The Fist of God

Osman related the events of the past sixty hours: the arrival of the AMAM troops at their parents’ house at dawn, the search, the discovery in the garden, the beating of their mother and Talat, and the arrest of their father. He told how he had been summoned when the neighboring pharmacist finally got a message to him, and how he had driven home to find their father’s body on the dining-room table.

Abdelkarim’s mouth tightened to an angry line when Osman revealed what he had discovered when he cut open the body bag, and the way their father had been buried that morning.

The older man leaned forward sharply when Osman told how he had been intercepted as he left the cemetery, and of the conversation that had taken place.

“You told him all that?” he asked, when his brother had finished.

“Yes.”

“Is it true, all true? You really built this Fortress, this Qa’ala?”

“Yes.”

“And you told him where it is, so that he can tell the Americans?”

“Yes. Did I do wrong?”

Abdelkarim thought for some while.

“How many men, in all Iraq, know about all this, my brother?”

“Six,” said Osman.

“Name them.”

“The Rais himself; Hussein Kamil, who provided the finance and the manpower; Amer Saadi, who provided the technology. Then General Ridha, who supplied the artillerymen, and General Musuli of the Engineers—he proposed me for the job. And me, I built it.”

“The helicopter pilots who bring in the visitors?”

“They have to know the directions in order to navigate, but not what is inside. And they are kept quarantined in a base somewhere, I don’t know where.”

“Visitors—how many could know?”

“None. They are blindfolded before takeoff and until they have arrived.”

“If the Americans destroy this Qubth-ut-Allah, who do you think the AMAM will suspect? The Rais, the ministers, the generals—or you?”

Osman put his head in his hands.

“What have I done?” he moaned.

“I’m afraid, little brother, that you have destroyed us all.”

Both men knew the rules. For treason, the Rais does not demand a single sacrifice but the extirpation of three generations: father and uncles, so there will be no more of the tainted seed, brothers for the same reason, and sons and nephews, so that none may grow up to carry on the vendetta against him. Osman Badri began quietly to weep.

Abdelkarim rose, pulled Osman to his feet, and embraced him.

“You did right, brother. You did the right thing. Now we must see how to get out of here.”

He checked his watch: eight o’clock.

“There are no telephone lines for the public from here to Baghdad,” he said. “Only underground lines to the Defense people in their various bunkers. But this message is not for them. How long would it take you to drive to our mother’s house?”

“Three, maybe four hours,” said Osman.

“You have eight, to get there and back. Tell our mother to pack all she values into our father’s car. She can drive it—not well, but enough. She should take Talat and go to Talat’s village. She should seek shelter with his tribe until one of us contacts her. Understood?”

“Yes. I can be back by dawn. Why?”