DAGR HAD APPROPRIATED THE OFFICE ENTIRELY NOW, RUNNING data, fine tuning his equation. The computer was old, the software almost obsolete. It had taken Dagr half the day to jerry-rig it into doing what he wanted. Amal had fixed a blackboard on the wall, unearthed pieces of orange chalk. It helped him think, the board covered in symbols, calmed him into something like functionality. Men and women were dropping by all day, feeding him bits of data, suspicious until they saw him, his head and arms bandaged, chalk dust on his clothes, something fey in his eyes. They treated him like an idiot savant, talking to him slowly, old women pressing bits of fruit into his hands, taking on faith entirely that he was doing something useful.
The chalk brought him intensely happy memories. The lull of an empty classroom, Dagr perched on his desk, making furious equations all over the board; a grad student walking by, stopping to watch him with gold flecked eyes, a smile crooking her mouth, lighting up a face so achingly earnest. The thin perfume alerted him, and he swiveled, almost falling, falling. She took the chalk and corrected his mistakes, still smiling, at some point getting on the desk, edging him aside, until she arrived at a point she could not reach on tiptoes, and Dagr grabbed her shirt, and they nearly fell over laughing.
That much and no more and he stood bereft, staring, sliding slowly into dismay, awaiting the inevitable reconstruction of reality with its soul-killing loneliness. Blackboard, chair, table, computer, doorframe. Autistic fumbling, as his brain tried to fit them into something palatable and failed repeatedly, and the grayness seeped in. They slipped into his day, these moments, in the most unreasonable of times, pieces from some elusive mirror world, a past that he was unsure had ever existed at all. Surely that classroom stood somewhere, still, chalk dust and laughter.
He saw Kinza approaching, eyes averted, reality tethering him back in.
“Coffee,” he said, offering a cup. Neutral.
“I’m alright,” Dagr said, “just light-headed.”
“Any luck?”
“It’s working,” Dagr said. “Slowly. I have some patterns. Too many assumptions to be sure.” He knew there was an impatient crowd outside, held in check by Kinza’s face alone.
“I got word from Shulla,” Kinza said. “They are looking for Hamid. We cannot stay here long.”
“We can be ready tonight, perhaps,” Dagr hesitated. “I have an area narrowed down. An abandoned building, I guess.” He pointed to the board, “This equation approximates his speed on foot. The map is plotted with all his stops on any given night. The program catches any big gaps in his schedule and posits where he could have gone during that time. Data from a large period of time narrow these options. Taking into account first and last stops in each night, along with times, and we get a picture.”
“Your arm is bleeding,” Kinza said. “You don’t need to come tonight. Hamid and I will be sufficient.”
“No,” Dagr said, fighting back a temptation to agree. “No, you can’t trust Hamid. We should stick together.”
“I am not afraid of Hamid,” Kinza said.
“He could shoot you in the back,” Dagr said. “There’s a look in his eyes, something like religious fervor, except he is certainly not a man of God. Sometimes I think he’s completely insane.”
“Even madmen know fear.”
“Kinza, do you think there really is any gold in Mosul?”
“Probably not.”
“What will we do there, then? Provided we get there at all, of course.”
“If there’s no gold, at least we can sell Hamid,” Kinza said.
“I’m sure our good captain has something in mind for us.”
“Hamid will betray us somehow,” Kinza said, amused. “Then I will dismember him, and you’ll probably try to find some reason to keep him alive.”
“No happy endings for us I suppose.”
“Look around. No happy endings for anyone. Not for a long time. Not ever again, perhaps.”
“What makes us go on like this, I wonder?” Dagr said. “Day after day, this whole damned mess.”
“Rage. Vengeance.”
“God should permit us mass suicide,” Dagr said. “Then we could end it once and for all. Leave a clean slate for whoever comes after. No more fathers and brothers to avenge. No more mosques to burn. No more checkpoints. No more rifle butts and blindfolds in the night.”
“I doubt God cares either way.”
“Kinza, what would you do if we really did find some treasure in that bunker?”
“Die of shock.”
“I meant how would you spend your share?”
“I’d get the hell out of here,” Kinza said. “Go to Greenland or something. Some place empty and cold. I don’t want to see another person for a hundred miles.”
“Sounds good. Maybe I’ll join you.”
Into the night once again, and this time they were better armed. In his breast pocket Dagr had his map, with a city block circled in red, which he had finally narrowed down. He was convinced, and they gained something from his confidence, although no one quite understood how he had derived his results.
Physically they were poorer, although the same was undoubtedly true for their quarry. Hamid had lost two fingers from his left hand and was walking hunched over and clumsy, barely able to fumble his gun from his holster. Kinza, too, had taken damage, one entire side glazed black where the Lion of Akkad had thrown him. There was in his face a barely repressed violence, a reckless fire that spoke his intent. Dagr had seen something alike in previous times, when Kinza had placed them in extreme danger, seemingly for the hell of it. There would be a killing tonight.
Their numbers had been bolstered, moreover, by two young men from the streets, armed with old pistols, neighborhood toughs with gelled hair who had dreamed their own grandiose mafia rackets before the Akkadian had shown a most cavalier disregard for their posturing. They came along boastfully, taking oaths and fingering their weapons until Kinza silenced them with a stare.
“We need to check for abandoned buildings,” Dagr said. He took out his map.
“There are a couple of Mahdi safehouses there. Old apartment buildings,” Yakin said. He was the talkative local. His companion was mostly silent, possibly much more intelligent. It was difficult to tell. “Abandoned mostly now, filled with squatters.”
“He could be holed up there somewhere,” Dagr said.
“It can’t be anywhere else if it’s on this street,” Yakin said. “We know all the other people. It used to be a pretty good neighborhood. Most of the people still live in their original houses.”
“There was a small mosque there last year,” the second tough said. “A Sunni imam used to preach for true sons of Islam to rise up against the government. One Friday, he said something about Moqtada Al Sadr’s birth. The Jaish Al Mahdi came and set fire to it, with a dozen people locked inside. I saw the whole thing. They barred the doors and windows and threw grenades in.”
“How charming,” Dagr said.
“No one has gone near it since,” Yakin continued. “The Americans came in a Humvee to investigate, but the JAM rigged the street with IEDs and snipers to drive them away. There was a running battle up and down the street. No one ever came back. The bodies are probably still inside.”
“It looks about right,” Kinza said.
The mosque was a charred shell of partially collapsed concrete. It had once been a mean two-story house, with no dome and no minaret, little of the embellishments of a normal mosque. Blue tile work had once adorned its outside walls, the sole concession to beauty. Grenade shrapnel and bullet holes had taken care of that. Two tenement slums flanked the mosque, buildings slowly gone to ruin over the past few years, windows boarded and doors fortified. The Mahdi Army used many such buildings as rotating hideaways. The families who lived there had adopted a siege mentality; they neither looked out nor asked questions.
They approached the street cautiously, well aware that they were in easy gunshot range. A floor-to-floor search of the first apartment block revealed nothing. A few old women answered their doors, irate in the middle of the night, clutching weapons, professing no knowledge of Mahdi men or Akkadians or beasts of any sort. More than half of the apartments were empty, doors open or kicked in. Not many people wanted to live in a Mahdi safehouse.
“We need to try the mosque,” Kinza said finally. “It’s the only place left.”
They picked their way through rubble into the main hall. The roof had partially collapsed, making the floor impassable. Under the masonry, there were the remnants of bodies: clothing, bones, a pair of glasses. The air was heavy with the overpowering smell of cats. A feline army had taken over the mosque, taking advantage of a grim banquet. They held court now, a large Persian preening on throne-like rubble, his fur plastered back, somehow leonine, no doubt the prized pet of some dead plutocrat. Tabby cats all around, frozen in the act of worship, all glaring accusingly at Dagr so that he almost dropped his gun in shock.
“He’s here,” Dagr said, clicking. “I said he smelt funny. He smelt of cats. There must be an intact room somewhere.”
“The imam’s room,” Yakin said.
“These cats ate everyone,” Dagr said. “Look how fat they are.”
“That’s what you get for praying in mosques,” Kinza said.
They moved in, trying to figure the angles of fire, anticipating a rush out of darkness. They found the imam’s room, still intact, door open. There was a bed, chair, table, a radio, an electric stove, a ransacked cabinet.
“He’s gone,” Dagr was on the floor, looking at dirty bandages. “There is a lot of blood. He was wounded.”
The room bore the signs of a hasty exit. The silver candlesticks glittered on the bed, buried under a pile of canned food. A heavy ivory statue lay on the floor, broken in two. A line of books and old newspapers lined one wall, and more lay scattered on the floor, spine up, as if just laid aside by the reader.
“He left in a rush,” Kinza said. “He must have figured we were coming.”
“Interesting reading material,” Dagr said, flipping through the books. “History, philosophy, math? Nietzsche’s morality. Old religious texts. His or the imam’s I wonder?”
“The imam did not read,” Yakin said. “He was Al Qaeda, I think.”
“These are all about 11th century Islamic history,” Dagr sat on the bed, reading absently. “Little-known authors. My friend did a thesis on Islamic alchemists and heretics. I recognize some of these writers.”
“A philosopher serial killer? He doesn’t sound like your average thug.”
“Look, personal papers,” Hamid had been rifling through the room with professional thoroughness. “Hidden in these books. He forgot them. It’s mostly notes on the history of Syria.”
“I’m curious to know his name,” Dagr said. “Look for any letters or anything.”
“This is garbage,” Kinza said, after some time.
“I found something,” Hamid said. “It’s a watch. A very strange, broken watch. The front is glass. It looks complicated.”
“It’s probably junk then,” Dagr said. “It looks old. Odd, here are some drawings of it in his hand. Diagrams and numbers.”
“It has a tourbillion I think,” Kinza said, examining the watch. “And what appears to be at least four complications.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I like watches. AP, Constantin, Dufour. I used to trade in replicas,” Kinza shrugged. “This is a mechanical watch. It is very old. Each set of these gears and wheels is a complication. They’re supposed to give extra functions to the watch. But I don’t see what they do. There is nothing on the dial other than the hour and minute hands. No second hand, no date function, no chronograph either. There is no maker’s brand. It is strange. I thought I knew all the watch makers.”
“Is it worth anything?” Hamid asked.
“Probably nothing,” Kinza said. “It doesn’t work. Look for the certificate or a case or something.”
“It bears a seal in the back,” Dagr said. “And an inscription.”
“Saying what?”
“There is a small star. Might be the brand. Five sided, five colors I think, though I can’t be sure. Is that the brand mark?”
“I don’t know. We’d have to consult an expert. A lot of old watch companies went bankrupt when the Japanese invented the quartz movement.”
“There’s some writing here. It is one long word I think. Too faded to read. Not any language I have ever seen anyway,” Dagr frowned. “Wait, I can read the name.”
“What is it?”
“Fouad Jumblatt,” Dagr said slowly. “This is Fouad Jumblatt’s watch.”
“Jumblatt?” Hamid said. “Jumblatt…Jumblatt, I’ve heard this name before.”
“The name’s Lebanese,” Dagr said. “Wasn’t he some kind of politician or something? Look, here’s a book on him. He was the governor of the Chouf district in Lebanon.”
“I remember now,” Hamid said. “Fouad Jumblatt was the grandfather of Walid Jumblatt, the guy who runs some Lebanese political party. He is long dead. He cannot be the Lion of Akkad.”
“So why does this guy have Fouad Jumblatt’s watch?” Kinza asked.
“Jumblatt was Lebanese,” Hamid said. “This is some kind of Lebanese conspiracy.”
“That’s ludicrous.”
“Back in the day, we had some run ins with the Lebanese secret service,” Hamid said. “When this was a real country. They must be crawling around here again. The Lebanese are probably thinking about invading us too.”
“No, no, I don’t think so,” Dagr said. He began to flip through one of the books. “Not Lebanese. Druze. Druze. Look here. The star is the star of Druze. The writing is gibberish because they have some kind of secret language. Ninety percent of their own tribe don’t know their sacred texts. Fouad Jumblatt was one of their luminaries. This watch was either given or worn by Fouad Jumblatt. It would be considered an heirloom. This man is not Mahdi Army. He’s not even Shi’a… He’s Druze.”
“This makes no sense,” Hamid said. “Druze? There are no Druze in Iraq. Maybe he just stole it from someone.”
“He had it hidden away,” Dagr said. “He made drawings of it. It must have meant something to him. Otherwise it’s just a broken watch. He must have forgotten to take it with him in the rush. Think about it. The Druze are known for keeping hidden. They must have a secret community here.”
“There is nothing else here. We need to go back,” Kinza said. “Tell the others that he is gone, probably for good. Take whatever you can.”
They found Amal waiting up in his store with a small knot of people.
“Did you get him?” The old man asked, shuffling forward. “Is he dead?”
“He fled,” Kinza said. He looked around. The shop was full of armed men, cigarettes and nerves. “What the fuck are you all doing here?”
“You brought this trouble on us,” Amal pointed his finger accusingly. “This is on your own head. You let the Lion get away, and now the JAM want you.”
Kinza drew his gun and pointed it at Amal’s forehead. Weapons clicked into place all around them. “JAM? Why bring up those fuckers. You sold us to the Mahdi Army, you fucking traitor? After sharing salt with us? After begging us for help? I will put you down like a dog right now, I swear, I will kill every man in this room.”
It stopped them cold. There was a murmur of uncertainty. Some of the men lowered their heads, shamed, but the guns stayed up, circling the three of them, barrels shaking, small circles of pitiless dark hovering like angry wasps. In the street, Dagr heard the rumble of jeeps, the cackle of rifle fire popping in the air. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Yakin edging toward them, gun out, a gloating look in his eye.
Kinza swiveled his gun smoothly, the barrel locking onto Yakin’s face. “Step back, and lower your weapon.”
Yakin faltered, sweat beading his forehead, transformed suddenly into a panicky shop boy caught with his hand in the till, facing a certain beating.
“They were coming. We had no choice. They would kill us anyway,” Amal wailed. “They’re coming. They’re here. What could we do? You never found the Lion.”
“We’re leaving, now,” Kinza backed toward the door. “I’ll take my chances against the Mahdi fuckers. Any of you step out of this shop, you’ll get a bullet in the eye. Hamid get the door.”
The rumble of gunfire was incessant now. The street was bathed in fire and headlights, Koranic verses rapping out in between, the midnight calling card of the Mahdi. Dagr could hear the chants of soldiers, the roar of engines. Terror made him slow.
“Amal, he’s Druze,” Dagr said, waving the broken watch, as Kinza pulled him back toward the door. “Do you understand? The Lion of Akkad is Druze. We found his watch! He has Fouad Jumblatt’s watch! He can’t have a brother in the Mahdi Army. He’s not Shi’a at all. There won’t be any retribution, Amal! He’s not JAM, Amal. He’s Druze!”
“Dagr!” Kinza shouted, shoving him aside. “Run.”