She stared at him for a long moment – then turned to the tall man next to her, and asked in that melodic voice of hers – “Robert, why is he like that, gregarious on the surface, and sad underneath?”

“Well,” Robert started as he looked hard at his old friend, “He has seen a lot in his life, and thinks a lot – probably too much. That kind of mind will drive itself mad.”

“But the look in his eyes?” She insisted.

“Cherchez la femme” Robert said flatly, then shrugged.

He considered, hesitating for a moment, and then continued…

“But he did it to himself. As much of the world as he’s seen and as much war and killing and suffering, there was only one thing he wanted in life. One thing that held him together. One thing that soothed his tortured soul. That was the love he finally found in her. But, he broke her heart, and when he did it – it was like he had crushed his own soul. Losing her was bad enough, but that wasn’t what pushed him so far down. Hurting her, the one person that he could finally connect with, the one person that he truly loved, with his own stupidity and lack of self discipline…well, it was exponential pain. Knowing that she wanted to hate him, ruined him. He has dealt with all kinds of hate and discontent before and was never worse for the wear. This? This was like the sun suddenly being blinked out – and your world became only a memory of what light and warmth were. As I said, he did it to himself – and I am pretty sure that he hates himself now. He would probably take Papa’s advice and eat a shotgun – if he knew it wouldn’t hurt her worse.”

He noted that she was looking at him. He didn’t miss much. Unfortunately, this was part of what led to that forlorn look in his eyes. The look that belied the smile. He had been so observant, so sensitive to pattern and so analytical when at work for so many years, that it had spoiled much of the surprise and wonder in life. Where people, normal people, went through life oblivious to the little cues and clues that were the bellwether of change, he saw them. He dissected them mentally, quickly, and for the most part accurately. It had made him an accomplished investigator – but it had ruined his outlook on people and relationships. Simply put – he knew too much and it often tore him apart.

He also noted that she was taking to Robert, who was looking very serious and gestured in his direction while they talked. In his peripheral vision, he watched the exchange between the two. Robert, not unlike him, dark, middle aged, with a former athlete’s build – and similarly relatively handsome in spite of being beyond his prime and balding. Robert was older than he, and more experienced in many ways, but they had mentored each other through the years. Working, living and commiserating as friends and equals – in spite of his situational seniority over Robert, or Robert’s advantage in age and experience.

However, in spite of the party swirling around him, and in spite of the conversation between Robert and Ella, she had entered his mind and taken over. The thought of her and what had been made his teeth hurt and ripped a fresh hole in his soul. He imagined Prometheus and how the titan felt – guts ripped open and his liver feasted upon by the Great Eagle day after day…and he fancied Prometheus lucky.

He stood up, drink in hand, smiled at the blonde that was talking at him, rather than to him, as he moved past her to go outside. She kept rattling on about whatever it was that popped into her head and simply shifted to continue, while talking at the next person.

He stepped through the open French Doors onto the broad balcony and into the cool night air. He didn’t notice that Ella watched him, both intrigued and a bit sad, aching to go to him – thinking better of it. His thoughts were far away, as he reached the rail. He slid his strong, but well-manicured hand into his tailored suit jacket to take out a packet of cigarettes. He absently took out the paper tube of expensive, fresh, organic tobacco and lit it on one motion as he inhaled deeply.

Ella saw him light the cigarette and was slightly taken aback. The day before, she had kissed him, and deeply– compulsively and well. He had kissed her back – passionately and with a practiced expertise. She liked the way he kissed her – he seemed to know exactly how to hold her, and exactly….

Nevertheless, she had not detected cigarette smoke, he had tasted of peppermint and tea, but not of an ashtray like other smokers she had kissed. Well, she thought – I guess I can deal with that, if it stays limited.

He blew the smoke out in a long stream, watching as it wafted and dispersed over the city. He thought of her, as she was when they met. As she was when they first kissed. As she was when they spent countless hours together doing everything and nothing. As she was when he broke her heart and she walked away from him forever. His teeth ached again, and he felt a bit dizzy.

He looked over the rail and down to the red and white lights of the cars as they passed below. He watched as they moved, like cells of blood, flowing and throbbing through the veins of the city. He took another drag off the cigarette and then flicked it out into the abyss. He watched it flip end over end, trailing little sparks and burning as bright as a meteor as it fell toward the street below.

In that moment, as he watched the cigarette get smaller and finally disappear from sight, he noticed the light streaming from the party briefly faded, and the wind brought a trace of honeysuckle to his nose. He waited patiently for Ella, and didn’t move when he felt her warm hand touch his shoulder lightly. She abruptly leaned her long form against him and laughed that melodic laugh as she said “Don’t Jump!”

He grinned knowingly to the abyss, and then turned quickly, catching her in the crook of his arm, holding her inappropriately close for half a second, before lightly laughing back at her and talking a half step away.

They still touched as he looked into her sparkling eyes. He smiled brightly and lied “Well, you got me! – You are lucky you didn’t scare me into really jumping!”

He couldn’t tell if she knew he was playing with her, or if she believed his small flattery. But she giggled and asked instead how often he smoked….and when he was going to give it up.

There was silence as he realized that she knew…and he knew…and there was a long heavy moment between them as they looked at each other and he decided if he would answer her question – or answer what she really wanted to know.

He looked into her beautiful eyes and realized how much her double entendre meant in this setting. He smiled as brightly as he could – knowing she would see right through it. He second guessed himself. How did she know? What did she know? Did she care? These questions and more tumbled through his mind at light speed and he came to a decision.

He looked away from her again and out into the night. The wind had picked up slightly and he started-

“I really do hate smoking. Unfortunately, it is a habit that borders on addiction. I know it is bad for me, and leaves me empty and stinking of burned waste… but, it fills the time and makes me feel good while in the act.”

She still had her hand on his shoulder, and he felt her squeeze slightly as he spoke. He glanced back into those eyes and she was looking right back into his. She knew… damned right she knew. She smirked slightly, her bright red lipstick twisting and then she smiled as she spoke –

“You know – there are substitutes for tobacco, there are patches and other things – but you have to quit cold turkey and be strong enough to put it down and not look back.”

Was this intuition, was this rumor gathering? Why did she even care? He replied –

“You are absolutely right, cold turkey is the way to go. I just need something else to occupy my mind – half of any addiction is controlling the mind, not allowing it to wonder. Unfortunately, I am eternally bored lately, so I smoke.”

She looked honestly shocked.

“How does a guy like you get bored? Between work and extracurricular activities – not to mention your family, it seems that your dance card would be full, Sir.” She ended with the ‘Sir’ in a strange sarcastically respectful way.

He laughed, short and dismissively. She knew some of it – but not all. He wished he could explain to her right now, right here, why he was bored and all of the rest – but he knew that he wouldn’t.

A rustling, that sounding like a flag in the breeze interrupted their exchange and they both looked up to see an Osprey glide by – almost close enough to touch – with a fish gripped tightly in its talons. Ella broke the silence and said:

“It looks like she caught herself one, unawares.”

He was still following the raptor with his eyes, wondering where it nested in the ocean-side city, and replied:

“That is actually kinda strange – they are day hunters.”

She replied with the smile back under her nose – “Even day hunters have success when the conditions of the night are right.”

It was his turn to be a bit shocked…

“Fair enough,” he said taking her by the hand and leading her back toward the bar.

He had noticed that her drink was empty, and another swallow would empty his as well.

“I think I am getting closer to being over it.” he said softly, almost before he realized it.

“What?” She asked quizzically.

“Oh – smoking…”

“Good – you deserve better.”

Yes, she knew. They arrived at the bar and he ordered her another of the fruity concoctions that she had been sipping all night. He thought for a second about his usual– and decided to order something completely different…

He ordered a double bourbon – neat. He knew he would get a headache from the elixir, but he didn’t care. He needed a stiff drink, and not one that would set him on his heels.

Ella smiled as she sipped her boat-drink, looking out into the party and silently judging each person on whom her eyes rested. She wasn’t mean, or shallow, it was just the game she played in her head when people watching.

He looked over, his eyes tracing the lines of her lithe form in the formal dress. She was a goddess in the flesh, and he appreciated her, not only in a carnal way, but also in the way that a connoisseur appreciates art. He wanted to kiss her. To hold her. Of course, he wanted her – but he would wait, and holding her would be enough. But, he knew that she would be timid as a stray cat.

He reached up and gently stroked her hair, caressing her head and neck. She did not move – either against his hand or away from him – confounding his effort. She seemed to tolerate his advance – but did not move to encourage him.

He dropped his hand, abandoning his advance, and looked out into the well-dressed crowd, as their conversation and tinkling glasses almost drowned out the lounge music that oozed from the Bose speakers that were strategically placed throughout the condominium. He thought of the randomness of the encounters he had experienced in the last months – and thought of the emptiness of each of them.

He noticed her move slightly and looked back toward her – and found himself again looking into her eyes. He was lost for a moment and ached to pull her to him – but he resisted the impulse. She was not like the others. She deserved his patience. He needed to be patient.

She smiled briefly, knowingly, and quickly looked away – toward the mingling crowd, and away from his probing eyes. Ella would not be conquered; she was not one to be easily had. He was refreshed by her, regardless of the outcome. He was trapped in her grace and was enjoying her coy reaction – in spite her seemingly forward innuendo earlier.

He hesitated again for another half-beat, then the gripped the lime green packet of cigarettes as he mumbled an excuse and smiled absently at Ella before he abruptly walked away. He strode purposefully through the crowd to the white on white, sparkling clean half-bath. He noticed that it was far cleaner than many kitchens and restaurants in which he had eaten.

Ella was taken slightly aback and watched him maneuver through the crowd and into the restroom. She concluded that he must have to relieve himself. She glanced at her Swarovski encrusted watch and cursed quietly into her boat drink. It was getting late, and she wanted to get to her home and her bed.

He gently shut the door and locked it. The put his trembling palms flat down on the cool porcelain counter that blended into the basin seamlessly. He looked into the mirror and breathed deeply and long. He looked at his own green eyes and wondered why it was. He wished and hoped against hope. He thought about then as compared to now.

And there was then. And then again. And he shook his head and forced in the better thoughts of now. And now. And now again. And then broke back through. And his teeth hurt again. Thoughts of Prometheus. He forced the then thoughts out and replaced them with now. And now. And now again.

He washed his face with the cold, sharp water. It erased the slickness that had suddenly coated his face as well as the feeling that doomed him. It refreshed his soul. He let the pain in his teeth, the longing of his soul slide away. He would save it for another time. He could not let a wonderful night be consumed by her…or what he believed was her.

He dried his hands on the downy towel on the nickel loop and looked again into the mirror. He looked past his face and stared to before then. Before he had cared. When it was just the job. When the job was all that mattered. Why had it mattered?

…..

The dust was like finely ground chalk, except tan. When he stepped down, a little puff of displaced dust billowed out around his tan suede boots. The boots themselves were stained in strange concentric topographical overlays of salty white rings. They betrayed the days and weeks of sweat that in turn told how long he had been in the desert.

The day was as hot and dry as you would expect. The sky was as blue as lapis and unmarked by clouds. The horizon was uneven, broken by small hills, the occasional house and a few date palms. Some of the houses had banners, fluttering in satin red, green and black. Each banner meant something to the inhabitants. But, that is for another time, he thought, not now.

He was walking toward the ramshackle gate that guarded one of the many rutted, bombed out, washed out tracks that led into what would now be called a FOB or Forward Operating Base – then it was just known as Habbaniya. It was, prior to the invasion, an Iraqi air base and had dozens of huge holes in the ground with each hole holding one of several various Mikoyan and Sukhoi fighters and fighter-bombers. Each aircraft was covered with a tarp, which was in turn hastily covered with tons of the moon dust that he still trudged through.

He squinted behind his Oakleys and looked intently at the fighting position. There was a gunner lazing behind his 7.62 millimeter machine gun that was stamped Fabrique Nationale. A sentry with a rifle stared toward the escarpment and the main road, and third Soldier was sleeping, in full kit, on an aluminum and nylon cot that was stained with sweat, not unlike his boots. They were all in the patchwork shade of a faded and torn camouflage net that flapped hesitantly in the dry breeze that came from the lake that covered the desert to the West of Habbaniya. The scene reminded him of some painting, maybe one commissioned by a General officer. One that would hang in a forgotten hall of some musty, humid office building on Fort Whereever – until the building was declared uninhabitable and demolished.

The sentry turned toward him, shuffling in the dust – smiled in a ridiculous way, spat out a long stream of tobacco juice and half shouted in the approximated southern accent that many young Soldiers adopted.

“Wassup Sarn’t?!”

He half grinned at the young Soldier, his white teeth showing like a beacon from between his sun-darkened lips. He visually took in the whole of the dusty, sweat-stained kid and deduced that he was an Infantryman.

“Just checking on you guys . Do you need any-

He was cut off mid-sentence as the Soldier’s hot blood splattered on his face, and the sound of angry bees sliced through the air around him.

…….

He shook his head violently and gritted his teeth. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out the small pill container. He took out a small, orange, oblong, Xanax and popped it in his mouth. He drank deeply from the sink, washing down the bitter, uncoated pill. He stared at the face that stared back at him again. He breathed again. He thought of her, and of then, and of before then, and of Ella last night, and of now. He concentrated on now. He let then go again, and when it lingered, he forced then out.

He looked at his heavy stainless steel dive watch and realized that he had been in in the restroom an embarrassingly long time. He checked his teeth in the mirror, smiled to himself and walked out into the party.

Ella and Robert were chatting again, quietly, smiling and not looking at him. He could tell that they were playing the game together. They were people watching. He smiled genuinely and eased toward them, taking note of whom they were watching and coming to his own conclusions about those people.

Robert sensed his friend closing in and looked up, still smiling, and asked laughingly:

“Feel any lighter bud?”

He laughed at Robert’s joke, glad that it distracted from why he was really in there so long. He looked over at Ella and saw her looking at him intently, with a question in her eyes. He turned to the bar and ordered another bourbon, keeping his back to his friends while he waited.

He knew that the best way to bring Ella to him was to play as coy as she was. She enjoyed the game as much as he.

As the bartender prepared his drink, he eavesdropped on the chatter between Ella and Robert and smiled at the banality of the topic, which had turned to some reality TV personality. Sometimes it was good to talk about nothing at all.

The bartender handed him the dark liquid and accepted the tip with a thank you. He turned half around again, and let the music wash over him. The vaguely familiar tune was juxtaposed against the crowd in such a way that he thought that the scene should be in a movie. If only he could rewrite the lines.

He heard Robert getting chatted up by a newspaper reporter that was more than a little in the bottle and he waited, although he didn’t have to wait long. He felt Ella glide to the bar beside him and could feel her next to him, although they didn’t actually touch.

He turned back to the bar again, just far enough to see her in his peripheral vision. She turned and faced him fully. He waited and could see her brow furrow slightly in frustration. She mentioned in a purposefully off-handed way-

“I think I am ready to go home”

He smiled inwardly to himself and raised his eyebrows as he was sure now.

He said “Would you like me to walk you to your car?”

It was her turn to smile inwardly and know. She said nonchalantly “Sure, I hate those parking garages.”

They said their goodbyes separately to the hosts and a few acquaintances, and he nodded and smiled at Robert, who grinned evilly. The unspoken agreement was that he and Ella would not appear to leave together, so he made his way to door, and stepped outside without looking back. In the hall he popped a piece of peppermint into his mouth, checked himself in the mirror, checked his pockets, and the little .380 that rode in the small of his back. Satisfied, he strolled toward the elevator, and heard the door of the condo open and close behind him. He punched the down button and could smell the honeysuckles again.

There was a low tone when the elevator stopped and he stepped inside just as Ella walked up. As the door closed, he pulled her toward him. She started a bit, and resisted his pull for less than half a second before pressing her body hard against him. He punched the “P” button as he kissed her and the elevator ride seemed to last forever and only a moment.

Wordlessly, they walked through the brightly lit parking level, their steps echoing off the concrete. She had linked her arm in his as they walked and she smiled brightly. She guided him to her little convertible that was backed into a nearby space, and hit the remote button that started the engine, lowered the windows and put the top down all at once.

“This is me.” she said, hesitating.

“Mine is over there.” he said, gesturing vaguely.

“What are you…” she started.

“Nothing planned, I am suddenly wide awake.” He interrupted.

He awoke with a start and an unbearable headache. He couldn’t remember the dream that woke him, but the adrenaline that dumped into his system due to violence of whatever subconscious encounter he had experienced, still coursed through his veins. Of course, she was the subject first cognitive thought, and he shook his head painfully to clear his mind. He had a lot to do today, but first he had to get home and the last thing he needed was to be distracted by her. Besides…he thought, as he remembered where he was…Ella had more than distracted him, and in a way that he didn’t mind at all.

He smelled honeysuckle and fabric softener. There was a soft, lovely, sweet weight on his arm. He looked over and saw Ella’s blonde hair spilled across his arm and shoulder. He flashed back to the long, passionate hours that they spent together last night. Through the fog of the hangover he remembered the exquisiteness of it all and found himself wanting to wake her up and stay for another hour or so – but duty called. He gently slid his arm from underneath her head, and though she stirred a bit, she snuggled back into her expensive pillow, wrapped her Egyptian cotton sheets around her and went back to sleep.

He sat on the bed for a few moments with one hand on her hip and the other gently stroking her silky hair. It was a struggle to make himself leave, but the pain and his job begged for attention. The room was neat except for the mess they had made last night. The modern furniture was a matched set, and her sturdy bed rivaled the best that The Ritz had to offer in both linens and comfort. He gathered his clothes and pulled them on. He smelled of the night and all of its frivolity and debauchery. He needed to brush his teeth – they felt fuzzy. He wanted a long shower to wash away the night and prepare for the day.

After he was dressed, he drank deeply from the kitchen sink, opened the Uber app on his phone, requested a ride, stole a bottle of water from the counter and made his way to the door. He paused and wrote a brief note to Ella on one of his cards and left it on the counter. He double checked his pockets and gun, and proceeded to the door. He realized that Ella didn’t have a door that you could lock and close – there was a single deadbolt. He reached into a zippered pocket of his jacket and pulled out the small lock pick set. He picked her lock and used the tension bar to slide the deadbolt home after he stepped outside and closed the door.

On the way down form her 22nd floor condo, he checked the app and saw that the car would be there about the time he left the lobby. It felt like someone was driving a screwdriver into his skull and he regretted switching to bourbon. He suffered through the ride back to the high rise where they left his car, their friends and the party. After paying the Uber driver and getting into his car, he rummaged around in the glove box for his headache medicine and came up with three different cures, two over the counter and a prescription. He washed a dose of each down with the bottle of water and moaned in self-pity as he started his car and headed home. He looked in his console and found a packet of disposable toothbrushes, the kind with the toothpaste built in. As he navigated through the quiet Sunday morning streets, he brushed his teeth and relished the feeling.

He stopped at a Hardee’s drive through, got some sweet tea and a couple of greasy meat biscuits. He ate them absently as be listened to the news on the radio. Initially, it was the same sort of celebrity nonsense and traffic reports as always. Then he heard something that made him stop chewing and swallow the mouthful of steak biscuit prematurely. It was a name he knew, but couldn’t immediately remember the context. The story was a fluff piece about the local interfaith community summit and some peace, love and charity event that they were putting on.

He was no longer in the car- he was no longer driving. His body was going through the motions, but in his head he was thinking back, making connections, digging through data. Imam Achmed bin Saddiqui – AKA Abu Talha, the pieces started to fall into place like the dispirit shapes in a Tetris game. Could it be? Was this him, again? The face coalesced into sharp relief in his mind as he pulled into his garage and sat in the car with the radio still droning on. If it was the same scumbag he knew from Tal Afar…his day was about to get much worse.

He finally went inside and immediately brushed his teeth with a real toothbrush and paste. He turned on the shower and while he waited for the water to warm up, he shouted to the Amazon Echo that sat in his bedroom:

“Alexis, find current news on Imam Achmed bin Saddiqui.”

Alexis’ blue light lit up brightly and flashed in a rotating manner around the rim and said: “I did not understand our request”

“Damn it” – he muttered

“Please use the commands…” Alexis started –

“Alexis, Shut up!” He shouted testily.

Alexis made a sad sound and went dark and silent.

He finished his morning ablutions and sat down in front of his computer. It was a high quality, custom machine, built for gaming (which he did use it for occasionally), but used mainly for his side projects – like the one he was about to start. He powered it up and turned on the 32” monitor that dominated his desk. While he waited for the logon screen he thought about the first time he had seen Abu Talha.

————-

His radio squawked next to his head, repeating the call:

“Delta Bravo One Three, this is Shadow Main” A pause in the transmission and the radio went silent. He shook his head to clear the confusion from his head of waking up at the odd hour.

“Delta Bravo One Three, this is Shadow Main”

He reached for the radio blindly, gripped it and pushed the transmit button – “This is One Three – go…” he replied, his voice croaking and dry.

“One Three, they need you at the SHU, attempted escape” came the disembodied reply, from the voice, a young female soldier with a non-distinct accent and businesslike demeanor. He did not recognize it as belonging to someone he knew.

“Roger, five mikes.” He responded, his voice starting to clear.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, pulled on the socks that rested on top of his boots. His trousers were “fireman rolled” around his boots, so he was quick in getting dressed. He slipped his feet into the unlaced boots, pulled up his trousers, buckled the “rigger’s belt” around his waist, pulled on his suspenders, and bent over to tie his boots. That done, he buckled the thigh rig holster around his leg and slid the M9 pistol into it with a click. He double checked his “Bat-Belt” for the appropriate gear, pulled on his blouse, shrugged on his vest, buckled on his helmet and finally put on the ballistic amber-tinted eyewear that completed his ensemble for leaving the concrete building and going to the SHU.

SHU is an acronym, meaning “Special Housing Unit.” This was a level of the interment facility reserved for the worst of the detainees – those having committed violent crimes within the facility, who had attempted escape, or who were known to be especially nasty terrorists.

He grabbed his small rucksack that contained everything he would normally need during the course of a field investigation, as well as water, cigarettes, snacks and extra ammunition. He slung it over his shoulder as he straightened the covers on the makeshift twin bed that had been built from scrap lumber. He turned off his small TV/DVD combo that had been cycling through the screen saver since he had fallen asleep watching the latest in bootleg “Hajji-Vision” movies and looked around the Spartan room.

Dust – there was always a fine coating of dust in this country – even when indoors, in an air-conditioned building. He grabbed the panties that Becky had left (probably on purpose) hanging from the hook where she had hung her uniform the night before, and stuffed them in his pocket to give to her later. Everything else was in order, so pulled back the cloth that covered the doorway, unlatched the door itself, opened the heavy steel door, went out and padlocked it shut.

The hallway was relatively cool, and quiet. The ubiquitous dust had been swept out recently by one of the “Blueberries” – so named because of the blue jumpsuits that the Bangladeshi maintenance contractors wore. The originally smooth, but now cracked, broken and pockmarked floor echoed faintly as he walked out to the motorpool.

He tossed his bag on the center platform of the HMMWV or “Humvee” and unlocked the steering wheel. He pushed the lever on the ignition over one click and the “wait light” turned on. He took a step back and walked around the beat up and abused vehicle, policing up the drip pan and wheel chocks as he went. Everything was in reasonable shape considering. He put the equipment into the back of the vehicle and climbed in, shutting the flimsy door behind him. The vehicle turned over after a cough, and he turned on the lights. The moon dust was already rising as the engine’s fan and exhaust stired up the tiny particles. He engaged the transmission and roared off to the SHU.

After he parked and took the long stroll past two guarded checkpoints, down the rutted and moon dust covered road to the SHU itself, he was greeted by a young guard, who was maybe 18. The guard smiled and waved as be pulled the heavy gate open. He waited patiently for the guard, who escorted him across the brightly lit loading area to the considerably dimmer ramshackle “control room” that was made almost entirely of wood, and heavily sandbagged. He stepped inside, signed in, un-holstered his pistol, stuffed it in his rucksack and hung the bag on a hook adjacent to the guard force’s kit.

The Captain of the Guard was listening intently to the explanation of what detainee 781662 had been up to over the last several hours. Sergeant Santiago was the on duty Sergeant of the Guard and was giving a very professional back brief to the officer. He took out his pale green, hardbound notebook and started jotting down the highlights of what Santiago told the officer. This 781662 guy was pretty clever. While still listening, he leaned over the shoulder of the Specialist who had pulled up the electronic file on 781662 and was reading the back-story.

He was not surprised by the youth of the face that stared glumly at him from the screen. Many of the detainees were motivated Iraqi youth that had simply done what any patriotic military aged male would do if his country were invaded by foreigners. He read over the particulars, and realized why this young one was here. This one was not just a patriot…he was a cold-blooded terrorist.

Achmed bin Saddiqui al Tikriti was the name listed, with an AKA of Abu Talha. How this kid had the honorific of being a father of anyone was suspect, but that was not yet pertinent. He was listed as being from Tikrit, and as such as possibly a distant relation to Saddam. He apparently spoke both Arabic and a little English, as well as having attended at least some University. He was rolled up by CAG (Combat Applications Group – commonly referred to in the popular press as “Delta Force”) in the house of an HVT (High Value Target) in Baquba. He was quickly tied to several bombings and beheadings as part of the emerging pattern of internal terrorism aimed at the Shia minorities and part of the overall plans of AQIZ (Al Qaeda in Iraq), the local franchise of Osama bin Laden’s international house of lethal Wahabbi exports.

He was then escorted out to the cells, such as they were, made of giant U-shaped reinforced concrete bunkers that had been modified with a steel grid of welded rebar on the backside and a similar “door” fitted to the front. The area inside was fitted with nothing more than a hard concrete floor, a mattress, blanket and water bottle. The whole SHU smelled of body odor and shit. Everything had a heavy layer of dust, and he could almost feel the smell and definately taste of the dust on is tongue when he spoke to the guards.

Two guards walked to SHU cell #1 with him – which was right outside of the door of the control shack. Originally, the Abu Talha had been in #6 down the way – but had broken some of the cross bars trying to escape – and it was awaiting repair by the engineers, who would eventually show up. He looked in and saw the skinny, filthy kid in a dirty orange jump suit sitting on his mattress. The kid had his arms around his knees, and was staring with smoldering hate at the guards – but looked curiously at this newcomer.

He turned to the guards, and asked one to bring some juice and cigarettes, and asked to other to wait in the control shack for “Frank,” his very brave and faithful Iraqi born interpreter (Terp), who should be along directly. The guards rogered-up and moved out to complete these new tasks. He turned back and looked again at Abu Talha. He saw that his detainee wristband was hanging around his neck on a ratty looking string and wondered if the kid had ever considered just snuffing it…probably not.

He said in English: “781662?”

“Yes, what do you want – pig?” The kids replied in Arabic – tinged with a crossbred accent. It had a base of Diyala Province…but had the thick tongue sound of Saudi Arabic as well.

That IS interesting, he thought to himself. He continued in Arabic – his with a distinctly Baghdad accent:

“I am not a guard, I am a Military Police Investigator – do you understand me?”

“Yes” was the curt reply.

“So you know that I am not to be trifled with, like you have with these ‘pigs’ – right?”

The only reply was a sharp sucking “tisk” or click from the now disgusted face of the kid.

He smiled at the kid and thought to himself – “So it begins…”

The logon screen for the PC came up and he went through the familiar sequence, typing as his mind raced ahead of his fingers. He immediately launched the web browser and opened several tabs, each pointed to a different open-source database or news site that he monitored because of the veracity and value of the information contained there was outstanding. As the pages loaded, he conducted searches for the various spellings and variations of Abu Talha’s names and began to skim over the hits.

He paused for a moment, pushed the power button on the laptop that waited on the desk beside his computer and waited for the post noises to let him know when it was ready for him to sign in. he absently pressed the button on the BNC, which caused the big monitor to flutter and then display a duplicate of the laptop’s screen. He logged onto the laptop – this function took somewhat longer as the company that he worked for at his “day job” took cyber security very seriously and had the cash to pay for the best tech. He worked his way through multiple sign on screens and a combination of security tokens and biometrics were employed before he was actually able to use the machine. He pushed the button on the BNC switch again and with a flutter, the browser from his personal machine came back up.

His cell phone trilled – breaking his train of thought and action. He glanced down at the notification in green on the face of his phone. It was from Ella. He let it sit a moment while he adjusted the search settings and saved several links for review.

Ella wanted to know if they could have dinner in the evening, and he made her wait a while longer before answering. He looked at his Outlook calendar and the time was not booked… but he hesitated.

He looked back over the links that he had saved and a thought flashed into his head. Then he sent a text to Karl, who was an old friend with whom he sometimes shared information. Karl was still in the business of targeting the worst of the bad guys and worked for one of the Special Mission Units that were born of the ill-named “Global War on Terrorism.” He knew that Karl would be doing PT and the response would not be immediate, so he touched the BNC switch again and began going through the email and case files for his day job.

After an hour or so, he had finished up the work-a-day tasks that comprised about a quarter of the job, noted the address of a few locations that were due for Physical Security Surveys and smiled when he realized that if he followed a circuitous route, the last location would place him very close to Ella’s flat. He sent her a text saying that tonight would be good and started packing up his kit for a road trip.

……….

He drove down the two-lane road through the rolling hills of horse country. The asymmetrical trees that lined the road leaned away leaned away from the power lines as if they were windswept for many years. The other side of the road had a canopy formed by the live oak trees, which were always green and decorated with the grey beards of Spanish moss. The low morning sun created a strobe like effect as his car flashed by at twice the legal speed.

He noticed the small black form of a turkey buzzard circling and pin wheeling lazily on the thermal currents that rose above the road. He was mesmerized for a few moments and lost himself in thought wondering about the plight of the soaring scavenger as he searched for his next meal. Then his phone trilled. When it did, his heart sank. It was a text from her.

Instantly the familiar ache in his teeth started and he found it laborious to breathe. The query that showed on the face of his phone was innocuous enough – but it was still her. And in spite of his statement last night – she still owned real estate in his mind and he felt the tug of her like he felt the tug of the nicotine that he was determined to quit. Nonetheless, he answered her and hoped that would be all there was to it. Unfortunately, he could not make himself not answer her – even when he knew that it would do nothing but cause them both pain. Fortunately, that was all there was – just a simple query about redirected mail from the postal service. He laughed at himself and forced her back into the lock box in his mind that she seemed to be able to escape at will.

His phone trilled again, and he looked at it with trepidation. This time it was Karl. He confirmed that the Unit was tracking Abu Talha. The bastard had been freed by the current Administration on some feel-good release program. But, what made it worse is that this “reformed” Jihadi was now on tour with this interfaith group that claimed to be spreading a message of peace and understanding. The Unit knew what he was up to, and would put him down if they could, but they had been expressly forbidden from so much as sending him a strongly worded email. Karl made it clear that he was not happy about it – but his hands were tied.

The miles passed by with music playing low in the background. His mind turned over and played with the puzzle of Abu Talha. His hands and eyes reacted automatically to the conditions of the road, the drivers and the day as he went. He completed the assessments, as always acting gregarious, professional and sometimes a bit flirtatious with the various female site leaders that he met as he worked. Through it all – he fought to quash the flashes of her that popped up with every little reminder. Through it all – he thought about Abu Talha and wondered about the next move.

He called Ella and arranged to meet her at the exclusive seafood restaurant on the top floor of the Ritz. It was her favorite place to eat, but he found the menu unimaginative and the food bland. Fortunately, the bartender was a professional and made a Cuba Libre that would pass muster. He met her in the parking lot and as usual, she was stunning, even in business casual. They embraced and kissed, although he held back and it was only a brief kiss – like that one would give a close friend – not a lover.

They took the glass elevator up and spoke briefly about nothing in particular. The doors opened to reveal the under lit and over decorated restaurant. They did not have reservations and ordered cocktails at the bar while they waited for a table. He guided her out onto the covered balcony to get away from the hoi polloi that had gathered at the long bar. The dark clouds of the typical southern summer evening had rolled in quickly turning the blue sky a slate grey and cooling the air, if only until it stopped raining. They sipped their drinks quietly and stared at the misting rain and the low fog that rose like a ghost from the hot pavement blow.

He could tell by her body language that Ella was put off by the lack of passion in their embrace downstairs. He smiled inwardly, knowing that she would say something soon. He thought for a moment, considering his feelings for her. He liked her for good reason. She was smart, successful, beautiful and creative in the bedroom. Nevertheless, the fact was, that in spite of it all, he knew that he had too much on his mind and his plate to give her what she wanted.

Ella stood with her drink in hand, one arm crossed in front and asked without looking at him: “How is quitting going?”

“It sucks.” He replied flatly, feeling a bit ashamed.

“I can imagine – I thought you said you were over it?” She queried, her sharp tongue cutting like a rapier.

He stopped himself from using the verbal cudgel that instantly came to him… he thought for a moment and instead said: “I suppose that you never get over an addiction – you just learn to ignore the craving or find something else to replace it.”

“Indeed,” She started, purposefully using the word for effect, “It seems that we all desire what we can’t have – especially when it is bad for us.”

Their duel was interrupted as the Maître D’ swept out onto the balcony and nodded at him, questioning “Monsieur Bernard?”

He replied with a smile and gestured for Ella to follow the man in the tuxedo. He led them inside and he took stock of everyone in the huge room. He had been here before and knew where the exits and restrooms were, so he concentrated on the wait-staff and clientele. He noted nothing unusual. The Maître D’ led them to a table in a corner, and Ella hesitated, remembering that he would want his back to the wall.

They sat across from each other on the push leather chairs and the waiter appeared to take their drink orders. He ordered another Cuba Libre, and she asked for a cucumber martini. They sat in silence looking over the menu and then compared what they might order. The waiter returned with fresh drinks and they placed an order for an appetizer.

Ella said: “You know, you are a selfish prick – but at least you are nice about it.”

“Really?” He replied – looking past her and noticing that in spite of the cloud cover, it seemed very bright outside because it was so dark in the restaurant. The effect made it difficult for him to make out many details behind her as the halo of her eclipsing the ambient light outside glowed around her.

“Yes,” she started, feeling more confident, “Your waters run too deep for most people – but somehow you aren’t arrogant about it.”

“You just said I was a ‘Selfish Prick’” he replied, enjoying the resumption of the duel.

“You are – but not an arrogant selfish prick – it is difficult to explain.” She said haltingly.

He considered before replying. He knew she had been thinking about his all day. She was probably half in the bottle now, and her courage was up, while her inhibitions were down. Before he could respond, the waiter returned with the appetizer.

They ordered their entrées and another round of drinks. He looked at Ella dubiously as she ordered far more food than she could ever eat tonight and another martini. She smiled across the table in an “eat shit” sort of way, so he remained quiet.

“I will take the excess home.” She said by way of explanation.

“You ‘don’t do’ leftovers, though?” he replied, cocking an eyebrow.

“You can eat it then.” She said dismissively and sipped her martini.

By way of an unspoken cease-fire, they both let it go for a time. Ella’s spirits visibly lifted when the food arrived and they ate in the methodical way that you eat in a nicer restaurant. He adjusted his attitude in turn, attempting to keep the mood light. When they finished, they had another cocktail and she picked up her purse. It was a rather large purse for her in general, and did not match her normal style or the situation. He had noted it earlier, but dismissed it as an anomaly at the time. Now, with its black largeness resting on her lap, he had a sense of foreboding.

He decided to sidetrack her from whatever she was about to do, and try to broach the subject indirectly.

He Took out his phone and started to type in a search phrase, she interrupted: “Really? You and that damned phone!” She said, in amused bewilderment.

“Hang on sweetie – I have something that I want to read to you.” He replied in earnest.

It was her turn to cock an eyebrow, but she waited patiently as he looked up the passage from the first book of Hemingway’s “Islands in the Stream” She listened intently and turned stony as she absorbed what he was saying. The passage was a bit long, and she was smiling again when he finished.

“That is SO YOU!” She nearly shouted. Laughing, she said: “Look I get it, you don’t want a wife – or even someone to live with. You need to understand that to me, men are just an accessory. I just like the alpha-male, self-absorbed, asshole type – you fit in my purse well.”

With that, she pulled a small, blow-molded, black plastic box out of her oversized purse and slid it across the table toward him. As she did, it shoved the plates aside and almost upset the glasses. He instantly recognized the box as one that would contain a Walther PPK-S pistol. He looked from it to her quizzically.

“That is for you dear. I know how you needed a smaller pistol for casual days in the heat. This should suffice… you did say a Walther PPK-S would be one of your choices, yes?” She said with determination and self-satisfaction.

He was a bit shocked. He stammered and mumbled something meant to be a declination of the gift.

“Oh shut up. Just take it.” She quipped.

He looked at the box for a long time, and thought that it was too much to accept from her on a number of levels. Then she was there in his head – the last one to do anything of this magniatude for him. He shook her out of his his head and looked up at Ella – hoping that she would acknowledge the plea in his eyes, to not do this. He felt awful and giddy all at once. Then he felt like a bit of a whore. He needed to think this one through, but the rum and the location and the situation were all running together and clouding his thoughts like the fog that had lifted from the pavement earlier.

So, he decided to ride through the storm of the situation and think about it more soberly in the morning. But first, the whore would have to earn his pay – even if he decided to decline it in the morning. While he was sitting there considering, she had settled the check and the waiter packed up the left overs in boxes. She was ready to leave.

They drove to her place in their own cars and parked in the garage before riding up the elevator to her condo. She had laughed too loudly at each of his quips on the way into the building and started to work her physical magic during the ascent… he realized would pay dearly for that gift tonight.

He woke with a start, his body damp with perspiration. He had another nightmare that he could not remember. She used to be able to calm him with just a touch. Here and now, in Ella’s bed, he was alone and empty as the tumbler on the nightstand. He could hear Ella in the kitchen making whatever gourmet food she had dreamed up to break their fast. It smelled good – but he imagined the odd texture of kale and exotic taste of spices that weren’t meant for breakfast foods.

Lounge music filtered into the cool room as he oozed out of the bed and trundled to the bathroom. He performed his morning ablutions and dressed in fresh clothes from his bag. He strolled into the kitchen and sat at the counter in front of the food that Ella had prepared. As he expected, it looked and smelled better than it tasted. Ella looked radiant in the white sundress that floated around her as she moved. She looked at him adoringly, kissed his cheek and said that she had to leave for work. He gripped the back of her firm thigh and hugged her close before letting her go.

Ella told him to lock up again before he left – like he had done last time. The both smiled at the joke and then she was gone. He forced his mind past the women on to Abu Talha. Soon he was back on the road and winding his way through the confusing streets of the city. He parked in a high-rise garage and double-checked his equipment before locking the car. He looked around to orient himself and headed toward the stairs.

Today he was dressed in the casual clothes that would look typical on anyone in this neighborhood. Jeans, sneakers, a baseball cap and a hoodie. His hat was pulled down low and combined with his dark glasses to obscure most of his face. This was, of course, by design. He took a circuitous route to his destination, always watchful for a tail or undue notice. He looked for routes in and out of the area and other points of interest.

Eventually, he arrived at the little kebab shop and wondered inside, taking in everything as he appeared to concentrate on the menus that were hung above the counter with illuminated plastic shells decorated with impossible pictures of food whose descriptions were in stenciled in Arabic and inconsistent English. He heard the rough voice of the manager in the back, berating the woman who worked in the front to take the order of the Kaffir at the counter. That Kaffir did not betray that he understood everything they said.

He loved the smell of the meat and vegetables cooking and his mouth watered at the thought of the spicy chic-peas scooped up with flatbread. It was one of the many things that he actually liked and missed about the region. The middle aged and moderately attractive woman who worked the counter came out and greeted him, asking to take his order without looking directly at him. As he ordered, her head jerked up and she looked at him with surprise. He looked into her eyes and said “Salam Alaikum, Hajjia” in an Iraqi accent. She beamed at him and started to come around the counter, while shouting at the man in the back.

No, no, no! He said brusquely in Arabic. His tone stopped her in her tracks. She looked at him quizzically in silence. He stated simply, “I am working.” He had written a note that morning, which he took out of his pocket and slid across the counter, while he motioned for her to take it to the back. Then he turned and sat at one of the well-worn, but clean tables in the small dining area. He sat with his back to the kitchen, playing with his phone absentmindedly, while he watched the street outside.

He watched the street with a practiced eye as people walked up and down the sidewalk. No one took notice of him as he sat, apparently playing a game on this phone. He marked two Arab men in shortened dishdashas, wearing long beards, walking hand in hand down the street. They were deep in conversation and instinctively navigated the signs, fire hydrants, and people that crossed their paths. He began to think about then, but pushed it out of his mind. Fortunately, the smell of a fresh batch of chic-peas and lamb wafted into the room just ahead of the Hajjia who bore it to him.

She placed the food on the worn table, along with a napkin and a paper menu, but noticeably, no check for the food.

She said in Arabic, “The meal is on us Habibi, you be careful – he is very dangerous…but you know that. Go with God and all of our love.”

With that, she touched his hand, and then turned and walked to the kitchen, where she began to shout at the man in the back again.

He ate slowly, enjoying each bite, and savoring the flavors that he had not tasted in months. While he visited with the Shaab family from time to time, it was usually at a spot away from their community. While he could fit in relatively well with the moderates of the Ummah, most of the extremists had at least heard of him, and he did not want to bring any hate into their lives. As he thought about them, then creeped into his mind, like an insidious disease…

~~~~~~~

The soft-sided HMMWV was parked about a mile to the east of the east gate of Bakr Airbase, lately called LSA (Life Support Area) Anaconda, near the city of Balad, north of Baghdad. They were watching the cross of the East Gate Road and the Outer Perimeter Road, waiting for the Iraqi Air Force Warrant Officers to arrive and assist with their current mission. It was dusty and warm, but only about 100 degrees, as the spring was ending, and the pressing heat of summer was not yet upon them.

He sat in the right-rear seat, with his Beretta Model 12 submachine gun on his lap, and his M16A2 rifle gripped firmly in the rifle rack in front of him. On his thigh rode his M9 pistol in a Safariland holster. When in the truck, he had found that the captured Beretta sub-gun was a lot handier than the full length M16A2. Before he had taken the sub-gun from a less than fortunate member of the Fedayeen-Saddam, his M9 was his workhorse. The Beretta pistol looked very much like the the Tariq variant of the M1951 carried by the former regime’s Military Police. They were brutal bastards, who were known to execute people summarily for the slightest provocation. While he was not a murderer by any means, he was not above using the fear of their brutality and the Berretta pistol to influence certain people who may need some additional motivation. Nevertheless, today, none of that would be needed.

Soon, Jeff slid out of the driver’s seat and strolled across to the ramshackle shack that served as the post-war Iraqi version of 7/11. Using hand signals, and a combination of Pidgin English and terrible Arabic, he purchased four “Bepsi” in worn glass bottles, a whole baked chicken, rice, flatbread, and grilled vegetables. Jeff moseyed back to the vehicle and passed the drinks around, and set the food out on the center deck of the truck, between the four men. They ate their fill, and finished, all wondering aloud where the damned lazy and perpetually late Iraqi Warrants were.

The Major’s cell phone trilled. It was a locally purchased, Chinese made phone, that he bought expressly to be able to communicate with their interpreter – but soon it became handy for contacting other Iraqis as well. The Major swore as he fumbled with the phone and cursed the Iraqi Warrant officers in a string of spitting derision. He finally got control of the phone and flipped it open, pausing briefly to look and the number, when a brief look of confusion crossed his face. The major stepped out of his seat in the right front of the truck, and stood outside talking too rapidly, having to repeat himself, and bagan walking in a large circle, oblivious to where he was.

Staff Sergeant Bernard absently picked up his Italian sub-gun, felt his cargo pocket for the pack of Marlboro Menthol Lights, and got out of the truck. He strolled over to the opposite side of the vehicle to smoke and joke with Jeff and Sean. He knew the Major’s conversation could take an hour and figured he would stay away from the chubby fucker while he sputtered and ranted in words too big and uncommon for the Iraqi on the other end to understand.

Surprisingly, it was less than five minutes before the Major climbed back into the truck and told Jeff to fire it up – they had to go.

Bernard scrambled back around to the right rear seat, and jumped in, just as Jeff floored it and sped away to the North. A couple of miles down the road was an abandoned petrol station, and the Major told Jeff to pull in, and around the back. Jeff stopped the vehicle, and shut it down. They all knew something had just triggered the Major, and looked at him expectantly.

He looked worried, and angry as he began: “Achmed’s house was attacked a week ago.”

The others responded with a chorus of swearing, questions, and oaths of revenge.

“They burned it down – but he, his wife and Ali all got out. All of the rest – killed.”

More swearing, some slamming of fists against the truck, and oaths came back at him.

“Ali took a round to the arm, but is OK. Aiesha lost the baby. They are in Najaf, hiding with Sheik Mohammed at five-points.”

Bernard felt like someone had kicked him hard in the guts. He could not breathe. His vision swam around and he thought he would fall over. He stumbled out of the truck and made his way to the pump house behind the petrol station. He no longer heard the cacophony behind him of the men responding to the news. His grief and guilt hammered him toward the ground. He fell to his knees behind the pump house and wretched. He cried like a child as the waves of emotion crashed over him. He knew that his team was to blame for this attack, the deaths, the loss of Achmed’s unborn daughter – and he hated himself for it.