FOUR DAYS LATER
OUTSIDE BAGHDAD, IRAQ—JANUARY 3, 2020—00:15 / 12:15 A.M. AST
The owner of the small stone house, a father who had lost a son who’d been serving with Kata’ib Sayyid al-Shuhada, brought another tray with three cups of steaming coffee resting on it. Falih Kazali, Abu Mustafa al-Sheibani, and Abbas each took one with a word of thanks. This was their third cup since arriving over two hours ago. The plane should have touched down at the nearby Baghdad Airport soon after their arrival at the home, but for some reason it was running late. Even after the IRGC commander finally made his appearance, the leaders of the KSS would remain in their safe house until they were called. That could come in a matter of hours or not until the end of the day. When Qasem Soleimani, commander of the infamous Quds Force of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, came to town, you didn’t set the agenda. You simply waited your turn.
“Why again is he coming?” Abbas asked Kazali. He could see the older man was starting to fade. Better to engage him in small talk than to let him suffer the embarrassment of his coffee cup clattering to the floor. Kazali was the secretary general of the KSS. Although his fighting days were behind him now, he looked every part the grizzled warrior. His face was well-scarred, and a patch covered where he’d lost an eye while battling against Assad in Syria seven years ago.
“He is meeting with Prime Minister Abdul-Mahdi,” Kazali said, his eye brightening as he took another sip of the strong brew. “The story is that he is on a peace mission seeking help from the prime minister to help broker a rapprochement between Iran and Saudi Arabia.”
Abbas swallowed a laugh. The idea that Iran would seek peace with Saudi Arabia was preposterous. Sure, the citizens of Iran might be all for it, but that’s not who was running the country. The only nation the IRGC and the Iranian religious leadership hated more than Israel and the United States was Saudi Arabia. Yes, there was certainly the Shi’a versus Sunni animosity, but this went deeper. Saudi Arabia was a debaucherous country filled with lecherous sheikhs. Their faith was shallow, and their lifestyle was disgusting. The Western infidels deserved to die because they were infidels. The Saudis deserved to die because they claimed to be good Muslims.
“That is obviously not truly the case,” Abbas said. “Why is he really here?”
“Soon, we will find out. His summons to us gave no reasons. Only that we must be here to meet with him.”
Kazali took another sip of his coffee, then set his cup on a small wooden table. The night was cold, and the single space heater in the room was not doing a good job of boosting the temperature. Through the dimness, Abbas watched as the older man slipped a blanket from the back of his chair and draped it over his shoulders. The light of the household was intentionally kept inconveniently low, but everyone understood why. One never knew what was flying in the sky above them, searching for them, targeting them.
Abu Mustafa al-Sheibani stood, then stretched and paced. Abbas had not seen the commander of the KSS militia for several months. He was away much of the time working with a network he’d developed to smuggle arms and supplies to militias throughout Iraq. His activities were so onerous that he’d earned a $200,000 bounty on his head and a place on the Iraqi government’s 41 Most Wanted List. Abu Mustafa held a particular hatred in his heart for the Americans. Thirteen years ago, his brother, Abu Yaser, had been captured by U.S. forces. He hadn’t been seen since.
After circling the small room several times, Abu Mustafa stopped in front of Abbas. “You know, he mentioned you by name.”
Abbas was stunned. “Who? Soleimani?”
“The same.” The white of Abu Mustafa’s smile showed his confidence in the low light. He was used to being recognized by those in power. Abbas was not.
“What did he say?” As soon as he said the words, Abbas chided himself for sounding a little too enthusiastic, like a teenager asking about his favorite sports hero.
“The message we received was not detailed. He just said he wanted you in the meeting because of your success with drones. I think it is likely that you will play a part in whatever he has planned next.”
It was Abbas’s turn to stand and pace. Exactly what he’d been hoping for was now taking place. Those in the upper echelons of power not only knew his name but recognized his skills. It would not be long before Kazali would be too old to lead the militia. Abu Mustafa, himself, was in his early sixties. How long would he have the energy to divide his time between KSS and the Sheibani Network?
The sound of jet engines this time of night pulled Abbas from his internal revelry. He and Abu Mustafa hurried to a window, while Kazali remained seated and wrapped in the blanket. Opening the shutters just enough to see outside, the two men watched as an Airbus passenger jet descended to Baghdad Airport. Abbas stepped away from the window first and resumed his pacing. He was a bundle of nerves now that he knew he’d been specifically requested. The arrival of the plane was just the next step in their hurry up and wait night vigil, but it was good to know that Commander Soleimani was finally here and would soon be on the ground.
Their host carried out several plates of food for his guests. The first held a stack of bread and a bowl of hummus with red peppers on top. The second carried kubba bil burghur, fried dough dumplings stuffed with nuts and cheese and minced meats. The final plate was covered with dolma, boiled chard wrapped into small fingers and stuffed with rice, meat, and spices. Wedges of lemon laid neatly around the rim.
“My friend, you do too much,” Kazali said.
“It is my pleasure. Let me prepare a plate for you so you don’t have to get up.” The man went running back to the kitchen, then returned with three empty plates and set them next to the food. Lifting one, he began to fill it for the secretary general. “I apologize for the cold. It is now just me in the house, and I have only the one heater.”
“Please do not apologize.” Kazali took the proffered plate of food. “Allah has seen your sacrifice for us. Rest assured you will be rewarded on the day you are reunited with your son.”
Their host left, and the meal was delicious and satisfying. Abbas hoped there would be another round of coffee soon, because he could already feel the fatigue caused by the food enveloping his brain.
Boom!
The sound of an explosion reverberated through the stone walls of the small house. All three KSS men rushed to the window. The last of a fireball was burning itself out in the direction of the airport. Smoke plumes now roiled darkly in the night sky.
Abbas tried to work out the timing in his head. The plane had passed above them 20 minutes ago. Between the time it took to land and taxi the plane, then gather the entourage into a vehicle convoy, this would be just about the time Qasem Soleimani would be leaving the airport. Abbas hoped against hope that he was wrong and the commander was safe, but in his heart he knew. The Americans didn’t go after a target that big without being assured a kill.
Qasem Soleimani, commander of the Quds Force of the IRGC, had just been assassinated by U.S. missiles.