The Protector Page 5

  The main reason for Abdul’s glum feelings while at work was the poor quality of some of the other police officers: there had been a marked lack of vetting procedures when they’d been selected. This was no more evident than in the squad of which he was a member. Abdul’s immediate colleagues on the force were, to a man, all Ali Babas, crooks and villains, and one or two of them were possibly far worse than that.

  Abdul had been brought up as a good Muslim - the word itself meant ‘one who submits’, a concept which he fully embraced - and by his late teens he was by far the most religious member of his family, the only one who prayed five times a day. But since the war his faith had slipped, at least as far as his regular acts of worship were concerned. This dilution of his belief was also at the core of his distress since, much as he wanted to re-establish a full commitment to Allah, possibly even in a more active way than before, he felt unable to. For Abdul believed that he was no longer worthy of Allah’s attention. He had allowed an obstacle to come between him and God and was too weak to do anything about it. This obstruction on the divine path was a result of allowing himself to be drawn into a perk of the job, for want of a better term, that had seemed innocent enough at first but had developed into something that in his heart he wholly disapproved of, a disapproval shared by the person he admired most in his life, his sister.

  Abdul was a dichotomy. He had never been very strong, physically or mentally, but there were occasions when he was painfully contrary and displayed such levels of determination as to cause suspicion among members of his family, his father in particular, that, as a baby, the boy had been exchanged for an impostor. These moments of defiance were seen as uncharacteristic by everyone else but it was his beloved sister, Tasneen, who was always supportive and read them as evidence of Abdul’s great potential. He always showed promise when it came to family duties and honour, motivated as he was by his heritage: tribal, ancestral and, of course, religious. He was unaffected by politics. But it was the ordinary pressure of everyday life that revealed Abdul’s character flaws and lack of force-fulness and independence of thought. Those were the qualities of Tasneen, the only other surviving member of his immediate family. Abdul cherished her deeply. She was not just his older, wiser sister. After the loss of their parents she took on many of their functions.

  But Abdul often resented her for those very reasons. The strengths she possessed only highlighted his own weaknesses, revealing them not only to others but to himself. Still, he loved her and remained guided by her but only until, he assured himself, he broke through to true manhood.

  Abdul had been born on 23 September 1980, the day after Iraq invaded Iran, in Baghdad’s Yarmuk Hospital, and was brought up in Al Mansour, one of the city’s more affluent districts on the west side of the Tigris river. He was a Sunni Muslim, the same religion as that of his country’s leader, Saddam Hussein, a factor that gave Abdul’s father undeniable advantages in his business dealings at home and abroad. Abdul’s full name, a legacy from twelve successive heads of family, was Abdul-Rahman Marwan Ahmed Mussa Akmed Dawood Sulaiman Abdullah Abdul-Kader Abdul-Latef Abdullah Maath Dulaimy Al Aws.‘Dulaimy’ was the official tribal name since ‘Al Aws’ was the name of one of the two main tribes that the Arabs had divided into around the time of Mohamed, the other main tribe being the Al Kharaj. The Dulaimy tribe originated in Saudi Arabia and during Abdul-Latef ’s reign in the last quarter of the nineteenth century they emigrated to a village called Ana in the open desert region of Al Anbar some four hundred kilometres due west of Baghdad on the Jordan road. Two generations later, Abdul’s several-times-great-grandfather Sulaiman fought against the Turks during the great Arab revolt under the leadership of Prince Feisal with the aid of the famed British soldier, Lawrence of Arabia.

  The Sunnis were a minority in modern Iraq at around thirty-five per cent of the population. Take away the Sunni Kurds in the north who constituted some twenty per cent and that left the former ruling class in Iraq now holding a considerably smaller percentage.

  Abdul had enjoyed a comfortable upbringing and it was not until his early teens that he began to worry about reaching his eighteenth year, when he would be eligible for military conscription.The very thought filled him with dread. Having a well-connected Sunni father might have held some advantages for him when it came to avoiding the draft but unfortunately for Abdul his father believed military service to be an obligation of every young Iraqi. The Sunni - or, to be more precise, Saddam Hussein’s family and friends - occupied practically every important position in the government and military.Thinking that it might bolster the rather tenuous advantages of the Dulaimy tribe’s somewhat remote connection - Hussein’s tribe were the Tekritis from north of Baghdad - Abdul’s father also regarded his son’s term in the army as a wise and necessary insurance for the boy’s future. But Abdul had nightmares about becoming a soldier and the closer that day came the greater grew his desperation to find a way of avoiding it, without attracting scorn from his father. In fact, Abdul was unlikely to be able to avoid his sire’s disdain. But he still preferred parental abuse to three years under arms.

  His first and most simple plan to delay conscription was to enrol in a university and embark on a long and difficult degree course. He chose computer technology, normally a four-year programme. But, even so, after it he would still have to join the army. His second delaying tactic was to drag out the degree course for as long as he could by failing examinations. There was a limit to how long Abdul could use this technique and by year six his father began to suspect his son’s plot. He warned Abdul that if his next results were not a satisfactory pass he would take him out of university and enrol him in the army himself. Abdul did not take his father seriously enough, perhaps, because to do so would have been unthinkable and maybe he hoped that his father would eventually realise how important his studies were to his son. When Abdul failed to make the grade yet again his father was furious and delivered his ultimatum: join the army or leave the house for ever. His father also made it clear that if Abdul chose the latter course he risked losing all claim to his inheritance.

  The threat, particularly its disinheritance component, proved to be more painful to Abdul than his hatred for the military and he finally accepted the inevitable. The day he left the university he registered himself as eligible for conscription and within a week he had received his marching orders. He was sent to a training outpost in the western desert not far from his tribal home of Al Anbar, which was not a coincidence. He arrived at the camp along with four hundred other recruits at six a.m. Within a couple of hours they had received an induction speech, followed by a severe haircut, and were then lined up outside the barracks where their training team introduced themselves. The recruits were invited to lie down on their stomachs, whereupon the instructors went around kicking and hitting them with a level of enthusiasm that went far beyond even Abdul’s expectations. The beatings were immediately followed by a gruelling run without water in the midday sun where they continued to receive kicks and blows for no apparent reason. After a brief rest and a paltry meal the abuse was resumed. By four p.m. the recruits were ordered to return to their barracks and, expecting more of the same the following day, two dozen of Abdul’s fellow conscripts conspired to desert.Abdul needed little encouragement to take part in the mutiny and as soon as darkness fell he joined the others at a hole in the perimeter wall through which they filed. Then they dispersed.

  Abdul arrived home late that evening, walked into the house and went directly to his father who was horrified to see him. Abdul attempted to relate his terrible experiences but before he could begin his story his father demanded that he return to the camp immediately.Abdul found the strength to refuse abjectly to obey, pleading to be heard and swearing that no matter what punishment his father inflicted he would not go back. His father responded promptly by ordering him out of the house, never to return.Abdul continued to make his pleas but his father shouted violently for him to leave, even picking up a cane at one point to
beat him. In a storm of shouts and screams Abdul ran out of the room, bundled some of his things into a bag and left the house.

  But Tasneen was waiting for him in the street, having already made a plan to help her little brother. She led him to a friend’s house nearby and arranged for him to stay in a small room there. She personally ensured that he was well fed while she embarked on a subtle crusade to change their father’s mind. Abdul’s world had turned utterly on its head and he believed that Tasneen’s task was an impossible one. He was convinced this was the end of the family for him and so he concentrated on how he was going to manage life on the run from the army while making a living. But he could not come up with anything: he slipped into a deep depression and became absorbed in self-pity.

  Four days later Tasneen woke him up with the announcement that she had come to take him home. Abdul could not believe it at first, then quickly wanted to know how and why their father had changed his mind. Tasneen gave her brother no explanation, appearing neither pleased nor disturbed by whatever had happened, and simply told him to come back home with her.

  When they walked into the house she stayed by the front door and told him to go into the living room alone. Abdul became nervous, not knowing what to expect. The only encouragement Tasneen gave him was an assurance that it would be all right. Abdul believed her but as he approached the living-room doors his doubts grew and he reached for the doorknob with a shaking hand.

  When he entered the room his father was standing at the window, looking through it with the kind of empty gaze that suggested he was not so much looking outside as inside at his own thoughts. To Abdul’s surprise, when his father turned to face him there was not a trace of anger in his expression. Instead, there was a deep concern and, unless Abdul was mistaken, a trace of fear.

  Abdul’s father gave a strange kind of slight smile that unnerved Abdul further, although it disappeared as soon as the man sat down and bid his son to sit in the chair opposite. Abdul did not say a word, unable even to begin to guess what his father was about to say to him.

  ‘Abdul, my son,’ his father finally said. He was looking down at his hands at first but then he looked up into his son’s eyes. ‘Do you still refuse to go back to the military?’

  Abdul could feel the heaviness of his father’s heart. But despite his inability to find a solution for his own plight during his past few days’ seclusion one thing he remained certain of was his future regarding the military. ‘I will not go back, Father. I cannot. They are animals. I—’

  Abdul’s father put up a hand to stop his son from saying anything more.They sat in silence for a moment longer as the older man considered a deeper, much more troubling question. ‘It will only be a matter of time before they come to look for you. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Then I will leave . . . ’ Abdul began to say. But his father interrupted him once again, this time with a hint of anger in his eyes.

  ‘Let me talk,’ Abdul’s father said firmly. ‘It is not the army who will come here looking for you. It will be the secret police . . . And if they cannot find you they will take me away.’ There was no shortage of horror stories about the secret police and what they did to people in their custody, no matter how trivial the reason for their arrest, and Abdul knew the tales as well as anyone.

  ‘But . . . ’ Abdul began, and again his father stopped him.

  ‘You are a man now, not a boy. The world is a different place for men than it is for boys. There are different rules - rules of survival. It may seem to you, in the protection of this house, with me and your mother here, that there are more choices out there for men, that we have greater freedom than you. But in reality we have much less.There are far more rules for men and the punishments for breaking them are harsh. But I believe these rules to be important. Without them we cannot maintain our values and we will end up living by someone else’s rules.’

  Abdul listened quietly as his father continued in some detail about the advantages and disadvantages of the decisions, many of them unavoidable, that we all have to make in life and then the consequences of making the wrong decisions, especially in the times in which they lived. It was all so very complicated, intimidating as well, and Abdul could only wish that he had convinced his father not to send him to the army in the first place. There were ways of avoiding conscription but it had to be taken care of well in advance of the call-up date. One solution was to pay a fee, around two thousand dollars, to a certain someone a friend knew in the military who would have annulled Abdul’s obligation. But his father would never have done that, partly because the man believed that Abdul would have enjoyed it once he had settled in but mostly because of what he was talking about now: the rules and the penalties for breaking them.

  As Abdul watched his father wring his hands while he talked it became apparent that it was his duty, Abdul’s, to resolve this most serious dilemma that he had created for his father and the rest of his family. When the older man finally grew silent Abdul stood up, put his hand on his father’s shoulder, and with an uncommon resolve in his voice promised, as Allah was his witness, that he would find a solution, and if he failed he would let Allah decide his fate. But Abdul’s father took little satisfaction from the declaration and did not look at his son who had always been much more of a talker than a doer. Abdul was aware of that, having been accused of it many times. This time he vowed to be different.

  Abdul immediately set about making use of the many friends he had made at university and seeking out those he had heard rumours about in the past, men who had managed to somehow avoid the draft. Within a few days he learned of an army officer who held an influential position in the administrative office that dealt with army deserters and who - for a fee, of course - could have a name removed from the dreaded list. Abdul made contact with the officer through a man who had apparently benefited from his services. At a rendezvous in a coffee shop by the river near the Ishtar Sheraton Hotel the officer confirmed, after the customary ritual exchanges, that he could indeed help Abdul, at a cost of fifteen hundred dollars. Abdul did not want to go to his father for the money, part of his deal with himself and with Allah, and went directly to his mentor and only ally, Tasneen. Together they emptied their own bank accounts and raised the balance from various sources, mostly in the form of loans from other family members. But on the day they were to meet the officer and hand over the cash he called to explain that he was very sorry but Abdul’s paperwork had been forwarded to ‘other’ authorities. Abdul was horrified and immediately asked if it was possible to bribe the new recipient of the paperwork. The officer explained how that would be impossible since the new recipients included the police, the army, the National Guard, the border guards and, of course, the secret police. Abdul’s details would remain on file indefinitely or until he turned himself in or was captured.

  Abdul had to sit down before his knees gave way. He had failed his father, dishonoured the family, but - far worse - he would be on the run for the rest of his life. The officer had suggested that Abdul’s best course of action was to return to the army camp. He could expect imprisonment for a year or so, which would be unpleasant to say the least. There was, of course, a chance that Abdul could be hanged as an example to others, something that Saddam encouraged. But if Abdul’s father made a personal plea it could help his case. If Abdul was captured while on the run his chances of being executed were difficult to judge.

  When Abdul’s father learned of the news he slipped into a depression as he recounted a recent story of an old friend whose son was wanted for something by the secret police. After failing to find the boy they took the father instead. The son eventually turned up and the police hanged him in front of his father.

  Abdul was faced with a serious quandary. If he ran his father might pay the price but it would still mean that Abdul would remain a fugitive. If he gave himself up he could be hanged or at least spend a horrifying time in an Iraqi jail, a period that he did not think he would survive. Abdul told his sister tha
t had he known it would turn out as badly as this he would have done his time as a conscript. But it was too late now.

  Abdul’s fears were to be short-lived. So too, unfortunately, were his father and mother. A month later the coalition force invaded Iraq and a week after that his parents were killed when their car was crushed by the reckless panic-stricken driver of an Iraqi Army armoured vehicle heading out of the city as the Americans closed in on it.

  ‘Abdul,’ a voice growled behind him. He turned to see Hassan, his team sergeant, looking at him, a snarl on his face, an expression that as far as Abdul was concerned seemed to be a permanent fixture. Hassan was a strong, stocky man with a barrel gut that was the result not just of a large appetite but also of a taste for strong drink, a suspicion confirmed most mornings by Hassan’s fetid breath. Hassan disapproved of everything about Abdul. But then he disliked everyone, it seemed, except his younger brother Ali. Hassan’s animosity towards Abdul was partly due to his resentment of Abdul’s more privileged upbringing, something which Hassan often sarcastically referred to. As far as Abdul was concerned the man was a lowlife and rotten to the core. Hassan was one of the thousands of prisoners that Saddam had released from jails all over the country shortly before the war, although he would deny the accusation. But after several men confirmed that they’d known Hassan while in Abu Ghraib prison he took to explaining his incarceration as an administrative error: he’d been inside for nothing more serious than a driving offence. Since most prison records had been lost or destroyed during the war, Hassan’s included, it was not possible to disprove his claim. Abdul suspected his team sergeant was lying. To him, Hassan was quite simply a criminal in a police uniform.

  The truth was that Hassan had always been a criminal, since childhood, and like his brother and the rest of the squad he had joined the police only to further his unlawful ambitions. They were all Sunni Muslims from the Dora district in southern Baghdad, near the large power station which with its smoking chimneys dominated that part of the city’s horizon. It was an area notorious for its criminal element as well as for the insurgents who lurked there. The resistance and the crooks were hard to tell apart: their operational methods overlapped in places, both groups often working hand in hand.