Elliot Ackerman - Dark at the Crossing

“I remember you,” said Kareem.

Haris couldn’t tell if the you he referred to was him or Jim.

From his cargo pocket, Jim removed a satellite map of Ramadi and a photograph of Kareem’s uncle. He held up the photograph and pointed to the map. “Where does he live?”

Kareem’s expression knotted, as if he didn’t understand the satellite image being shown to him. This was expected. Most Iraqis couldn’t comprehend the idea of an overhead image. They knew direction from a vantage no higher than the ground.

Jim had once told Haris a story about an informant of his, a man who helped him track an insurgent commander named Abu Yahya. The informant often reported on the aftereffects of drone strikes, hanging out around the rubble to confirm who’d been killed. One day he arrived at Hurricane Point to report on a strike which had just missed Abu Yahya. While the informant chomped peanuts from a tin and drank lukewarm Coke, Jim asked how he’d learned the details of what had happened. The informant told Jim he’d heard Abu Yahya talking in his cousin’s grocery store, a locale the commander frequented. Jim became excited, wanting to know where the grocery store was. Perhaps it could be targeted for a similar strike.

When Jim pulled out a satellite map, his informant gave the same blank-eyed look as Kareem. “Pretend,” said Jim, “that you are like a hawk.” He waved his hands, imitating broad wings. “And you are flying over your home.” Still the informant couldn’t conceptualize the map laid before him, or how to be a hawk. “Okay,” said Jim, “let’s pick a place you know and you can walk me to your cousin’s shop from there.” The informant smiled through his mouthful of peanuts. He could do this. “How about the bus station downtown?” asked Jim, but the informant still looked confused. He slurped his Coke. “Or the central police headquarters? Can you tell me how to get to your cousin’s shop from there?” The informant shook his head no. Becoming frustrated, Jim said: “Start from a place everybody knows, anyplace, and tell me how to get to your cousin’s shop.” The informant set down his peanuts. “A place everybody knows?” he asked, his voice wandering. Then an enlightened smile flashed across his face. “How about I show you how to get to my cousin’s shop from Abu Yahya’s house!” At this point in the story, Jim folded his arms and leaned back. “So I told him, why don’t you just show me where Abu Yahya’s house is.” Then Jim laughed and muttered to himself: “Ignorant fucks.”

Now Jim leaned over the satellite image on the desk, telling Kareem: “We’re going to find him with or without you.”

“You don’t need my help then,” Kareem answered.

Jim shrugged. “You’re right,” he said. Hovering over the table, he sorted through Kareem’s things with feigned interest. “I don’t need your help.” He picked up the comb, teasing out his auburn beard, grinning at Kareem. “But I want it.” With his other hand, he played with the cellphone, flipping through the contacts. “Who’s this?” Jim asked, holding the screen up to Kareem’s face as he scrolled number to number. “Your mother? Brother? We’ve got their info now.” Jim pulled a pad from his pocket and scribbled down phone numbers and names. With his wrist bound to the chair, Kareem sat as straight as he could. Finally, Jim placed the cellphone back on the table. He crouched next to Kareem. “Translate exactly what I’m saying,” he told Haris. “We,” said Jim.

Haris paused a second. “We,” he repeated in Arabic.

“Can do this the easy way.” Jim spat the words in a hot whisper next to Kareem’s ear.

Haris repeated them.

“Or the hard way,” said Jim. Before Haris could translate, Jim gently squeezed Kareem’s left elbow in its sling, applying more and more pressure until the boy bucked in his chair, gritting his teeth.

Jim released his grip. Sweat trickled over Kareem’s temples, running through the peach fuzz on his cheeks. “Show me on the map,” said Jim.

Kareem didn’t reply but began to pant, overcome by the pain in his slung arm. Jim glanced at Haris, who stood by the wall. “Tell him I’ll break his other arm if he doesn’t tell me.”

Before Haris could translate there was a knock at the door. The MP walked in. “Uh, Sarge—” He paused a moment, surveying the scene. “Headquarters doesn’t have a copy of your interrogation clearance. You want to hop on the phone and help sort this out?”

Jim stepped away from Kareem, putting the table between them.

“Yeah, all right,” said Jim. He walked outside.

The door shut, and Kareem’s breath slowed. He levered himself upright in his seat. Jim’s cushioned office chair sat empty, but Haris chose to stay leaning against the wall. He felt Kareem’s hateful gaze on him but said nothing. Eventually, Haris glanced back. “What he said is true,” he told Kareem.

“That my uncle is the bomber?”

“No, that he’ll find him with or without your help.”

“Then why bother speaking with me?”

“If you tell us,” said Haris, “it will take less time.”

Kareem laughed. He craned his neck against his shoulder in order to wipe the sweat and tears from his face. “Time? What should I care about your time? You want the Americans to stay as long as possible so you can keep collecting their money.”

“That’s not why I work with them,” said Haris. As he uttered the words, his mind raced to find the reason. After the invasion, the reason was inevitability. Their will was inevitable. Their wealth was inevitable. Any man with reason wanted a job with the Americans. These years later, in this room, Haris felt their reason and his own slipping away.

Whether through mercy or disinterest the boy sat quietly, not asking Haris for answers. Don’t look at me with pity, thought Haris. You’re the one bound to a chair, your arm in a sling. He was certain the boy could read these words in his expression.

“If you’d let me help you, I would,” offered Haris. He stepped toward Kareem, who flinched, jerking back in his chair. Haris knelt, took a knife from his belt, and cut loose the plastic flex-cuff. His hand now free, Kareem made an orbit with his wrist, working the stiffness from it. Haris took the pack of cigarettes from the table. He offered one to Kareem and took one himself.

While they smoked, Haris listened intently outside. He could hear Jim’s muffled phone conversation and he prayed Jim wouldn’t return at that moment.

“How can you help me?” asked Kareem.

“I don’t want your uncle taken in the way your grandfather was.”

Kareem shrugged, as if this too was inevitable.

“If you tell me where your uncle lives,” said Haris, “I’ll warn you when the Americans come for him.”

“And why would you do that?”

“Because they’re wrong, and I want to be in the right for once,” said Haris. “I believe you, your uncle, your grandfather, all of you, have nothing to do with these bombings.”

Kareem took a few silent drags, his mind seeming to work over the possibility of what Haris offered. “And if I don’t?”

Haris nodded toward the door. “He comes back in this room.”

“And you?”

“I translate.”

Kareem stubbed out his cigarette on the bottom of his chair. He leaned forward and sat the butt on the table next to the rest of his things.

“You swear this?” he asked.

Haris nodded, and took a piece of paper and pen from his pocket.

With his one good hand, Kareem sketched a map to his uncle’s house from Hurricane Point. Haris held the sheet of paper still for him. The two worked together, speaking quietly as Kareem annotated the route in detail, marking each turn with some landmark. Once they had finished, Haris punched Kareem’s cellphone number into his own. He tested the number, and Kareem’s phone vibrated on the desk.