38

There is a pause between the instant Tigger sees the bore of the rifle and the moment he overcomes his shock enough to speak. When that moment does arrive — whether it was a second or a full cycle of the moon, he cannot be certain — he is able to utter a few words: ‘Please don’t shoot. We have an agreement with your commander.’

The rifle is lowered, but only to Tigger’s chest. It does not make him feel safer, but it brings the rifle-holder’s face into view. The man has a scar along the left side of his face, from his eye down to his chin.

‘Not my commander,’ the man says, in an accent that is from here but is not the accent of Abu Saleh.

It is a face with blue eyes, and not brown ones. It is a voice that seems present and prepared for conversation. It occurs to Tigger that, perhaps, he was not about to be shot a moment ago.

‘Abu Saleh,’ Tigger says, ‘has commanded his people to allow us access to our own and to take them away. He called ahead. You should check.’

‘Abu Saleh is inside? That is excellent news,’ the man says. ‘And you have arranged transportation to get your people away?’

‘I expect a helicopter. Soon, I hope.’

‘You are here for Mr Arwood?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Tigger says.

‘Mr Arwood. You are here to save him?’

‘Yes. Not only him, but yes. He is one of ours. How do you know his name?’

The man lowers his rifle now and extends his hand. At first, Tigger thinks he may want to shake, but then he sees him wiggle his fingers, and Tigger understands he’s to surrender the pistol he forgot he was holding. The man with the scar takes it and puts it into his own belt, alongside a military-issue Beretta 9mm that is as polished as the day it was made. ‘You won’t be needing that,’ he says. ‘You are no longer in any danger. You are under our protection now.’

There is something familiar about him. Not his voice or his countenance, per se, but his blue eyes; something about the shape of his face; the scar, too. Try as he might, though, Tigger cannot place him. On a whim, he asks, ‘Have we met before?’

The man smiles and nods. ‘Twenty-two years ago. I was a boy. We met in a minefield. Mr Arwood carried me to safety. You were there. I remember you. And so now we have two things in common.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Tigger says.

‘We have a common past. And we have Mr Arwood. You said he is one of yours. He is also one of ours.’

‘I see. You are planning to rescue him?’

‘We were. But I like your plan better. Now you will rescue him. And when you are done, and your people are safe, we — the Peshmerga — will stop walking before death, and allow death to lead the way.’

‘We?’

The man taps his finger ring twice against his rifle. When he does, more than eighty men rise from hidden positions in the rocks, and stand silently at attention.

Tigger looks around him, less surprised than angry at himself for being so unobservant.

‘Did you remove those guards? Near the café?’

‘They have been removed from this life.’

‘It is said,’ Tigger answers, ‘that the Kurds have no allies but the mountains.’

‘This is true. But we do have friends. And we like to pay back our debts.’

‘Where the hell have you been?’ Märta says as Tigger finally catches up to her halfway across a wide-open space in the middle of the fortress. ‘What were you doing out there?’

The explosions they had heard earlier are growing frequent. There is machine-gun fire from helicopters, and return fire from the ground. Jets pass overhead in formation, unaware of the drama being played out below their bellies.

‘You know when you said you thought we were being watched?’ Tigger whispers. ‘Well, as it happens, you were right.’

‘What does that mean?’ Märta says as they walk toward another corner of the fortress.

Tigger is walking next to her. He becomes aware of his own sweat.

Two of Abu Saleh’s men emerge from a tower in the north-east corner, across from the one they exited.

‘Where are they going to land the helicopter?’ Märta says. ‘It’s nothing but rock outside.’

‘Right here,’ Tigger says in a quiet voice. ‘In this bailey.’

‘In this what?’

‘The castle courtyard. It’s called a bailey. Sweden is a kingdom. Don’t you know your castles?’

‘It’s not a very big place to land a helicopter.’

‘We must hope Spaz’s name is ironic.’

Abu Saleh turns and stops. He looks at Tigger and his empty hands.

‘Where is my gun?’

‘I suspect you’ll see it again soon.’

‘Why are we stopping?’ Märta asks. Two more Iraqi jets pass overhead. They are F-16s.

Saleh does not answer, leaving them exposed in the fortress under a warming sun.

‘It’s going to be like Ramadi and Fallujah,’ Märta whispers to Tigger as they stand in the courtyard watching the jets advance in formation toward a target somewhere beyond the wall that obstructs their view. ‘The people are going to start streaming out of the cities again. We should be back there, preparing to receive them. This is all my fault.’

‘Right now, we’re doing this. Can you focus, please? Stop planning?’

‘I can plan or I can scream,’ she says. ‘Why are we watching that door there?’

‘That is where our people will soon emerge, or else men will come out to kill us.’

There are more explosions below.

Over the years, Märta has become a connoisseur of explosions. Car bombs. Suicide bombers with vests. RPGs being launched; RPGs landing. Hellfires hitting the ground. C4 blowing up markets. Scuds taking off; Scuds landing. Patriot missile batteries launching rockets; Patriot missiles missing their targets and landing somewhere else. It is hard to keep all the sounds straight, and perhaps useless, but the mind strives for order, and cannot help but seek patterns.

Once, at the base of the Zagros Mountains, she heard a strange and distant explosion. It was low and rolling. It lasted too long. It gained and lost intensity, like an arhythmic barrage of low-calibre mortars falling into a well, miles off.

‘What is that?’ she asked an old man who stood beside her, also listening.

‘Thunder,’ he said.

‘Märta, look,’ Tigger says.

A small figure emerges from the void of the open door at the base of the tower ahead. It is a girl in a shapeless orange dress that is too big for her. She is very young — a teenager. She holds much of the dress bunched at her waist, and pulls what remains behind her through the sand and dust. She has the demeanour of one shivering through rain.

Märta ignores the instructions from the terrorists, and runs to the girl. She closes the distance quickly and wraps her arms around the child, walking her back toward Tigger in a direction that feels like an exit.

The girl is not safe, Märta knows, but she is no longer alone.

The girl, shaking, submits to the embrace of this new stranger.

Another figure emerges, limping, through the door. It is a young man, short and clearly in pain. This time it is Tigger who runs forward. He catches the boy and wraps his arms around him, kissing the top of his head. He has been shot in the leg. He, too, is shaking. Taking Jamal’s face in his hands, Tigger sees he is dehydrated and cold. Tigger can’t tell how much blood he’s lost.

‘There’s a helicopter coming,’ Tigger says.

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m rather counting on it.’

‘What if it doesn’t?’

‘We’ll find a nice hotel.’

‘There are no hotels here.’

‘I was pulling your leg.’

‘Why would you pull my leg? I’m in terrible pain.’

Märta’s phone rings. She answers it, freeing one hand from around Adar’s shoulders.

‘Hello?’ she says.

‘It’s me,’ says Herb. ‘We’re inbound.’

‘We have Jamal and the girl. I’m waiting on Arwood and Benton.’

‘Where do you want us to land?’

‘In the bailey.’

‘What’s a bailey?’

‘It’s the courtyard to the castle.’

‘There’s a castle?’

‘You can’t miss it.’