Ray White

The American came to Fallujah to kill a man.

Unarmed, he walked the dusty streets for two days dodging American patrols and Iraqi militia gangs, checking one mosque after another.

American jets bombed a militia strongpoint at the other end of town and the shockwave blew grit in his eyes, despite the distance. Battle-scarred date palms and olive trees shuddered at the blast. Small arms fire crackled at a helicopter launching rockets in support of some marines and black smoke billowed from the stricken bird as it whirled away and limped toward home.

People flinched at a larger explosion and sought shelter in recessed doorways as the ground trembled and a choking, yellow dust cloud billowed up obscuring a molten sun. The daring few who shared the streets with him didn’t speak, but scurried past, eyes averted; mice under the eyes of an owl—refugees in their own homes. Most wore veils or scarves over their faces to block the pungent stench of uncollected garbage, overflowing sewers and burning rubber.

War had come to this town where terrorist leaders were as common as sand fleas, where ancient dogma and religious zeal conspired to create chaos.

Three cars smoldered less than a block away, remnants of some soon-forgotten shootout. He paused at a shrine to sip water from a plastic bottle and check his map. Insurgents had pulled down most of the street signs, or turned them, to confound American troops—a small action causing great confusion.

Thirty minutes later he saw the Saad Bin Abi Waqas Mosque, named for a general who’d won the great battle of Qadisiyya in 636 AD, opening Persia for Muslim conquest. That was the thing about Iraq and its people—too much history. Blood feuds and religious strife originated centuries ago and no one was willing to forgive and forget.

Several multi-story concrete apartment buildings nearby had been bombed, but the mosque was undamaged, its deep blue tile walls and gold-leafed spires standing in immaculate contrast to the ruins around it. A double row of pineapple palms lined the path to the arabesque doors and provided sparse shade.

Two men wearing black headbands armed with AK-47’s guarded the main entryway to the mosque.

“Salaam alikeum.” The American approached, right hand on his heart in a gesture of respect.

“Alikeum salaam.”

Armed guards at mosques not being the norm, he asked, “Is it permitted to enter?”

“Of course,” the closest guard said, “after we search you for weapons.” His eyes held a mischievous glint. “But once inside you may have trouble leaving.”

“Oh?”

“Oh yes. Big war conference. Very secret. No peasants allowed.”

His grin was infectious and the American responded by pulling a thermos and cup out of his backpack. “Would you like some coffee?”

He unscrewed the top with theatrical slowness, saying the word, “Moroccan,” as if he was caressing a woman. The aroma wafting from the thermos tickled the guard’s nose like a lover.

“Aaaah,” he sighed. “You know coffee!”

He offered his hand, “Jamal Hazziri.”

“Walid,” the American lied. “Walid bin Malat.”

He tipped the thermos and poured what looked like gooey, black sludge into the metal cup. “Thick enough to walk on and sweet as honey.”

The guard took a sip, savoring the thick, hot, delicious liquid tar.

“That may be the best coffee ever. Talal!” He called to the other guard. “Come over here and taste this.”

Talal slung his AK over his shoulder and ambled over to them.

“My brother, Talal” Jamal said, handing over the cup.

Talal nodded to Walid and took a cautious swallow. His eyebrows rose. “It’s good.”

“You sound surprised,” Walid said.

“If you were the butt of Jamal’s jokes as often as I, you would be careful too. I half expected it to taste like camel piss.”

“A subject on which he is a renowned authority,” Jamal joked.

Talal glanced at Walid and sighed. “You see what I mean?”

“I do indeed.”

“You are Saudi?” Talal asked.

Walid nodded and launched into his cover story. “My father sent me here to look for his brother, my uncle Hakim. We haven’t heard from him in more than a month and that is most unusual. He wasn’t at his home and I know he often prayed at this mosque so I thought I’d try here.” He shrugged.