. “This place is still a stronghold of the mujahideen. If we are caught here, death would be a kindness and one we would not be granted either quickly or easily.”
The slender woman, cloaked from head-to-toe in a shapeless black abaya, drew a step closer, narrowing the gap between them. “Then the trick is not to get caught, isn’t it, Abdel?” she said coolly in his car in the same language.
“Now shut up and foens on your job. Let me worry about the rest.”
“I don’t know win I’m doing this,” Khalifa grunted sourly.
“Oh, I think you do,” the woman reminded him. Her voice was ice-cold.
“Or would vou really rather face a war crimes tribunal? With your choice of the gallows, firing squad, or a lethal injection? The ordinary people you and your thugs terrorized for so many years haven’t exactly been forgiving, have they?”
The former Mukhabarat officer swallowed hard and fell silent.
The woman looked ahead over his shoulder. They were drawing nearer to a large, two-story mud-brick house, one built around an inner courtyard in the traditional Iraqi style. Two hard-faced young Iraqi men stood in the open courtyard gate, carefully eyeing passersby. Kach guard held a Kalashnikov AKM assault rifle casually at the ready.
“All mission teams, this is Raid One,” the woman murmured in Arabic, speaking into the throat microphone concealed beneath her abaya. “Source One and I are moving into position now. Are you set?”
In turn, other voices ghosted through the small radio receiver fitted in her right ear. “Sniper teams reach. Targets zeroed in. Assault teams ready. Extraction team ready.”
“Understood,” she said softly. She and Khalifa were only meters away from the gate now. “Stand by.”
One of the AKM-armed guards stepped out into the alley, blocking their way. His eyes were narrowed in suspicion. “Who is this woman, Colonel?” he growled. “The general summoned you to this meeting. Only you. No others.”
Khalifa grimaced. “She is my wife’s cousin,” he stammered uneasily. “She was afraid to walk home from the market alone. She has heard the Americans and their pet Iraqi dogs, the Shia collaborators, are raping women caught on their own, without a man to protect them. But I only agreed to bring her this far.”
The woman lowered her dark eyes modestly.
The guard moved closer, still frowning. “You have compromised our se-curitv,” he muttered. “The general will need to know this. Bring the woman inside.”
“Raid One, this is Sniper Lead,” she heard over her radio. “Just say the word.”
The slender woman looked up again with a faint smile on her lips. “You may fire when ready, Sniper Lead,” she said quietly. “All teams move now.
Now!”
The guard’s eyes widened in sudden alarm at the expression he saw on her face. He
West of the Tigris River, the cramped alleys of the Snnni-dominated Ad-hamiya district were lit only by the dim lamplight spilling from tiny shops and shanty teahouses, and out through the latticed windows and gates of older homes. The night air was cool and crisp with just a hint of the clean smell of rain lingering from a brief storm earlier that evening. Men in traditional Arab kaffiyehs, checked pieces of cloth worn over the head, lounged in small groups outside the teashops, smoking cigarettes and exchanging the day’s news and gossip in low voices.
Abdel Khalifa al Dnlaimi, a former colonel in Iraq’s once-feared Intelligence Service, the Mnkhabarat, walked unsteadily down one of the narrow alleys. He was much thinner now than in his days in power, and his hair and mustache were streaked with gray. His hands trembled. “This is madness,” he hissed in Arabic to the woman following modestly in his footsteps with a full shopping basket in her arms. “This place is still a stronghold of the mujahideen. If we are caught here, death would be a kindness and one we would not be granted either quickly or easily.”
The slender woman, cloaked from head-to-toe in a shapeless black abaya, drew a step closer, narrowing the gap between them. “Then the trick is not to get caught, isn’t it, Abdel?” she said coolly in his car in the same language.
“Now shut up and foens on your job. Let me worry about the rest.”
“I don’t know win I’m doing this,” Khalifa grunted sourly.
“Oh, I think you do,” the woman reminded him. Her voice was ice-cold.
“Or would vou really rather face a war crimes tribunal? With your choice of the gallows, firing squad, or a lethal injection? The ordinary people you and your thugs terrorized for so many years haven’t exactly been forgiving, have they?”
The former Mukhabarat officer swallowed hard and fell silent.
The woman looked ahead over his shoulder. They were drawing nearer to a large, two-story mud-brick house, one built around an inner courtyard in the traditional Iraqi style. Two hard-faced young Iraqi men stood in the open courtyard gate, carefully eyeing passersby. Kach guard held a Kalashnikov AKM assault rifle casually at the ready.
“All mission teams, this is Raid One,” the woman murmured in Arabic, speaking into the throat microphone concealed beneath her abaya. “Source One and I are moving into position now. Are you set?”
In turn, other voices ghosted through the small radio receiver fitted in her right ear. “Sniper teams reach. Targets zeroed in. Assault teams ready. Extraction team ready.”
“Understood,” she said softly. She and Khalifa were only meters away from the gate now. “Stand by.”
One of the AKM-armed guards stepped out into the alley, blocking their way. His eyes were narrowed in suspicion. “Who is this woman, Colonel?” he growled. “The general summoned you to this meeting. Only you. No others.”
Khalifa grimaced. “She is my wife’s cousin,” he stammered uneasily. “She was afraid to walk home from the market alone. She has heard the Americans and their pet Iraqi dogs, the Shia collaborators, are raping women caught on their own, without a man to protect them. But I only agreed to bring her this far.”
The woman lowered her dark eyes modestly.
The guard moved closer, still frowning. “You have compromised our se-curitv,” he muttered. “The general will need to know this. Bring the woman inside.”
“Raid One, this is Sniper Lead,” she heard over her radio. “Just say the word.”
The slender woman looked up again with a faint smile on her lips. “You may fire when ready, Sniper Lead,” she said quietly. “All teams move now.
Now!”
The guard’s eyes widened in sudden alarm at the expression he saw on her face. He
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