decipher.
He pressed down on the pedal and his little electric buggy picked up speed to its maximum of ten miles an hour. He didn’t bother looking, but he knew that, right behind him, his state security tail would be accelerating to exactly the same rate. Karim gave an inward shrug. He’d been brought up in what one writer had called Iraq’s Republic of Fear, and it was never much of a surprise to find yourself shadowed by a dead-faced secret policeman trying to be inconspicuous.
Here in the installation, of course, there wasn’t much point in pretending, so his shadow just went along with him everywhere. Since Karim didn’t speak a word of Chinese and his tail knew not a word of Arabic or Turkish, communications between them were extremely limited. They’d told him to drive down the corridor until the tripometer on his buggy reached the figure 2850, whereupon he was to stop and ask permission to enter a door numbered 74:6 (3). At least the numbers were written in characters he could understand. When he slept, he had bad dreams about being lost down here, dreams in which he rode round and round for hour after hour, never seeing a way out, never coming across anyone he could ask for help. He shivered and looked at the dial in front of him. It read 2789. Another sixty metres would bring him to the door.
He knew what was behind the door, and didn’t relish the thought of passing it. He hadn’t a clue about details, of course, but he did have a shrewd notion as to what awaited him. They wanted him to help question a man, someone who knew more than he should about the weapons being developed here. Karim was a scientist, and he spoke Turkish, which was as close to the Uighur spoken in Sinkiang as you could get, so they’d fingered him as a help and comfort in present peril.
Karim was a Turkman from the mountains north of Mosul. His father had brought the family to Baghdad soon after the Baathists took power in 1968, had opened a successful business trading in agricultural equipment with Istanbul, and had eventually sent his three sons to university. Karim had gone to Baghdad’s University of Technology to study chemistry. He’d come top of his class, made a good impression on the dean, and gone on to study for a doctorate at MIT. He’d been tempted to marry an American girl, stay in the States, and settle down in a comfortable job with a petrochemical company in the Mid-West.
Then one day he’d arrived back at his rooms to find a man from the Iraqi embassy waiting for him. A big man with prowling eyes. Sally had been there: she’d been the one to let the man in. He could still remember her eyes, the look of raw fear in them. It hadn’t been anything the man had done or said. All it had needed was his presence. Karim learned later that the man’s name was Hamza, and that he was the embassy’s dog, the one they set on dissidents.
By then he’d packed his bags, and signed all the papers he needed to sign, and bought a one-way ticket from New York to Baghdad. One ticket. He’d cried silently all the way home, and when he’d stepped down from the plane his family had been waiting for him. They hadn’t been alone. A man in shades had watched him back to their house. The following morning, he’d reported to the State Establishment for Phosphates Production, where a quiet-spoken man in a neat military uniform had handed him papers posting him to the giant fertilizer complex at al-Qa’im on the Euphrates. Long before he got there, Karim knew that phosphoric acid wouldn’t be the only thing produced at his new place of work.
At 2850 he took his foot off the pedal and the buggy stopped. There was a grey door to his left. It looked exactly like all the other doors he’d passed. The number on it read 74:6 (3). Unlike most other doors, it bore no logograms spelling out the identity of whatever activity went on behind it. He smiled at his shadow and invited him to introduce them. The security man smiled back. He
He pressed down on the pedal and his little electric buggy picked up speed to its maximum of ten miles an hour. He didn’t bother looking, but he knew that, right behind him, his state security tail would be accelerating to exactly the same rate. Karim gave an inward shrug. He’d been brought up in what one writer had called Iraq’s Republic of Fear, and it was never much of a surprise to find yourself shadowed by a dead-faced secret policeman trying to be inconspicuous.
Here in the installation, of course, there wasn’t much point in pretending, so his shadow just went along with him everywhere. Since Karim didn’t speak a word of Chinese and his tail knew not a word of Arabic or Turkish, communications between them were extremely limited. They’d told him to drive down the corridor until the tripometer on his buggy reached the figure 2850, whereupon he was to stop and ask permission to enter a door numbered 74:6 (3). At least the numbers were written in characters he could understand. When he slept, he had bad dreams about being lost down here, dreams in which he rode round and round for hour after hour, never seeing a way out, never coming across anyone he could ask for help. He shivered and looked at the dial in front of him. It read 2789. Another sixty metres would bring him to the door.
He knew what was behind the door, and didn’t relish the thought of passing it. He hadn’t a clue about details, of course, but he did have a shrewd notion as to what awaited him. They wanted him to help question a man, someone who knew more than he should about the weapons being developed here. Karim was a scientist, and he spoke Turkish, which was as close to the Uighur spoken in Sinkiang as you could get, so they’d fingered him as a help and comfort in present peril.
Karim was a Turkman from the mountains north of Mosul. His father had brought the family to Baghdad soon after the Baathists took power in 1968, had opened a successful business trading in agricultural equipment with Istanbul, and had eventually sent his three sons to university. Karim had gone to Baghdad’s University of Technology to study chemistry. He’d come top of his class, made a good impression on the dean, and gone on to study for a doctorate at MIT. He’d been tempted to marry an American girl, stay in the States, and settle down in a comfortable job with a petrochemical company in the Mid-West.
Then one day he’d arrived back at his rooms to find a man from the Iraqi embassy waiting for him. A big man with prowling eyes. Sally had been there: she’d been the one to let the man in. He could still remember her eyes, the look of raw fear in them. It hadn’t been anything the man had done or said. All it had needed was his presence. Karim learned later that the man’s name was Hamza, and that he was the embassy’s dog, the one they set on dissidents.
By then he’d packed his bags, and signed all the papers he needed to sign, and bought a one-way ticket from New York to Baghdad. One ticket. He’d cried silently all the way home, and when he’d stepped down from the plane his family had been waiting for him. They hadn’t been alone. A man in shades had watched him back to their house. The following morning, he’d reported to the State Establishment for Phosphates Production, where a quiet-spoken man in a neat military uniform had handed him papers posting him to the giant fertilizer complex at al-Qa’im on the Euphrates. Long before he got there, Karim knew that phosphoric acid wouldn’t be the only thing produced at his new place of work.
At 2850 he took his foot off the pedal and the buggy stopped. There was a grey door to his left. It looked exactly like all the other doors he’d passed. The number on it read 74:6 (3). Unlike most other doors, it bore no logograms spelling out the identity of whatever activity went on behind it. He smiled at his shadow and invited him to introduce them. The security man smiled back. He
Similar Books
