States,” he told Zarife, “you will be able to
make contact with the right people. Find your sources. Gather your resources.
Listen carefully as you move among these idiots. Arms and money can be yours
for the taking when the time is right. We will have more than enough money to
pay. We only have to find someone who will sell them to us secretly.”
Zarife followed his father’s orders well, basing himself in
Washington, D.C., “the seat of America’s power”, as his father described it.
Additionally, he was an engineer who wanted to follow his trained profession.
His father agreed. In that climate Zarife would begin to make the right
contacts.
But most of the companies where he applied at first would
not hire an Iraqi national. Even one who swore he was applying for U.S.
citizenship. Then he stumbled across a small company that needed his expertise
and decided to take a chance on him. Slowly and carefully he worked his way
into the confidence of his fellow engineers. They invited him to social events.
To business functions. And one person at a time he began to build his network.
When Saddam fell, the changes in Iraq over the next few
years allowed Zarife and his family to make plans and take advantage of the new
opportunities open to them. When the bidding for reconstruction contracts
opened and Americans began flooding the country with men, equipment and
projects, their need to protect themselves opened a door wide for the al-Dulami
family.
Although he poked and prodded very much under the radar to
learn information about arms shipments, he discovered that people were very close-mouthed.
Too much had gone wrong already. No one was taking any chances. And approaching
known arms dealers would be suicide. The word would leak out and the al-Dulamis
would be dead before they were out of the gate.
Then, one day out of the blue, when he was sitting at lunch,
his cell phone rang. An American voice spoke to him.
“I understand you’re looking for something. I think you and
I could do each other a great deal of good.”
Zarife frowned. “Excuse me?”
“I think you heard me. I’ve had you checked out thoroughly,
believe me, or I wouldn’t be calling you. I think you should listen to what I
have to offer.”
“And what is that?”
“Not over the phone. Pay your check, leave the restaurant
and walk left down the block. Halfway down is the entrance to a shoe store. Go
inside and ask for the manager.
While Zarife was still trying to formulate an answer, the
call disconnected. His pulse racing, he tried to decide what to do. Was this
the connection he’d been seeking? Did he have time to call his father?
Knowing he had to make a decision quickly, he signaled for
his check, dropped enough cash on the table to cover it and walked quickly from
the restaurant. Six doors down, he found the shoe store. When he walked inside
a tall, dark man came hurrying toward him. In his hand he held a photo which he
looked at, comparing it to Zarife.
“How did you get a picture of me?” Zarife asked.
“That’s unimportant.” He glanced at the other customers and
grabbed Zarife’s arm. “Come with me, quickly.”
In seconds Zarife found himself hustled out the rear door to
an alley where a Ford Expedition with its windows blacked out was idling. The
back door opened and a hand reached out for him.
“Come in,” the voice said.
The next thing Zarife knew he was dragged into the SUV and
blindfolded before he could see who was inside. Hands helped him to a
comfortable position on the seat.
“What’s going on?” he demanded. “Who are you? Why am I
blindfolded?”
“I can’t afford to have you see my face,” the voice told
him.
“Then how do I know I can trust you?”
The man laughed. “I don’t think you have a choice. My
research has been thorough. I have something you want. Or I will shortly. You
have the money to pay for the merchandise. We’re going to do business, Mr.
al-Dulami, because I’m your only
make contact with the right people. Find your sources. Gather your resources.
Listen carefully as you move among these idiots. Arms and money can be yours
for the taking when the time is right. We will have more than enough money to
pay. We only have to find someone who will sell them to us secretly.”
Zarife followed his father’s orders well, basing himself in
Washington, D.C., “the seat of America’s power”, as his father described it.
Additionally, he was an engineer who wanted to follow his trained profession.
His father agreed. In that climate Zarife would begin to make the right
contacts.
But most of the companies where he applied at first would
not hire an Iraqi national. Even one who swore he was applying for U.S.
citizenship. Then he stumbled across a small company that needed his expertise
and decided to take a chance on him. Slowly and carefully he worked his way
into the confidence of his fellow engineers. They invited him to social events.
To business functions. And one person at a time he began to build his network.
When Saddam fell, the changes in Iraq over the next few
years allowed Zarife and his family to make plans and take advantage of the new
opportunities open to them. When the bidding for reconstruction contracts
opened and Americans began flooding the country with men, equipment and
projects, their need to protect themselves opened a door wide for the al-Dulami
family.
Although he poked and prodded very much under the radar to
learn information about arms shipments, he discovered that people were very close-mouthed.
Too much had gone wrong already. No one was taking any chances. And approaching
known arms dealers would be suicide. The word would leak out and the al-Dulamis
would be dead before they were out of the gate.
Then, one day out of the blue, when he was sitting at lunch,
his cell phone rang. An American voice spoke to him.
“I understand you’re looking for something. I think you and
I could do each other a great deal of good.”
Zarife frowned. “Excuse me?”
“I think you heard me. I’ve had you checked out thoroughly,
believe me, or I wouldn’t be calling you. I think you should listen to what I
have to offer.”
“And what is that?”
“Not over the phone. Pay your check, leave the restaurant
and walk left down the block. Halfway down is the entrance to a shoe store. Go
inside and ask for the manager.
While Zarife was still trying to formulate an answer, the
call disconnected. His pulse racing, he tried to decide what to do. Was this
the connection he’d been seeking? Did he have time to call his father?
Knowing he had to make a decision quickly, he signaled for
his check, dropped enough cash on the table to cover it and walked quickly from
the restaurant. Six doors down, he found the shoe store. When he walked inside
a tall, dark man came hurrying toward him. In his hand he held a photo which he
looked at, comparing it to Zarife.
“How did you get a picture of me?” Zarife asked.
“That’s unimportant.” He glanced at the other customers and
grabbed Zarife’s arm. “Come with me, quickly.”
In seconds Zarife found himself hustled out the rear door to
an alley where a Ford Expedition with its windows blacked out was idling. The
back door opened and a hand reached out for him.
“Come in,” the voice said.
The next thing Zarife knew he was dragged into the SUV and
blindfolded before he could see who was inside. Hands helped him to a
comfortable position on the seat.
“What’s going on?” he demanded. “Who are you? Why am I
blindfolded?”
“I can’t afford to have you see my face,” the voice told
him.
“Then how do I know I can trust you?”
The man laughed. “I don’t think you have a choice. My
research has been thorough. I have something you want. Or I will shortly. You
have the money to pay for the merchandise. We’re going to do business, Mr.
al-Dulami, because I’m your only
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