| General Fiction posted January 31, 2022 |
  |
People Lie.
Dancing in Dubai.
by Yardier
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
I wrote Dancing in Dubai while searching for smugglers and terrorists crossing from Iran into Iraq. That was twelve years ago. A long time for some but not so long for me. I spent almost three years in the Middle East doing what guys like me like to do. Brothers all for sure. The difference being I liked reading and writing and storytelling. We older dudes had skill and timing and understood life was to be lived to the fullest. Not careless but to the fullest. You would be surprised at the number of fifty, sixty-year-old men wearing full battle rattle who leaned into the sandstorms and said, “Show me the magic.”
I have no real regrets regarding that time of my life, other than I waited too long to share this story about lies. This story is heavily laden with acronyms because that is the way we spoke to each other back then. Now, readers and seekers are turning pages looking for something different than what civilian warriors from the desert wars can share. It would have been timely twelve years ago but not so much now.
That is why the glossary is at the beginning of this story. I’d like you to be fully equipped before you start Dancing in Dubai.
Yardier.
GLOSSARY:
Arifjan: U.S. Military Base in Kuwait.
As-salaamu Alaykum: Peace be unto you. (Arabic)
Balaclava: Cloth headgear designed to expose only part of the face.
BCP: Bagdad Central Prison.
B-huts: Soldiers barracks.
BIAP: Bagdad International Airport.
Black Hawk: UH-60 Black Hawk combat helicopter.
Breacher: Military, police, personnel trained to force open locked doors.
CAC: US Department of Defense Common Access Card.
Cent Com: Central Command.
Choke Point: Narrows in roadway.
CONUS: Continental United States.
CPO: US Navy Chief Petty Officer.
DefCon: Defense Ready Condition threat levels faced by the Department of Defense and the United States military.
Dirham: Currency of the United Arab Emirates.
Dishdasha: Long, usually white, robe.
Dr. Sadiki’s Elixir: Bootleg alcohol.
ECP: Entry Control Point.
EOD: Explosive Ordnance Disposal.
First Shirt: US Army First Sergeant.
Flips: Pejorative for Filipinos.
FOB: Forward Operating Base.
FUBAR: Offensive slang from WWII meaning something is so broken it is beyond repair.
Green Zone: Heavily fortified area of Bagdad, Iraq, home to several foreign embassies.
Grenade spoon: Safety handle of grenade.
Haji: Muslim who has been to Mecca.
Hescoes: Perimeter protection built with sand /dirt.
HUMVEE: Humvee High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle.
IED: Improvised Explosive Device.
Intell Specialist: Members of intelligence services, highly trained in espionage techniques and the use of agents.
KD/Kuwait Dinar: Currency of Kuwait.
MP-5 Sub-gun: 9x19mm Parabellum submachine gun.
MRAP: Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected vehicle.
NGO: Non-government organization.
OCS: US Army Officer Candidate School.
Ranger-up: To man up and keep pushing either in a combat situation or civil situation.
Seirenes: Mythical creatures who lured sailors to shipwreck with enchanting music and voices.
Shaman: Person having access to, and influence in, the world of good and evil spirits.
Souq: Open air marketplace.
SP: Security Police.
Stars and Stripes: Informational newspaper for military personnel.
T-walls: Concrete walls designed to reduce explosive blast.
Up armored SUV: Commercial vehicle i.e.; Suburban, Expedition. Etc. fitted with aftermarket armor.
~~~~
People Lie.
Sometimes… well, more like most of the time, people lie.
When caught lying through their teeth, they are sure to say, "Really? Well, I could've sworn…." It is as though they use that explanation in a vain attempt to diminish the pain and confusion caused by their irresponsible claims and actions. After all, it was such a grand lie, so intricately manufactured with times and places they could almost live there.
More often than not, they believed they did.
Those monumental lies, obviously no ordinary half-truths, actually or so they thought, took them closer to the truth than they'd ever been before, together that is. You know, with another acquiescing liar mouth, and without that commitment thing, they worry about so much.
Accountability, who needs it?
In this lie, they were free, or at least felt so free as to believe they were.
Now, that's not so bad, is it?
Well, consider when two people support each other's pursuit of the truth by agreeing with each other's lie, then, in all probability, all hell should break loose, right?
Not necessarily. Some would call it love.
~~~~
There it was, shimmering in the heat waves rising from Dubai's blistering white sand beaches. There was no doubt about it this time. This lie, yes, this particular lie, shimmered and sparkled its way through the Persian Gulf's brilliant blue sky like a misplaced Aurora Borealis weaving a magical mystery through two souls yearning to keep it aloft. They were convinced they discovered a mysterious Arabian kite possessing magical powers in its tail, broadcasting an eternal song only they could hear over the din of jet skis and jewelry vendors.
Others would say they discovered the song of Seirenes and felt compelled to fuel the ethereal composition with an off-key chorus romantic compromise unleashed by Dr. Sidiki's Feel-Good elixir.
But how had they become so deaf, so blind, so lost in the first place they committed themselves to the Dubai pilgrimage? Had they become released or ensnared?
Was Baghdad, with its urban sprawl, T-walls, Hescoes, and decaying identity, really all that consuming, really all that dangerous with I.E.D.s and suicide bombers? Coming from such a cultural wasteland and temporarily set free from their Green Zone hootches they call home, no wonder they lie.
They must lie, dammit, just to get past all that is ordinary and confusing as they desperately try to lead a somewhat normal life in a war-torn country.
After all, how can they possibly know what is right and truly good without an ECP or security checkpoint indicating the next choke point in the road is probably IED free?
They lie to themselves to gin up the trust the EOD Team had located and cleared the road of every IED carefully hidden beneath a maggot-infested dead dog, cardboard box, or wind-whipped plastic bag. However, they can never really know sitting in an up-armored SUV, MRAP, or Humvee sweating out their anxiety in the 110-degree shitty Iraqi air if the road is clear or not. It's simply a turn of a card on the table of life; Ace, you live, Jack, you die, Joker, you lose an appendage, and hopefully, your family jewels remain untouched. So, is it such a surprise they lie with blind religious fervor and intensity? They beat their drums and blow the ram's horn of lies in agreement that the purity of life and innocence of the heart will, once again, be born from the vicious mother beast of combat.
It will come true. Cent Com says it will!
Yes, it surely will, and all they must do to leave the weight of their present circumstance behind is to lie through their teeth without ever so much as batting an eye.
Conscience...? Shush. They won't even think about looking in the rear-view mirror of their soul, and, by habit and practice, they are already fully aware furtive glances, and evil sneers are unnecessary when lying at this level. After all, there's no need to invite moral and ethical scrutiny from outsiders while dancing in the streets of Liarsville, AKA Dubai.
Besides, sneers and guilty looks are tasteless and unbecoming those who are about to be set free. It's the quick smile and firm handshake coupled with a comforting pat on the back leading to a warm embrace that will kick start the charade but ultimately, it will be the kiss on the cheek that seals the deal; As-salaamu Alaykum, my infidel friend.
But wait, there is..., trailing on the edges of that elaborate lie, a shining piercing light. And no, it's not another Blackhawk racing to the embassy roof. Instead, its mesmerizing strobe beckons all believers and deceivers to shake off the persistent Def Con status of their minds and make a run for the border of fictional clarity. Its sudden and startling brilliance is so clear and uncompromised it can only come from the grand essence truth itself while unashamedly illuminating all who see it.
Intriguing… inviting?
Always has been.
Out of place? No more than a sparkling drop of dew discovered at daybreak on a spider's web.
But could the truth have been found without the lie? If the spider's web had not been there in the first place, How then could that small, sweet droplet have condensed in the 110-degree sunrise?
And yet, there it was, looking them right in the eye, asking them only to recognize and remember.
No problem there, or so they think. Remembering is the easy part until, of course, they leave wherever it was they first saw and recognized the truth.
And then they forget.
Of course, they forget. They don't mean to; it just happens. They work hard at trying to remember. They really do. They try to bring the glorious epiphany back to their hootches and B-huts before it evaporates into a vague and common story. And in their desperation to memorialize the truthfulness of their lies and remain enlightened, they make a quick purchase at the BIAP gift shop. Perhaps a last-minute grab of a quick discount gift at a FOB's trailer P.X. will do but, even with their dusty wooden bookshelves and makeshift plywood table tops back in their hootches covered with such gifts, they still forget.
Instead, the golden memory they held so dear will become nothing more than a fleeting nuance that will fade away with every tick of the clock and approaching sandstorm.
Iconic clutter and an internal question will be all that's left of their glorious liberation.
Ah, but not to despair, and for goodness' sake, don't even consider pity. For even amid their stumbling bumbling confusion, they will begin to lie again, and I mean desperately lie. Then, finally, they will rally and somehow, once more, try to conjure up the truth.
Shamelessly, they will put the whole of their souls into the effort.
They are, after all, on a pilgrimage.
Resembling chiropractic shamans, they will pry, squeeze, bend, snap, and cajole their ordinary and unwanted circumstance with bone-breaking effort to force it into a futile fantasy resembling something rock-solid, uplifting, and guilt-free.
But, even when their horrible, wonderfully complex lie crowds out the whole 'friggin Persian Gulf sky, there... over there in the corner; the hope, clarity, and promise of a solution, maybe even absolution, will begin to appear.
It always does.
But it won't settle for being a sideshow; it will strike quick as lightning right smack dab in the middle of that obscure place where they've been dancing around spinning their lies, right where they hoped it would reveal its delightful self once again.
Tickled?
Yes, maybe even giddy.
Surprised? Not at all, for in that swift and brief illuminated moment, they became whole again and refreshed and filled with vibrating life and challenged to become, somehow, pure despite their lies, and all they had to do was...
…believe.
~~~~
The hand-carved mahogany door behind Eric opened and closed just as he finished writing the last sentence of the chapter titled: People Lie.
He turned in his chair to see Paul, his battle buddy and confidant, enter the whitewashed room both men used as a hideout in Dubai. Paul's sandals slapped against the large white floor tiles as he carried another bottle of Sadiki across the simple room toward the patio with the grin of a cat who had just eaten the canary.
Annoyed with Paul's late intrusion, Eric reached for a pack of cigarettes lying near the legal pad on which he had been writing. The title read: Burning in Baghdad. Maybe he should change it to Dancing in Dubai, he mused as he removed a cigarette. He narrowed his eyes as he remembered the previous night and how Joyanne said Dubai with a lingering smile. A smile so inviting even Lauren Bacall would appreciate the strength of its subtlety. Oh indeedy…, he thought; Dancing in Dubai would make a clever title for a little story about lies.
Paul pulled the wrought iron chair from the table, scratching the tile floor without blinking an eye, and plopped down onto the hard metal seat. He skootched to the table and slid the bottle of Sadiki across the glass tabletop to Eric and snatched his cigarette. "Check it out, Bro. It's the real deal. One hundred percent Acetone-free!"
Eric looked past the bottle through the glass tabletop at Paul's sandaled feet. "What's with the Haji treads?"
"I'm trying to blend in." Paul smirked.
"Well, shave off that lifer mustache and put on a man dress."
Paul frowned. "A Dishdasha? I ain't going that far, stupid."
Eric flicked the empty cigarette pack to Paul’s chest. “That was my last cigarette, buddy.” Eric picked up his pen just to have something between his fingers.
“So what?” Paul lit the cigarette.
Eric held the bottle of Sadiki up to the bright morning light and gazed through the thick glass at the refracted images of the sun and brilliant Dubai shore. He thought about last night's midnight moon and visualized a blue cotton dress floating gently in the warm Persian Gulf and said, “It doesn't matter anyway."
"What do you mean it doesn't matter?" Paul asked through exhaled smoke.
Eric ignored Paul and asked, "Is this stuff any good?"
"I don't know. It was cheap. These sandals weren't. Come on, man, what do you mean?"
"They know we're here." Eric pulled the cork, turned the bottle upside down, and took a long, deep swallow while watching the bubbles from his mouth rise to the top.
"Say what, how do you know?"
"Ruth."
"Who the hell is Ruth?" Paul asked.
"Robert's Ruth." Eric slid the bottle to Paul.
"Impressive," Paul said. "You spoke to Robert Water. How’d you do that?"
"I bought a simm card from one of the flips in the kitchen… and it cost a lot more than your undercover sandals." Eric said.
"This is way beyond FUBAR. What did he say?"
"He said hold on a minute, and the next thing I know, I'm talking with Ruth."
Paul took a swig of Sadiki and slowly looked around the room. He studied the veins of marble, highlighting the floor tile as if they were coded instructions that could be deciphered. His mind percolated with possibilities. "What about an N.G.O. relief flight to Sudan? We could slip into Ethiopia."
"On one of Robert's Angel Flights? Nope. Here's the pitch, and we're only getting one."
"And if we say no?"
"We're on our own."
"What's the deal?
"We turn ourselves in at the embassy."
"That doesn't sound like much of a plan," Paul said while taking another slug of Sadiki.
"It's complicated, but it beats trying to walk across Sudan in August."
Sweat broke out on Paul's forehead as he took another swig. "I don't know, man, what about our money?"
"The Feds have already seized our CONUS accounts."
"Well, that's pretty messed up."
"Yep, the good news is the Belize and Seychelles accounts were transferred to a shell corporation in Guatemala."
"I didn't sign that," Paul protested.
"Neither did I, but Ruth knows how to make things work, and number one on her list is to protect Robert and Clearwater's image and investments."
"What about the rest of the team?"
"They're sweatin' it out in BCP," Eric said.
"Holy shit."
"Yep, and then some." Eric shook his head.
"How's this play out?"
"0400 tomorrow, we meet the cook at the loading dock behind the kitchen and give him all our Dirham."
"All…?" Paul worried he paid too much for the Sadiki.
"They're going to take it from us at the Embassy anyway. It’s just a matter of timing, we're gonna load up in the back of the delivery truck. The cook is gonna pay the driver to stop for a minute in front of the Embassy and were gonna jump out and kiss the feet of the jarheads guarding the gate."
"What… they don't mess around, dude. They're locked and loaded." Paul stressed.
"It's nothing to worry about. We're wanted, remember? It'll be the easiest arrest they ever make. When they take us into custody, I give them the name and number of the law firm waiting to unleash three of their top Pro-Bono attorneys."
"Pro-Bono, what's that?" Paul asked.
"Free."
"Free… but we won't be…?
"Right, but the Iraqis can't touch us, and the US Marshall can't touch us. We'll be held under guard until our attorneys get here in a day or two. Before leaving CONUS, they will have filed a bond with the D.C. District Court guaranteeing we will show up within thirty days."
"Then…?"
"We fly home, are taken into custody, processed, and hopefully released on bail." Eric hoped it would be that easy but, he didn't want Paul freaking out from too much intel.
"And all of this is Pro-Bono free?"
Eric nodded. "Pretty much."
"What's Robert get out of all of this?"
"Our silence."
"How’d they make us?" Paul asked.
Eric didn't like admitting it, "Mel and Joyanne."
"Melody and Joy?" Paul began to worry.
"Yep, they had us made before we entered the souq, but they confirmed it at Ali's Gold Kiosk."
Suspicious, Paul asked, "How do you know all this?"
Eric gave Paul the shorthand version, "It took me a while to figure it out. Remember when we first saw the gold display and walked directly to it? We were gold blind."
"I don't know about being blind. I sure could see all that gold, though."
"That's my point, we lost our situational awareness, and before we knew it, we were blindsided with Melody on your left and Joy on my right," Eric said.
"I don't know what looked better, all that gold or Melody's rack and big green eyes." Paul tried to find footing with his memory of lust.
"Probably contacts and falsies." Eric grounded him.
"You think she's a hooker?" Paul asked.
"Nope, Navy Intelligence, we've been profiled, and they know what we like."
"I dunno about all this." Paul took a slug of Sadiki.
"Sure, drink it while you can, 'cause in about fourteen hours we're going sober."
"Contacts and falsies? That's not my style, man." Paul took another swig.
"I'm sure they looked deep into your past and found a bowling alley waitress sporting a Dolly Parton wig and boob booster that would say otherwise."
Paul was proud of his high-level sniper rating but was a terrible shot with women. He just could never seem to hit the right bullseye. "That was a disappointing night."
"See? That's why it's easy for you to be profiled; you're obvious, and you talk too much."
"Hey, calm down, bro-clown, no need for mean."
Eric narrowed his eyes. "It's the truth butch, it's why we're done."
Paul cocked his head. "You sayin' this is my fault?"
"No, but you did shoot that kid in the eye, and now the entire world is looking for us." Eric reminded him.
"He was spotting through a scope and calling shots for his shooter. You know that. They were picking our guys off one by one. I didn't know he was a kid, and I don't care. He was doin' a man's job. Screw him; I'm glad he's dead," Paul said.
"Well, the press and sheeple think you blew the head off an innocent schoolboy just because you could."
"That's crap, and you know it," Paul protested.
"Ya, I do. But it doesn't change what the world thinks. DOD is looking for a goat, and we're it. That's why we're turning ourselves in before the SP kick the door."
"Okay, Mr. OCS drop-out, how do you know Mel and Joy are Navy Intel?" Paul asked.
"Number one, I didn't drop out, I quit to Ranger-Up, OCS was too slow for me.
"Paul rolled his eyes. "…and that's why you're working for Clearwater?"
"Yep, I've already made more money with Clearwater than I could've with a twenty-year hitch as a First Shirt."
"Good luck spending it in Leavenworth."
"Ain't gonna happen. Number two, while your eyes were glued on Mel's rack and Ali's gold, Joy opened her purse to pay for a bracelet. At first, she pulled out a couple of KD then put them back and pulled out a bunch of Dirham."
"You peepin' in a woman's purse? You need to refocus your focus," Paul said.
"Ya well, when she put the KD back she fumbled with a side pocket. That's when I saw her Navy CAC; she's a C.P.O. Intelligence Specialist working out of Arifjan." Eric wasn't going to admit he liked that Joy was a bona fide spook. It made their new relationship interesting.
"Kuwait? How come you didn't clue me?" Paul asked.
"I couldn't, Melody zapped you with her big green eyes, and the next thing I know, you two locked arms and were waltzing away."
"We did have fun," Paul recalled with a voice of victory.
Eric tried to flatten the curve. "Maybe you did, but it was all in a day's work for her."
After a moment, Paul, dejected, said, "Man… she so was convincing."
"No doubt, but it's also no doubt you've been tailed here by a support team. We're dead in the water."
"You got here first. Maybe they followed you," Paul challenged.
"Nope, I made a deal with Joy. Tomorrow we turn ourselves in, and she gets exclusive rights to our story," Eric retorted.
"What story?" Paul rubbed his forehead.
"The one the world wants to know about," Eric said.
Worried, Paul said, "We can't tell everything."
Eric tried to calm Paul. "Of course, just enough to stay out of prison and have a little coin on the side."
"How’d you turn her?" Paul asked.
"She's a frustrated writer and used the cover she worked for Stars and Stripes covering military promotions and such. She's probably a better writer than she is an Intelligence Specialist. She wasn't particularly nervous but, she was careless. I took my time and worked on what mattered to her."
"Writing?" Paul couldn't believe it was that easy.
"Yep, and now we have about fourteen hours of freedom."
A light knock on the door caught their attention, and a female voice announced, "Room service."
Eric looked at his watch, frowned, and said, "Stand up."
Paul watched Eric stand, raising his hands. "Huh?"
"Stand up and raise your hands, bro. It's too early for room service." Eric urged.
Bewildered, Paul stubbed out his cigarette and started to stand when the unmistakable 'Ting' of a grenade spoon preceded the concussion grenade flying over the patio wall landing at their feet. The short-fused distraction device did its job and exploded with the power of Thor.
The concussive blast destroyed the glass table and knocked both men to the floor with the speed of Mike Tyson's left hook.
Dazed but conscious, they lay in a mosaic of broken glass when the door flew off its hinges from a breacher's shotgun blast. Simultaneously, a six-man tactical team armed with MP-5 sub-guns raced into the room while the team leader shouted orders in Arabic and English, “La Tataharak! Don't move! La Tataharak! Don't move!”
Three members of the balaclava hooded team secured the room while the team leader and two other members worked their way to the patio. The team leader continued to bark orders as two members secured Eric and Paul’s hands behind their backs with zip ties.
Lying on their chests with ears ringing, Eric and Paul acknowledged their situation and turned to face each other. Between them lay Eric's manuscript wicking Sadiki from the broken bottle.
Above them, the sound of a commercial airliner lifting off from Dubai International Airport drowned out the team leader's orders. Eric tried to turn his head to see if the jet was heading toward Kuwait but was swiftly kicked in the ribs.
Grimacing, he faced Paul and let out a painful breath.
Paul asked, "Well, what now, Hemingway?"
Eric watched the Sadiki-soaked manuscript bleed into an unreadable wash of ideas, and with the title of the first chapter, 'People Lie' seared in his brain, he took another painful breath and said, "I don't know, I can always rewrite it. It's just a story.
~~~~
Story of the Month contest entry
I wrote Dancing in Dubai while searching for smugglers and terrorists crossing from Iran into Iraq. That was twelve years ago. A long time for some but not so long for me. I spent almost three years in the Middle East doing what guys like me like to do. Brothers all for sure. The difference being I liked reading and writing and storytelling. We older dudes had skill and timing and understood life was to be lived to the fullest. Not careless but to the fullest. You would be surprised at the number of fifty, sixty-year-old men wearing full battle rattle who leaned into the sandstorms and said, “Show me the magic.”
I have no real regrets regarding that time of my life, other than I waited too long to share this story about lies. This story is heavily laden with acronyms because that is the way we spoke to each other back then. Now, readers and seekers are turning pages looking for something different than what civilian warriors from the desert wars can share. It would have been timely twelve years ago but not so much now.
That is why the glossary is at the beginning of this story. I’d like you to be fully equipped before you start Dancing in Dubai.
Yardier.
I have no real regrets regarding that time of my life, other than I waited too long to share this story about lies. This story is heavily laden with acronyms because that is the way we spoke to each other back then. Now, readers and seekers are turning pages looking for something different than what civilian warriors from the desert wars can share. It would have been timely twelve years ago but not so much now.
That is why the glossary is at the beginning of this story. I’d like you to be fully equipped before you start Dancing in Dubai.
Yardier.
GLOSSARY:
Arifjan: U.S. Military Base in Kuwait.
As-salaamu Alaykum: Peace be unto you. (Arabic)
Balaclava: Cloth headgear designed to expose only part of the face.
BCP: Bagdad Central Prison.
B-huts: Soldiers barracks.
BIAP: Bagdad International Airport.
Black Hawk: UH-60 Black Hawk combat helicopter.
Breacher: Military, police, personnel trained to force open locked doors.
CAC: US Department of Defense Common Access Card.
Cent Com: Central Command.
Choke Point: Narrows in roadway.
CONUS: Continental United States.
CPO: US Navy Chief Petty Officer.
DefCon: Defense Ready Condition threat levels faced by the Department of Defense and the United States military.
Dirham: Currency of the United Arab Emirates.
Dishdasha: Long, usually white, robe.
Dr. Sadiki’s Elixir: Bootleg alcohol.
ECP: Entry Control Point.
EOD: Explosive Ordnance Disposal.
First Shirt: US Army First Sergeant.
Flips: Pejorative for Filipinos.
FOB: Forward Operating Base.
FUBAR: Offensive slang from WWII meaning something is so broken it is beyond repair.
Green Zone: Heavily fortified area of Bagdad, Iraq, home to several foreign embassies.
Grenade spoon: Safety handle of grenade.
Haji: Muslim who has been to Mecca.
Hescoes: Perimeter protection built with sand /dirt.
HUMVEE: Humvee High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle.
IED: Improvised Explosive Device.
Intell Specialist: Members of intelligence services, highly trained in espionage techniques and the use of agents.
KD/Kuwait Dinar: Currency of Kuwait.
MP-5 Sub-gun: 9x19mm Parabellum submachine gun.
MRAP: Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected vehicle.
NGO: Non-government organization.
OCS: US Army Officer Candidate School.
Ranger-up: To man up and keep pushing either in a combat situation or civil situation.
Seirenes: Mythical creatures who lured sailors to shipwreck with enchanting music and voices.
Shaman: Person having access to, and influence in, the world of good and evil spirits.
Souq: Open air marketplace.
SP: Security Police.
Stars and Stripes: Informational newspaper for military personnel.
T-walls: Concrete walls designed to reduce explosive blast.
Up armored SUV: Commercial vehicle i.e.; Suburban, Expedition. Etc. fitted with aftermarket armor.
~~~~
People Lie.
Sometimes… well, more like most of the time, people lie.
When caught lying through their teeth, they are sure to say, "Really? Well, I could've sworn…." It is as though they use that explanation in a vain attempt to diminish the pain and confusion caused by their irresponsible claims and actions. After all, it was such a grand lie, so intricately manufactured with times and places they could almost live there.
More often than not, they believed they did.
Those monumental lies, obviously no ordinary half-truths, actually or so they thought, took them closer to the truth than they'd ever been before, together that is. You know, with another acquiescing liar mouth, and without that commitment thing, they worry about so much.
Accountability, who needs it?
In this lie, they were free, or at least felt so free as to believe they were.
Now, that's not so bad, is it?
Well, consider when two people support each other's pursuit of the truth by agreeing with each other's lie, then, in all probability, all hell should break loose, right?
Not necessarily. Some would call it love.
~~~~
There it was, shimmering in the heat waves rising from Dubai's blistering white sand beaches. There was no doubt about it this time. This lie, yes, this particular lie, shimmered and sparkled its way through the Persian Gulf's brilliant blue sky like a misplaced Aurora Borealis weaving a magical mystery through two souls yearning to keep it aloft. They were convinced they discovered a mysterious Arabian kite possessing magical powers in its tail, broadcasting an eternal song only they could hear over the din of jet skis and jewelry vendors.
Others would say they discovered the song of Seirenes and felt compelled to fuel the ethereal composition with an off-key chorus romantic compromise unleashed by Dr. Sidiki's Feel-Good elixir.
But how had they become so deaf, so blind, so lost in the first place they committed themselves to the Dubai pilgrimage? Had they become released or ensnared?
Was Baghdad, with its urban sprawl, T-walls, Hescoes, and decaying identity, really all that consuming, really all that dangerous with I.E.D.s and suicide bombers? Coming from such a cultural wasteland and temporarily set free from their Green Zone hootches they call home, no wonder they lie.
They must lie, dammit, just to get past all that is ordinary and confusing as they desperately try to lead a somewhat normal life in a war-torn country.
After all, how can they possibly know what is right and truly good without an ECP or security checkpoint indicating the next choke point in the road is probably IED free?
They lie to themselves to gin up the trust the EOD Team had located and cleared the road of every IED carefully hidden beneath a maggot-infested dead dog, cardboard box, or wind-whipped plastic bag. However, they can never really know sitting in an up-armored SUV, MRAP, or Humvee sweating out their anxiety in the 110-degree shitty Iraqi air if the road is clear or not. It's simply a turn of a card on the table of life; Ace, you live, Jack, you die, Joker, you lose an appendage, and hopefully, your family jewels remain untouched. So, is it such a surprise they lie with blind religious fervor and intensity? They beat their drums and blow the ram's horn of lies in agreement that the purity of life and innocence of the heart will, once again, be born from the vicious mother beast of combat.
It will come true. Cent Com says it will!
Yes, it surely will, and all they must do to leave the weight of their present circumstance behind is to lie through their teeth without ever so much as batting an eye.
Conscience...? Shush. They won't even think about looking in the rear-view mirror of their soul, and, by habit and practice, they are already fully aware furtive glances, and evil sneers are unnecessary when lying at this level. After all, there's no need to invite moral and ethical scrutiny from outsiders while dancing in the streets of Liarsville, AKA Dubai.
Besides, sneers and guilty looks are tasteless and unbecoming those who are about to be set free. It's the quick smile and firm handshake coupled with a comforting pat on the back leading to a warm embrace that will kick start the charade but ultimately, it will be the kiss on the cheek that seals the deal; As-salaamu Alaykum, my infidel friend.
But wait, there is..., trailing on the edges of that elaborate lie, a shining piercing light. And no, it's not another Blackhawk racing to the embassy roof. Instead, its mesmerizing strobe beckons all believers and deceivers to shake off the persistent Def Con status of their minds and make a run for the border of fictional clarity. Its sudden and startling brilliance is so clear and uncompromised it can only come from the grand essence truth itself while unashamedly illuminating all who see it.
Intriguing… inviting?
Always has been.
Out of place? No more than a sparkling drop of dew discovered at daybreak on a spider's web.
But could the truth have been found without the lie? If the spider's web had not been there in the first place, How then could that small, sweet droplet have condensed in the 110-degree sunrise?
And yet, there it was, looking them right in the eye, asking them only to recognize and remember.
No problem there, or so they think. Remembering is the easy part until, of course, they leave wherever it was they first saw and recognized the truth.
And then they forget.
Of course, they forget. They don't mean to; it just happens. They work hard at trying to remember. They really do. They try to bring the glorious epiphany back to their hootches and B-huts before it evaporates into a vague and common story. And in their desperation to memorialize the truthfulness of their lies and remain enlightened, they make a quick purchase at the BIAP gift shop. Perhaps a last-minute grab of a quick discount gift at a FOB's trailer P.X. will do but, even with their dusty wooden bookshelves and makeshift plywood table tops back in their hootches covered with such gifts, they still forget.
Instead, the golden memory they held so dear will become nothing more than a fleeting nuance that will fade away with every tick of the clock and approaching sandstorm.
Iconic clutter and an internal question will be all that's left of their glorious liberation.
Ah, but not to despair, and for goodness' sake, don't even consider pity. For even amid their stumbling bumbling confusion, they will begin to lie again, and I mean desperately lie. Then, finally, they will rally and somehow, once more, try to conjure up the truth.
Shamelessly, they will put the whole of their souls into the effort.
They are, after all, on a pilgrimage.
Resembling chiropractic shamans, they will pry, squeeze, bend, snap, and cajole their ordinary and unwanted circumstance with bone-breaking effort to force it into a futile fantasy resembling something rock-solid, uplifting, and guilt-free.
But, even when their horrible, wonderfully complex lie crowds out the whole 'friggin Persian Gulf sky, there... over there in the corner; the hope, clarity, and promise of a solution, maybe even absolution, will begin to appear.
It always does.
But it won't settle for being a sideshow; it will strike quick as lightning right smack dab in the middle of that obscure place where they've been dancing around spinning their lies, right where they hoped it would reveal its delightful self once again.
Tickled?
Yes, maybe even giddy.
Surprised? Not at all, for in that swift and brief illuminated moment, they became whole again and refreshed and filled with vibrating life and challenged to become, somehow, pure despite their lies, and all they had to do was...
…believe.
Others would say they discovered the song of Seirenes and felt compelled to fuel the ethereal composition with an off-key chorus romantic compromise unleashed by Dr. Sidiki's Feel-Good elixir.
But how had they become so deaf, so blind, so lost in the first place they committed themselves to the Dubai pilgrimage? Had they become released or ensnared?
Was Baghdad, with its urban sprawl, T-walls, Hescoes, and decaying identity, really all that consuming, really all that dangerous with I.E.D.s and suicide bombers? Coming from such a cultural wasteland and temporarily set free from their Green Zone hootches they call home, no wonder they lie.
They must lie, dammit, just to get past all that is ordinary and confusing as they desperately try to lead a somewhat normal life in a war-torn country.
After all, how can they possibly know what is right and truly good without an ECP or security checkpoint indicating the next choke point in the road is probably IED free?
They lie to themselves to gin up the trust the EOD Team had located and cleared the road of every IED carefully hidden beneath a maggot-infested dead dog, cardboard box, or wind-whipped plastic bag. However, they can never really know sitting in an up-armored SUV, MRAP, or Humvee sweating out their anxiety in the 110-degree shitty Iraqi air if the road is clear or not. It's simply a turn of a card on the table of life; Ace, you live, Jack, you die, Joker, you lose an appendage, and hopefully, your family jewels remain untouched. So, is it such a surprise they lie with blind religious fervor and intensity? They beat their drums and blow the ram's horn of lies in agreement that the purity of life and innocence of the heart will, once again, be born from the vicious mother beast of combat.
It will come true. Cent Com says it will!
Yes, it surely will, and all they must do to leave the weight of their present circumstance behind is to lie through their teeth without ever so much as batting an eye.
Conscience...? Shush. They won't even think about looking in the rear-view mirror of their soul, and, by habit and practice, they are already fully aware furtive glances, and evil sneers are unnecessary when lying at this level. After all, there's no need to invite moral and ethical scrutiny from outsiders while dancing in the streets of Liarsville, AKA Dubai.
Besides, sneers and guilty looks are tasteless and unbecoming those who are about to be set free. It's the quick smile and firm handshake coupled with a comforting pat on the back leading to a warm embrace that will kick start the charade but ultimately, it will be the kiss on the cheek that seals the deal; As-salaamu Alaykum, my infidel friend.
But wait, there is..., trailing on the edges of that elaborate lie, a shining piercing light. And no, it's not another Blackhawk racing to the embassy roof. Instead, its mesmerizing strobe beckons all believers and deceivers to shake off the persistent Def Con status of their minds and make a run for the border of fictional clarity. Its sudden and startling brilliance is so clear and uncompromised it can only come from the grand essence truth itself while unashamedly illuminating all who see it.
Intriguing… inviting?
Always has been.
Out of place? No more than a sparkling drop of dew discovered at daybreak on a spider's web.
But could the truth have been found without the lie? If the spider's web had not been there in the first place, How then could that small, sweet droplet have condensed in the 110-degree sunrise?
And yet, there it was, looking them right in the eye, asking them only to recognize and remember.
No problem there, or so they think. Remembering is the easy part until, of course, they leave wherever it was they first saw and recognized the truth.
And then they forget.
Of course, they forget. They don't mean to; it just happens. They work hard at trying to remember. They really do. They try to bring the glorious epiphany back to their hootches and B-huts before it evaporates into a vague and common story. And in their desperation to memorialize the truthfulness of their lies and remain enlightened, they make a quick purchase at the BIAP gift shop. Perhaps a last-minute grab of a quick discount gift at a FOB's trailer P.X. will do but, even with their dusty wooden bookshelves and makeshift plywood table tops back in their hootches covered with such gifts, they still forget.
Instead, the golden memory they held so dear will become nothing more than a fleeting nuance that will fade away with every tick of the clock and approaching sandstorm.
Iconic clutter and an internal question will be all that's left of their glorious liberation.
Ah, but not to despair, and for goodness' sake, don't even consider pity. For even amid their stumbling bumbling confusion, they will begin to lie again, and I mean desperately lie. Then, finally, they will rally and somehow, once more, try to conjure up the truth.
Shamelessly, they will put the whole of their souls into the effort.
They are, after all, on a pilgrimage.
Resembling chiropractic shamans, they will pry, squeeze, bend, snap, and cajole their ordinary and unwanted circumstance with bone-breaking effort to force it into a futile fantasy resembling something rock-solid, uplifting, and guilt-free.
But, even when their horrible, wonderfully complex lie crowds out the whole 'friggin Persian Gulf sky, there... over there in the corner; the hope, clarity, and promise of a solution, maybe even absolution, will begin to appear.
It always does.
But it won't settle for being a sideshow; it will strike quick as lightning right smack dab in the middle of that obscure place where they've been dancing around spinning their lies, right where they hoped it would reveal its delightful self once again.
Tickled?
Yes, maybe even giddy.
Surprised? Not at all, for in that swift and brief illuminated moment, they became whole again and refreshed and filled with vibrating life and challenged to become, somehow, pure despite their lies, and all they had to do was...
…believe.
~~~~
The hand-carved mahogany door behind Eric opened and closed just as he finished writing the last sentence of the chapter titled: People Lie.
He turned in his chair to see Paul, his battle buddy and confidant, enter the whitewashed room both men used as a hideout in Dubai. Paul's sandals slapped against the large white floor tiles as he carried another bottle of Sadiki across the simple room toward the patio with the grin of a cat who had just eaten the canary.
Annoyed with Paul's late intrusion, Eric reached for a pack of cigarettes lying near the legal pad on which he had been writing. The title read: Burning in Baghdad. Maybe he should change it to Dancing in Dubai, he mused as he removed a cigarette. He narrowed his eyes as he remembered the previous night and how Joyanne said Dubai with a lingering smile. A smile so inviting even Lauren Bacall would appreciate the strength of its subtlety. Oh indeedy…, he thought; Dancing in Dubai would make a clever title for a little story about lies.
Paul pulled the wrought iron chair from the table, scratching the tile floor without blinking an eye, and plopped down onto the hard metal seat. He skootched to the table and slid the bottle of Sadiki across the glass tabletop to Eric and snatched his cigarette. "Check it out, Bro. It's the real deal. One hundred percent Acetone-free!"
Eric looked past the bottle through the glass tabletop at Paul's sandaled feet. "What's with the Haji treads?"
"I'm trying to blend in." Paul smirked.
"Well, shave off that lifer mustache and put on a man dress."
Paul frowned. "A Dishdasha? I ain't going that far, stupid."
Eric flicked the empty cigarette pack to Paul’s chest. “That was my last cigarette, buddy.” Eric picked up his pen just to have something between his fingers.
“So what?” Paul lit the cigarette.
Eric held the bottle of Sadiki up to the bright morning light and gazed through the thick glass at the refracted images of the sun and brilliant Dubai shore. He thought about last night's midnight moon and visualized a blue cotton dress floating gently in the warm Persian Gulf and said, “It doesn't matter anyway."
"What do you mean it doesn't matter?" Paul asked through exhaled smoke.
Eric ignored Paul and asked, "Is this stuff any good?"
"I don't know. It was cheap. These sandals weren't. Come on, man, what do you mean?"
"They know we're here." Eric pulled the cork, turned the bottle upside down, and took a long, deep swallow while watching the bubbles from his mouth rise to the top.
"Say what, how do you know?"
"Ruth."
"Who the hell is Ruth?" Paul asked.
"Robert's Ruth." Eric slid the bottle to Paul.
"Impressive," Paul said. "You spoke to Robert Water. How’d you do that?"
"I bought a simm card from one of the flips in the kitchen… and it cost a lot more than your undercover sandals." Eric said.
"This is way beyond FUBAR. What did he say?"
"He said hold on a minute, and the next thing I know, I'm talking with Ruth."
Paul took a swig of Sadiki and slowly looked around the room. He studied the veins of marble, highlighting the floor tile as if they were coded instructions that could be deciphered. His mind percolated with possibilities. "What about an N.G.O. relief flight to Sudan? We could slip into Ethiopia."
"On one of Robert's Angel Flights? Nope. Here's the pitch, and we're only getting one."
"And if we say no?"
"We're on our own."
"What's the deal?
"We turn ourselves in at the embassy."
"That doesn't sound like much of a plan," Paul said while taking another slug of Sadiki.
"It's complicated, but it beats trying to walk across Sudan in August."
Sweat broke out on Paul's forehead as he took another swig. "I don't know, man, what about our money?"
"The Feds have already seized our CONUS accounts."
"Well, that's pretty messed up."
"Yep, the good news is the Belize and Seychelles accounts were transferred to a shell corporation in Guatemala."
"I didn't sign that," Paul protested.
"Neither did I, but Ruth knows how to make things work, and number one on her list is to protect Robert and Clearwater's image and investments."
"What about the rest of the team?"
"They're sweatin' it out in BCP," Eric said.
"Holy shit."
"Yep, and then some." Eric shook his head.
"How's this play out?"
"0400 tomorrow, we meet the cook at the loading dock behind the kitchen and give him all our Dirham."
"All…?" Paul worried he paid too much for the Sadiki.
"They're going to take it from us at the Embassy anyway. It’s just a matter of timing, we're gonna load up in the back of the delivery truck. The cook is gonna pay the driver to stop for a minute in front of the Embassy and were gonna jump out and kiss the feet of the jarheads guarding the gate."
"What… they don't mess around, dude. They're locked and loaded." Paul stressed.
"It's nothing to worry about. We're wanted, remember? It'll be the easiest arrest they ever make. When they take us into custody, I give them the name and number of the law firm waiting to unleash three of their top Pro-Bono attorneys."
"Pro-Bono, what's that?" Paul asked.
"Free."
"Free… but we won't be…?
"Right, but the Iraqis can't touch us, and the US Marshall can't touch us. We'll be held under guard until our attorneys get here in a day or two. Before leaving CONUS, they will have filed a bond with the D.C. District Court guaranteeing we will show up within thirty days."
"Then…?"
"We fly home, are taken into custody, processed, and hopefully released on bail." Eric hoped it would be that easy but, he didn't want Paul freaking out from too much intel.
"And all of this is Pro-Bono free?"
Eric nodded. "Pretty much."
"What's Robert get out of all of this?"
"Our silence."
"How’d they make us?" Paul asked.
Eric didn't like admitting it, "Mel and Joyanne."
"Melody and Joy?" Paul began to worry.
"Yep, they had us made before we entered the souq, but they confirmed it at Ali's Gold Kiosk."
Suspicious, Paul asked, "How do you know all this?"
Eric gave Paul the shorthand version, "It took me a while to figure it out. Remember when we first saw the gold display and walked directly to it? We were gold blind."
"I don't know about being blind. I sure could see all that gold, though."
"That's my point, we lost our situational awareness, and before we knew it, we were blindsided with Melody on your left and Joy on my right," Eric said.
"I don't know what looked better, all that gold or Melody's rack and big green eyes." Paul tried to find footing with his memory of lust.
"Probably contacts and falsies." Eric grounded him.
"You think she's a hooker?" Paul asked.
"Nope, Navy Intelligence, we've been profiled, and they know what we like."
"I dunno about all this." Paul took a slug of Sadiki.
"Sure, drink it while you can, 'cause in about fourteen hours we're going sober."
"Contacts and falsies? That's not my style, man." Paul took another swig.
"I'm sure they looked deep into your past and found a bowling alley waitress sporting a Dolly Parton wig and boob booster that would say otherwise."
Paul was proud of his high-level sniper rating but was a terrible shot with women. He just could never seem to hit the right bullseye. "That was a disappointing night."
"See? That's why it's easy for you to be profiled; you're obvious, and you talk too much."
"Hey, calm down, bro-clown, no need for mean."
Eric narrowed his eyes. "It's the truth butch, it's why we're done."
Paul cocked his head. "You sayin' this is my fault?"
"No, but you did shoot that kid in the eye, and now the entire world is looking for us." Eric reminded him.
"He was spotting through a scope and calling shots for his shooter. You know that. They were picking our guys off one by one. I didn't know he was a kid, and I don't care. He was doin' a man's job. Screw him; I'm glad he's dead," Paul said.
"Well, the press and sheeple think you blew the head off an innocent schoolboy just because you could."
"That's crap, and you know it," Paul protested.
"Ya, I do. But it doesn't change what the world thinks. DOD is looking for a goat, and we're it. That's why we're turning ourselves in before the SP kick the door."
"Okay, Mr. OCS drop-out, how do you know Mel and Joy are Navy Intel?" Paul asked.
"Number one, I didn't drop out, I quit to Ranger-Up, OCS was too slow for me.
"Paul rolled his eyes. "…and that's why you're working for Clearwater?"
"Yep, I've already made more money with Clearwater than I could've with a twenty-year hitch as a First Shirt."
"Good luck spending it in Leavenworth."
"Ain't gonna happen. Number two, while your eyes were glued on Mel's rack and Ali's gold, Joy opened her purse to pay for a bracelet. At first, she pulled out a couple of KD then put them back and pulled out a bunch of Dirham."
"You peepin' in a woman's purse? You need to refocus your focus," Paul said.
"Ya well, when she put the KD back she fumbled with a side pocket. That's when I saw her Navy CAC; she's a C.P.O. Intelligence Specialist working out of Arifjan." Eric wasn't going to admit he liked that Joy was a bona fide spook. It made their new relationship interesting.
"Kuwait? How come you didn't clue me?" Paul asked.
"I couldn't, Melody zapped you with her big green eyes, and the next thing I know, you two locked arms and were waltzing away."
"We did have fun," Paul recalled with a voice of victory.
Eric tried to flatten the curve. "Maybe you did, but it was all in a day's work for her."
After a moment, Paul, dejected, said, "Man… she so was convincing."
"No doubt, but it's also no doubt you've been tailed here by a support team. We're dead in the water."
"You got here first. Maybe they followed you," Paul challenged.
"Nope, I made a deal with Joy. Tomorrow we turn ourselves in, and she gets exclusive rights to our story," Eric retorted.
"What story?" Paul rubbed his forehead.
"The one the world wants to know about," Eric said.
Worried, Paul said, "We can't tell everything."
Eric tried to calm Paul. "Of course, just enough to stay out of prison and have a little coin on the side."
"How’d you turn her?" Paul asked.
"She's a frustrated writer and used the cover she worked for Stars and Stripes covering military promotions and such. She's probably a better writer than she is an Intelligence Specialist. She wasn't particularly nervous but, she was careless. I took my time and worked on what mattered to her."
"Writing?" Paul couldn't believe it was that easy.
"Yep, and now we have about fourteen hours of freedom."
A light knock on the door caught their attention, and a female voice announced, "Room service."
Eric looked at his watch, frowned, and said, "Stand up."
Paul watched Eric stand, raising his hands. "Huh?"
"Stand up and raise your hands, bro. It's too early for room service." Eric urged.
Bewildered, Paul stubbed out his cigarette and started to stand when the unmistakable 'Ting' of a grenade spoon preceded the concussion grenade flying over the patio wall landing at their feet. The short-fused distraction device did its job and exploded with the power of Thor.
The concussive blast destroyed the glass table and knocked both men to the floor with the speed of Mike Tyson's left hook.
Dazed but conscious, they lay in a mosaic of broken glass when the door flew off its hinges from a breacher's shotgun blast. Simultaneously, a six-man tactical team armed with MP-5 sub-guns raced into the room while the team leader shouted orders in Arabic and English, “La Tataharak! Don't move! La Tataharak! Don't move!”
Three members of the balaclava hooded team secured the room while the team leader and two other members worked their way to the patio. The team leader continued to bark orders as two members secured Eric and Paul’s hands behind their backs with zip ties.
Lying on their chests with ears ringing, Eric and Paul acknowledged their situation and turned to face each other. Between them lay Eric's manuscript wicking Sadiki from the broken bottle.
Above them, the sound of a commercial airliner lifting off from Dubai International Airport drowned out the team leader's orders. Eric tried to turn his head to see if the jet was heading toward Kuwait but was swiftly kicked in the ribs.
Grimacing, he faced Paul and let out a painful breath.
Paul asked, "Well, what now, Hemingway?"
Eric watched the Sadiki-soaked manuscript bleed into an unreadable wash of ideas, and with the title of the first chapter, 'People Lie' seared in his brain, he took another painful breath and said, "I don't know, I can always rewrite it. It's just a story.
He turned in his chair to see Paul, his battle buddy and confidant, enter the whitewashed room both men used as a hideout in Dubai. Paul's sandals slapped against the large white floor tiles as he carried another bottle of Sadiki across the simple room toward the patio with the grin of a cat who had just eaten the canary.
Annoyed with Paul's late intrusion, Eric reached for a pack of cigarettes lying near the legal pad on which he had been writing. The title read: Burning in Baghdad. Maybe he should change it to Dancing in Dubai, he mused as he removed a cigarette. He narrowed his eyes as he remembered the previous night and how Joyanne said Dubai with a lingering smile. A smile so inviting even Lauren Bacall would appreciate the strength of its subtlety. Oh indeedy…, he thought; Dancing in Dubai would make a clever title for a little story about lies.
Paul pulled the wrought iron chair from the table, scratching the tile floor without blinking an eye, and plopped down onto the hard metal seat. He skootched to the table and slid the bottle of Sadiki across the glass tabletop to Eric and snatched his cigarette. "Check it out, Bro. It's the real deal. One hundred percent Acetone-free!"
Eric looked past the bottle through the glass tabletop at Paul's sandaled feet. "What's with the Haji treads?"
"I'm trying to blend in." Paul smirked.
"Well, shave off that lifer mustache and put on a man dress."
Paul frowned. "A Dishdasha? I ain't going that far, stupid."
Eric flicked the empty cigarette pack to Paul’s chest. “That was my last cigarette, buddy.” Eric picked up his pen just to have something between his fingers.
“So what?” Paul lit the cigarette.
Eric held the bottle of Sadiki up to the bright morning light and gazed through the thick glass at the refracted images of the sun and brilliant Dubai shore. He thought about last night's midnight moon and visualized a blue cotton dress floating gently in the warm Persian Gulf and said, “It doesn't matter anyway."
"What do you mean it doesn't matter?" Paul asked through exhaled smoke.
Eric ignored Paul and asked, "Is this stuff any good?"
"I don't know. It was cheap. These sandals weren't. Come on, man, what do you mean?"
"They know we're here." Eric pulled the cork, turned the bottle upside down, and took a long, deep swallow while watching the bubbles from his mouth rise to the top.
"Say what, how do you know?"
"Ruth."
"Who the hell is Ruth?" Paul asked.
"Robert's Ruth." Eric slid the bottle to Paul.
"Impressive," Paul said. "You spoke to Robert Water. How’d you do that?"
"I bought a simm card from one of the flips in the kitchen… and it cost a lot more than your undercover sandals." Eric said.
"This is way beyond FUBAR. What did he say?"
"He said hold on a minute, and the next thing I know, I'm talking with Ruth."
Paul took a swig of Sadiki and slowly looked around the room. He studied the veins of marble, highlighting the floor tile as if they were coded instructions that could be deciphered. His mind percolated with possibilities. "What about an N.G.O. relief flight to Sudan? We could slip into Ethiopia."
"On one of Robert's Angel Flights? Nope. Here's the pitch, and we're only getting one."
"And if we say no?"
"We're on our own."
"What's the deal?
"We turn ourselves in at the embassy."
"That doesn't sound like much of a plan," Paul said while taking another slug of Sadiki.
"It's complicated, but it beats trying to walk across Sudan in August."
Sweat broke out on Paul's forehead as he took another swig. "I don't know, man, what about our money?"
"The Feds have already seized our CONUS accounts."
"Well, that's pretty messed up."
"Yep, the good news is the Belize and Seychelles accounts were transferred to a shell corporation in Guatemala."
"I didn't sign that," Paul protested.
"Neither did I, but Ruth knows how to make things work, and number one on her list is to protect Robert and Clearwater's image and investments."
"What about the rest of the team?"
"They're sweatin' it out in BCP," Eric said.
"Holy shit."
"Yep, and then some." Eric shook his head.
"How's this play out?"
"0400 tomorrow, we meet the cook at the loading dock behind the kitchen and give him all our Dirham."
"All…?" Paul worried he paid too much for the Sadiki.
"They're going to take it from us at the Embassy anyway. It’s just a matter of timing, we're gonna load up in the back of the delivery truck. The cook is gonna pay the driver to stop for a minute in front of the Embassy and were gonna jump out and kiss the feet of the jarheads guarding the gate."
"What… they don't mess around, dude. They're locked and loaded." Paul stressed.
"It's nothing to worry about. We're wanted, remember? It'll be the easiest arrest they ever make. When they take us into custody, I give them the name and number of the law firm waiting to unleash three of their top Pro-Bono attorneys."
"Pro-Bono, what's that?" Paul asked.
"Free."
"Free… but we won't be…?
"Right, but the Iraqis can't touch us, and the US Marshall can't touch us. We'll be held under guard until our attorneys get here in a day or two. Before leaving CONUS, they will have filed a bond with the D.C. District Court guaranteeing we will show up within thirty days."
"Then…?"
"We fly home, are taken into custody, processed, and hopefully released on bail." Eric hoped it would be that easy but, he didn't want Paul freaking out from too much intel.
"And all of this is Pro-Bono free?"
Eric nodded. "Pretty much."
"What's Robert get out of all of this?"
"Our silence."
"How’d they make us?" Paul asked.
Eric didn't like admitting it, "Mel and Joyanne."
"Melody and Joy?" Paul began to worry.
"Yep, they had us made before we entered the souq, but they confirmed it at Ali's Gold Kiosk."
Suspicious, Paul asked, "How do you know all this?"
Eric gave Paul the shorthand version, "It took me a while to figure it out. Remember when we first saw the gold display and walked directly to it? We were gold blind."
"I don't know about being blind. I sure could see all that gold, though."
"That's my point, we lost our situational awareness, and before we knew it, we were blindsided with Melody on your left and Joy on my right," Eric said.
"I don't know what looked better, all that gold or Melody's rack and big green eyes." Paul tried to find footing with his memory of lust.
"Probably contacts and falsies." Eric grounded him.
"You think she's a hooker?" Paul asked.
"Nope, Navy Intelligence, we've been profiled, and they know what we like."
"I dunno about all this." Paul took a slug of Sadiki.
"Sure, drink it while you can, 'cause in about fourteen hours we're going sober."
"Contacts and falsies? That's not my style, man." Paul took another swig.
"I'm sure they looked deep into your past and found a bowling alley waitress sporting a Dolly Parton wig and boob booster that would say otherwise."
Paul was proud of his high-level sniper rating but was a terrible shot with women. He just could never seem to hit the right bullseye. "That was a disappointing night."
"See? That's why it's easy for you to be profiled; you're obvious, and you talk too much."
"Hey, calm down, bro-clown, no need for mean."
Eric narrowed his eyes. "It's the truth butch, it's why we're done."
Paul cocked his head. "You sayin' this is my fault?"
"No, but you did shoot that kid in the eye, and now the entire world is looking for us." Eric reminded him.
"He was spotting through a scope and calling shots for his shooter. You know that. They were picking our guys off one by one. I didn't know he was a kid, and I don't care. He was doin' a man's job. Screw him; I'm glad he's dead," Paul said.
"Well, the press and sheeple think you blew the head off an innocent schoolboy just because you could."
"That's crap, and you know it," Paul protested.
"Ya, I do. But it doesn't change what the world thinks. DOD is looking for a goat, and we're it. That's why we're turning ourselves in before the SP kick the door."
"Okay, Mr. OCS drop-out, how do you know Mel and Joy are Navy Intel?" Paul asked.
"Number one, I didn't drop out, I quit to Ranger-Up, OCS was too slow for me.
"Paul rolled his eyes. "…and that's why you're working for Clearwater?"
"Yep, I've already made more money with Clearwater than I could've with a twenty-year hitch as a First Shirt."
"Good luck spending it in Leavenworth."
"Ain't gonna happen. Number two, while your eyes were glued on Mel's rack and Ali's gold, Joy opened her purse to pay for a bracelet. At first, she pulled out a couple of KD then put them back and pulled out a bunch of Dirham."
"You peepin' in a woman's purse? You need to refocus your focus," Paul said.
"Ya well, when she put the KD back she fumbled with a side pocket. That's when I saw her Navy CAC; she's a C.P.O. Intelligence Specialist working out of Arifjan." Eric wasn't going to admit he liked that Joy was a bona fide spook. It made their new relationship interesting.
"Kuwait? How come you didn't clue me?" Paul asked.
"I couldn't, Melody zapped you with her big green eyes, and the next thing I know, you two locked arms and were waltzing away."
"We did have fun," Paul recalled with a voice of victory.
Eric tried to flatten the curve. "Maybe you did, but it was all in a day's work for her."
After a moment, Paul, dejected, said, "Man… she so was convincing."
"No doubt, but it's also no doubt you've been tailed here by a support team. We're dead in the water."
"You got here first. Maybe they followed you," Paul challenged.
"Nope, I made a deal with Joy. Tomorrow we turn ourselves in, and she gets exclusive rights to our story," Eric retorted.
"What story?" Paul rubbed his forehead.
"The one the world wants to know about," Eric said.
Worried, Paul said, "We can't tell everything."
Eric tried to calm Paul. "Of course, just enough to stay out of prison and have a little coin on the side."
"How’d you turn her?" Paul asked.
"She's a frustrated writer and used the cover she worked for Stars and Stripes covering military promotions and such. She's probably a better writer than she is an Intelligence Specialist. She wasn't particularly nervous but, she was careless. I took my time and worked on what mattered to her."
"Writing?" Paul couldn't believe it was that easy.
"Yep, and now we have about fourteen hours of freedom."
A light knock on the door caught their attention, and a female voice announced, "Room service."
Eric looked at his watch, frowned, and said, "Stand up."
Paul watched Eric stand, raising his hands. "Huh?"
"Stand up and raise your hands, bro. It's too early for room service." Eric urged.
Bewildered, Paul stubbed out his cigarette and started to stand when the unmistakable 'Ting' of a grenade spoon preceded the concussion grenade flying over the patio wall landing at their feet. The short-fused distraction device did its job and exploded with the power of Thor.
The concussive blast destroyed the glass table and knocked both men to the floor with the speed of Mike Tyson's left hook.
Dazed but conscious, they lay in a mosaic of broken glass when the door flew off its hinges from a breacher's shotgun blast. Simultaneously, a six-man tactical team armed with MP-5 sub-guns raced into the room while the team leader shouted orders in Arabic and English, “La Tataharak! Don't move! La Tataharak! Don't move!”
Three members of the balaclava hooded team secured the room while the team leader and two other members worked their way to the patio. The team leader continued to bark orders as two members secured Eric and Paul’s hands behind their backs with zip ties.
Lying on their chests with ears ringing, Eric and Paul acknowledged their situation and turned to face each other. Between them lay Eric's manuscript wicking Sadiki from the broken bottle.
Above them, the sound of a commercial airliner lifting off from Dubai International Airport drowned out the team leader's orders. Eric tried to turn his head to see if the jet was heading toward Kuwait but was swiftly kicked in the ribs.
Grimacing, he faced Paul and let out a painful breath.
Paul asked, "Well, what now, Hemingway?"
Eric watched the Sadiki-soaked manuscript bleed into an unreadable wash of ideas, and with the title of the first chapter, 'People Lie' seared in his brain, he took another painful breath and said, "I don't know, I can always rewrite it. It's just a story.
~~~~
 Recognized |
It's nothing but the truth, so help me God.
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