Yasmina Khadra - The Sirens of Baghdad

But something’s different now. Ever since his friend Imad was found dead of an overdose, Shakir has lost his proud assurance. Before, he was crackling with energy. You didn’t have time to hang up the phone before he rang the doorbell. He put the same vigor and dedication into everything he did. Then the police discovered the body of his closest collaborator, and that was a sad jolt for Shakir. It was as though he’d hit a wall.

I didn’t know Imad very well. Except for our journey from the Jordanian border to Lebanon, he and I weren’t together much. He’d come with Shakir to pick me up at the hotel, and that was it. He was a shy kid, crouched in his partner’s shadow. He didn’t seem like a person who used drugs. When I learned how he’d been found, lying blue-mouthed on a bench in a public square, I immediately suspected that he’d actually been murdered. Shakir agreed with me, but he kept it to himself. Only once, I asked him what he thought about Imad’s death; his blue eyes darkened. We’ve avoided the subject ever since.

“Any problems?” he asks.

“Not really,” I reply.

“You look upset.”

“What time is it?”

He consults his watch and tells me we still have twenty minutes before it’s time to leave. I get up and go to the bathroom to wash my face. The cold water calms me down. I stay bent over the sink for a long time, dousing my face and the back of my neck. When I straighten up, I catch Shakir looking at me in the bathroom mirror. He’s standing with his arms crossed over his chest, his head tilted to one side, and his shoulder against the wall. I run my wet fingers through my hair, and he watches me with a glassy gleam in his eye.

“If you’re not feeling well, I’ll postpone the meeting,” he says.

“I’m fine.”

He purses his lips skeptically. “It’s your call. Sayed arrived this morning. He’ll be very happy to see you again.”

“He hasn’t given a sign of life for more than two weeks,” I point out.

“He had to go back to Iraq.” Handing me a towel, he adds, “Things are getting really bad over there.”

I dry my face and pass the towel around my neck. “Dr. Jalal came by to see me this afternoon,” I blurt out.

Shakir raises an eyebrow. “Oh, did he?”

“He also came out on the terrace last night to chat with me.”

“And?”

“It’s on my mind.”

“He said unpleasant things?”

I turn and face Shakir. “What kind of guy is he, this Dr. Jalal?”

“I have no idea. Not my department. But if you want my advice, don’t get all worked up over nothing.”

I go into my bedroom, put on my shoes and my jacket, and announce that I’m ready. “I’ll go and get the car,” he says. “Wait for me in front of the hotel.”

The automatic gate slides open with a screech, and we enter the grounds of the clinic. Shakir takes off his sunglasses before steering his 4×4 into an interior courtyard. He parks between two ambulances and switches off the engine. “I’ll wait for you here,” he says.

“Very good,” I reply, getting out of the vehicle.

He winks at me and leans over to pull the door closed.

I climb up a wide flight of granite steps and enter the lobby of the clinic. A male nurse intercepts me and shows me to Dr. Ghany’s office on the second floor. Sayed’s there, hunched in an armchair, his fingers clutching his knees. A smile lights up his face when he sees me come in. He stands up and spreads his arms, and we embrace forcefully. Sayed’s lost a lot of weight. I can feel his bones through his gray suit.

The professor waits until we release each other before inviting us to take the two chairs facing him. He’s nervous; he can’t stop tapping the desk blotter with his pencil. “All your test results are excellent,” he announces. “The treatment I prescribed has proved effective. You’re perfect for the mission.”

Sayed stares at me intensely. The professor lays his pencil aside, braces himself against the desk, lifts his chin, and looks me straight in the eyes. “It’s not just any mission,” he informs me.

I don’t turn away.

“We’re talking about an operation of a unique kind,” the professor goes on, slightly unsettled by my stiffness and my silence. “The West has left us no choice. Sayed’s just back from Baghdad. The situation there is alarming. Iraq’s imploding, and its people are on the verge of civil war. If we don’t act quickly, the region will go up in flames and never recover.”

“The Shi’a and the Sunnis are tearing one another to pieces,” Sayed adds. “The spirit of revenge is growing stronger every day.”

“I think it’s you two who are wasting time,” I say. “Tell me what you expect of me and I’ll do it.”

The professor freezes, his hand on his pencil. The two men exchange furtive glances. The professor’s the first to react, holding the pencil suspended in the air. “It’s not an ordinary mission,” he says. “The weapon we’re entrusting to you is both effective and undetectable. No scanner will reveal it; no search will find it. It makes no difference how you carry it. You can do so naked, if that appeals to you. The enemy won’t detect anything.”

“I’m listening.”

The pencil touches the blotter, rises slowly, comes down on a pile of paper, and doesn’t move again. Sayed thrusts his hands between his thighs. A heavy silence weighs like a leaden cape on the three of us. One or two unbearable minutes pass. Far off, we can hear the hum of an air conditioner, or perhaps a printer. The professor picks up his pencil again, turning it round and round in his fingers. He knows that this is the decisive moment, and he fears it. After having cleared his throat and clenched his fists, he gathers himself and says abruptly, “The weapon in question is a virus.”

I don’t flinch, nor do I completely understand what he’s said. I don’t see the connection with the mission. The word virus passes through my consciousness. A strange term, I think, but it leaves me with a feeling of déjà vu. What’s a virus? Where have I heard that word? It comes back to me, yet I still can’t manage to situate it properly. Then the examinations, the X rays, and the medications fall into place in the puzzle, and the word virus slowly, bit by bit, gives up its secret. Microbe, microorganism, flu, illness, epidemic, treatment, hospitalization — all sorts of stereotyped images parade through my head, mingle, and blur…. However, I still don’t see the connection.

Sayed sits beside me, unmoving, as tense as a bowstring. The professor continues his explanation. “A revolutionary virus. I’ve spent years perfecting it. Untold amounts of money have been sunk into this project. Men have given their lives to make it possible.”

What’s he telling me?

“A virus,” the professor repeats.

“I understand. So what’s the problem?”

“The only problem is you. Are you game for the mission or not?”

“I never back down.”

“You’ll be the person carrying the virus.”

I’m having trouble following him. Something in his words escapes me. I’m not digesting them. It’s as though I’ve become autistic. The professor continues: “All those tests and medications were designed to determine whether your body would be fit to receive it. Your physical reactions have been impeccable.”

Only now do I see the light; all at once, everything becomes clear in my mind. The weapon in question is a virus. My mission consists in carrying a virus. That’s it; I’ve been physically prepared to receive a virus. A virus. My weapon, my bomb, my kamikaze airplane…