The Saint Of Baghdad Read online

  THE SAINT OF BAGHDAD

  Michael Woodman

  Connlaswell Publishing

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Prologue

  LONDON

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  LOS ANGELES

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  LAS VEGAS

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Iraq, May 2009

  Is it me?

  The blindfold comes off and it hits me when I see the black hoods, the webcam and the jagged-edged knife.

  Is it me?

  Sunlight is streaming through a hole in the roof and hitting the dirt floor like a spotlight on a dark stage. The webcam is staring at it. Stark. Expectant.

  It’s showtime.

  But who’s the main event?

  CJ, Declan, or me?

  We’re huddled in shadows by the wall. I’m nursing a head wound with blood trickling down my neck. That would be frightening in any other world, but here it’s oddly comforting.

  It’s not me. It can’t be.

  Why crack open a guy’s head when you’re about to hack it off? It makes no sense. Even for these guys.

  But if not me, then who?

  CJ is piled in a heap at my side. He’s lying on a stack of rubble and bleeding bad. Worse than me. He’s fiddling with the cuffs at his back. Maybe he’s found a pick. Some old nail in that pile of debris. It can’t be CJ. Same logic as me. Why beat a man senseless if you need him live on camera reading from a cue card?

  It must be Declan. They haven’t touched him yet. Strange. He’s the VIP, the IT expert we were guarding when a hundred cops showed up and arrested us. Only they weren’t cops. And we’re not prisoners. We’re not hostages either. At least, not me and CJ. A hostage is worth something. We’re expendables. Me especially—I’m American. They won’t get jack for me. As for CJ, he’s an equally worthless Brit. If we were French or Italian, they might trade us for a suitcase full of used bills. But all they’ll get from our guys is an IOU scribbled on the business end of a Hellfire missile.

  Two hooded stooges drag Declan in front of the webcam and gut-punch him down to his knees. They hold him there and check back with the movie director—the guy with the knife. His name is Jahil. Jihadi Jill we call him. Easy enough to recognize even under the hood. Big. Another Brit. And that’s obvious as soon as he opens his mouth. From somewhere “up North” according to CJ. Manchester or thereabouts. A once-upon-a-time soccer fan, maybe. City or United? Blue or red? Now pure black.

  The fourth guy is Hussein. He’s working the laptop and the webcam. He calls out to Jill. There’s something wrong. Declan’s not roughed up enough. Or maybe he’s roughed up too much. I can’t figure it out. Either way, he’s not ready for his close-up. The stooges rip at his shirt until Jill sees something dangling from the rags. He grabs it and holds it up like a rare jewel in a shaft of sunlight. It’s a sliver of black plastic. A memory card. He gives it to Hussein and steps back into the limelight as the stooges hold Declan steady.

  “What’s on the card, my friend?”

  Declan’s eyes blaze up at the masked face. “It’s blank. I swear.”

  “So why was it sewn in your shirt?”

  “It wasn’t. It was in the pocket. They missed it.”

  Jill glances back at Hussein, who slots the memory card into his laptop and buzzes through menus. Jill crouches, his mouth at Declan’s ear, his voice a hoarse whisper. “I really want to know what’s on that card.” He strokes his blade down the Irishman’s cheek and blood drips from his chin onto his rag-strewn chest. “So I’m going to cut your throat extra slowly to give you plenty of time to answer.”

  “Okay,” Declan says, his eyes tracking the blade as Jill eases it away from his face. “Secrets—"

  “Bullshit.” Jill cracks him on the head with the butt of his knife. Declan groans and his body wilts, but he doesn’t quit.

  “They faked this war. I can prove it. You can break America’s heart with this. It’s a propaganda goldmine. The Vietnam War was won by a photo—not a bomb. When America saw that naked kid running—"

  “A photo? They’ve seen hundreds of photos. And videos too. They don’t give a damn about what their soldiers do. The world’s moved on. Atrocity is the new normal. And it gets prime time.”

  “This is different. Way beyond top secret.”

  “You said it was blank.”

  “I lied. It’s in a hidden partition.”

  Hussein calls out to Jill. He’s found something on the card. He’s pumped, fingers jabbing at the laptop. But Jill’s not convinced. He looks down at Declan.

  “You’re a liar.”

  Declan turns to Hussein and pleads for his life, howling in pidgin Arabic studded with English computer words. I catch bits of it, but the mishmash of languages makes no sense to me. Hussein is buying it, but Jill’s still not convinced. They shout and rage at each other until something breaks and silence hangs in the emptiness.

  Jill is looking at us now.

  Me and CJ.

  He barks out orders and the stooges drag Declan offstage, banging him up against the wall until he crumples to the floor. There’s been a change of plan. Something on that card. A ticket to ride for the Irishman. Suddenly too precious to kill.

  It’s me.

  I see it in Jill’s eyes. That’s all I can see behind the mask. But it’s enough. Sooner or later, it had to be me. I’m every jihadi’s wet dream. That blue passport works its magic every time. A real American. Box office. Even better—a former US Marine. The stooges drag me in front of the webcam and its empty lens stares at me. They pin me by the shoulders and Jill lays into my back with his knee. Ribs pop and pain gags in my throat. CJ bellows and leaps to his feet.

  Crazy James. He’s going for them. Cuffs or not.

  Take it easy, buddy. Or they’ll kill you too.

  Hussein leaps up and knocks CJ to the floor. It’s the last thing I see before Jill hits me again and I tumble into darkness. They shake me, bring me back.

  The room is quiet—a slice of time missing.

  CJ is sitting with his back against the wall. His eyes are on mine, his shoulders shifting, hands still working the chains behind his back. This guy never gives up.

  Jill is at my shoulder, hauling my head back by a handful of hair. The stooges are wrestling a sheet of plywood inked up with propaganda. It’s a jihadi teleprompter, and they’re trying to stand it up straight where I can read it. I’ll spare you the fine print. But it’s not much of a sales pitch for the USA.

  “I’m going to tell you a secret,” Jill says. “Remember the Deer Hunter game we used to play? How I’d spin the cylinder, stick the barrel to your head and drop the hammer?” He leans in closer. “I was faking it. I used to palm the live round. And we’re doing the same thing here. No one has to die. Just read what’s written on that board. Hussein can fake the rest. Snip, snip. We’ll cut and paste video of some other poor bastard’s throat getting cut instead of yours. You’re more valuable to us alive than dead. I respect you, Alex. You were a US Marine, a warrior like me. You’re a prisoner of war. Not a hostage. I don’t want to kill you. H
elp me out here. One way or another, I need that video. I need America to see and hear a decorated Marine telling them the truth.”

  “He’ll kill you anyway.” CJ struggles to his feet, but Hussein kicks him back down.

  Jill tucks the blade under my chin and the stooges aim my head at the message board. “Read it.”

  “Sure. I’ll read it,” I say. “I don’t want to die. You don’t need the knife. We can do it like you said. Hussein can patch in the blood and gore from some other video. Then we can do a deal for Declan’s card.”

  “Smart move, Alex.”

  Jill and the stooges step back and stand in the darkness as Hussein triggers the camera and its red light winks at me. Fear is creeping into my bones, but I suck it up. Nothing to lose now but pride, and mine’s not going anywhere. I breathe it all in. The last of my life. The warmth of the sun. The burn in CJ’s eyes. I’m glad he’s here. My buddy. My witness. I nod to him and off I go. I can hardly believe it. I’m straining forward like I’m reading the board and trying hard to get it right. But hey, guys, listen up… I’m singing “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

  The stooges are frozen. Even Hussein. Maybe their English isn’t up to the task. It’s the craziest thing, but I smile. Jill launches himself at me as CJ leaps to his feet. He’s done it. His hands are free. He’s on his way. Jill’s knife is at my throat. Hussein goes for CJ and they grapple. Hussein keels over, his head dangling on his chest. Jill is cutting. One more line. I can make this. CJ and the stooges are fighting and guns are blasting. I hear it all, but faint, as if from some distant room. I’m in full song. One more line. I hear it. The knife saws into me. The stooges fall. CJ’s coming.

  O’er the land of the f-r-e-e…

  LONDON

  One

  Eight Years Later

  CJ was sitting up in bed, eyes shuttering mechanically, taking endless snapshots of the same room.

  Tubes, wires, life support.

  The landscape was always the same and always haunted by the strangest things, like that mirror on the dresser at the end of his bed. It was mounted in an ornate wooden frame—a strange thing to find in a hospital. But then this wasn’t so much a hospital as a hospice, a waiting room for warriors.

  Most of them were waiting to die. Some were waiting to forget. But CJ was different. He was waiting to remember. That face, for example. That face in the mirror. Colors swirling in glass. Tones and textures painting a portrait of a severed head.

  Whose head?

  His eyes closed, his world folding in and out of darkness until hurrying steps brought him back to light. Different steps. Not the hospital staff. Doctors and nurses padding around in sneakers and sensible shoes. Those were everyday steps going about their business. Hardly worth the listen. But these steps were driven. Boots and heels. Clickety-click. These steps had a goal, and nothing was going to get in their way.

  The door opened and she swept into the room, dumping flowers on the dresser and propping a satchel against the nightstand.

  “It’s me again,” she said, taking his head between her hands and angling it up so he was looking directly at her.

  He shuttered once. Another snapshot. Auburn hair cut in a bob, goofy smile, and freckles like raw sugar, tumbling off her nose onto her cheeks.

  The mystery woman.

  In CJ’s mind soup, she was the constant.

  She let go of his head and slid onto the chair.

  “No change, I see.”

  She picked up her satchel and rummaged inside.

  “They told me not to expect the Hollywood movie version. But if I’d had any idea…” She pulled a phone out of her bag and flicked her finger over the screen as she continued. “In the movie, the beautiful and brave woman—that would be me, by the way—sits by the hero’s bed. He’s comatose, like you were when they wheeled you in here. But she’s patient and loving. Like I am. She holds his hand and croons soothing words.” She grabbed his hand. “Like this. And sure enough, it all pays off. The hero’s eyes pop open. He’s lucid and coherent. And thank God for that, because he’s the only one who knows the secret that’ll save the world.” She waited. She always did. But there was nothing happening on CJ’s end. No twinkling eye. No wrinkling brow. So she went back to the phone and he went back to the mirror, where the head was now dripping blood onto the flowers.

  “The real-life script has a few more pages,” the mystery woman continued. “After the coma comes PVS—a persistent vegetative state. That’s doctor-speak for potatohead. Although that’s not a word I’d use in front of them, so don’t quote me. They tell me that talking to you like this—rambling on as I do—is beneficial.” She looked up again. “What is it with you and that mirror?” She pulled his head back towards her. “I don’t like to be rough. But no pain, no gain. You’re a soldier. You know the routine.” She tapped her phone. “Today’s goal is one more point on the Glasgow Coma Scale. You’re a number eight. Moderate. One more point and you’re a Mild. So what I need from you is”—she consulted the phone again—“confused conversation. I think we can manage that, don’t you?”

  She edged the chair closer and leaned forward, peering into his eyes like an ophthalmologist checking his retinas before thumbing through more pages.

  “We’ve had incomprehensible speech, two points—that’s basically just groaning—you excelled at that. And we’ve had inappropriate speech—although I think that ‘you wankers’ merits more than a miserly three points. In some parts of Dublin that would pass for articulate speech.”

  His eyes flickered. Bits and pieces adding up. Something happening. The face in the mirror was part of it. And the woman’s voice. Not the words, but its music. The lilt of it. The soft tone and sinuous threading. Something was weaving all these things together. It was the sun, splashing the woman with light and spilling it all over the bed. That puddle of light and the throat and its blood. Echoes and images were sparking forgotten pathways and breathing new life into numb neural networks. But then it was all gone. It was all too much. His eyes closed and his chin eased down onto his chest.

  “CJ. Come back.” She stood up. “Is the sun too strong?” She shaded him with her body and squeezed his hands. His eyes opened, lingering on her face before darting around the room like a newborn baby sampling the forms and colors of a strange new world.

  “That’s better. Beautiful. Eye movement. Listen to me, CJ. I’ve seen the scans. They had to patch some bits and do some rewiring. But you’ve still got enough of that gray mushy stuff”—she tapped his head with her knuckles—“to be halfway normal. The problem is the software. Too much bad data jammed up in your buffers. If you were a computer, I could reboot you. But you’re human, so it’s more complicated.”

  She went to the window and was drawing the curtains when a sound stopped her.

  “Bagre…”

  She whirled around.

  “What? Again.”

  His eyes rolled into the sunlight bathing her silhouette.

  “Bagde…”

  “Baghdad. Holy Mother of God.” She rushed back to the bed and held his face between her palms. “No. It’s not Baghdad. It’s Surrey. You’re home.” She shifted her hands aside, framing his withered face.

  “Surre.”

  “This is an official miracle. Wait.” She whipped out her phone. “That’s not confused conversation. That’s oriented. Four points. Well, not quite. The patient knows who she/he is, where she/he is and why, the year, season and month. That’s too severe. There are plenty of people walking around out there who couldn’t handle that one. But you’ve got the where. So let’s go for the who. What’s your name?” She waited, her face drifting closer to his.

  “We’re going too fast. Let’s start with an introduction like we’ve just met. My name is Enya O’Brien. Do you recognize me? I’m Declan’s sister. His twin. Not identical. He always used to say that he got the brains and I got the beauty.” She made a clown’s face, but it drooped into a frown as she glanced over at the call button
. “I should tell the doctors. You’ll be needing medication or tests or something. But let’s nail this orientation thing first. I’m going to start recording now.” She fiddled with the phone. “So what is your name?” She waited, fidgeting.

  He swung his eyes back to the dresser, to the mirror and its head, and she followed his interest.

  “You like the flowers? The colors?”

  “Alex?” His voice was faltering, testing itself as much as querying the object shimmering in the glass.

  “No. Your name is not Alex. That’s confused conversation. Two points. We did that months ago. Hold on.”

  She took off her leather jacket and used it to cover the mirror, and she dropped the flowers on the floor at the foot of the bed, where he couldn’t see them.

  “Now let’s try again,” she said as she settled back in the chair. “What is your name?”

  “Alex.” His voice was clear this time. No doubts.

  “Forget Alex. He was the other one. The American. Poor man. I shouldn’t be the one to tell you. But he’s dead.”

  “Deh.” He stared at her as she fiddled with her phone, his mouth open, his jaw slewing off to one side.

  “I’ve turned off the recording. Let’s take a shortcut. I’m going to tell you who you are. We can rehearse it a bit. Then I’ll turn on the recording and we can pretend it’s all happening live. It’s a bit sneaky. Like reality TV. But that’s the world we live in. Everything’s fake. Your name is Christopher James. CJ for short. CJ. Got it? My name is Enya. So what’s your name?”

  “Alex.” He called it out like a summons, twisting back to the covered mirror. Enya leapt from her chair, caught him by the chin and dragged him back.

  “He’s dead, I’m telling you.”

  “Alex?” His voice was muted now, her words filtering into meaning, but one that made no sense.

  He went quiet after that.

  She glanced at the call button. But as she went to use it, he jerked up off the pillows.

  She yelped and hopped back, hands at her mouth.