Betrayed Read online

  So I persevered, driving slowly while he walked beside me occasionally firing his pistol. How strange the body reacts. Even though I was expecting more gunshots, when the first few came I still managed to jam my foot on the brake and stall. But after an hour, and who knew how many bullets, I was confident enough not to be put off by the gunshots. In fact, I learned to accelerate and swerve around stone markers he had placed on the desert track whenever the pistol went off. If I was fired at in a dangerous situation I would at least have a chance of making a break for it—but I was determined I would never be in such a position.

  As we headed back to Dohuk I questioned Zana about my ‘mission’ involving David. My driving lessons appeared to have nothing to do with reading paperwork that David had.

  ‘As I said, Latifa, it’s better to have those skills than not.’

  He emphasised how important it was for the Kurdish authorities to know what projects the UN was involved in with Saddam’s government. He still did not explain just why it was so important but I surmised that if the Kurds found out that Saddam was involved in, for example, getting a pipeline built, it would make a good target for Kurdish extremists.

  ‘Before you start working on your friend David, there are still more things you need to learn,’ he said. ‘Your initiative must also be tested.’

  After the pressures of the desert—although I actually enjoyed being out in the open like that—returning to my father’s home was a relief, although I had never believed I could have thought that.

  There were other things I had to learn. My initiative had to be tested. I wondered what Zana had meant by that.

  TEN

  The Taliban had been pushed out of Kabul by the Northern Alliance and allied forces led by the Americans. The Americans and the British had carried out bombing raids in the mountains bordering Pakistan but there had been no indication that Osama bin Laden had been killed. Now, in that summer of 2002, George W Bush was accusing Saddam Hussein of destroying files relating to weapons of mass destruction and taking steps to bluff international teams preparing to go to Iraq to look for evidence of such weapons.

  The belief in Kurdistan was that the Americans were going to hit Iraq, whether there was evidence of weapons of mass destruction or not. How ironic that I, who had never had any interest in wars—they were always events that happened a long way away—found myself praying that conflict would come to Iraq, but not Kurdistan as that would be too dangerous, because that might provide me with an added avenue of escape, if all else had failed… meaning David or Zana. There would be foreign troops everywhere, refugees would be crossing borders without documents—and I could join them. But that was wishful thinking.

  While the Kurds wanted to see Saddam overthrown and welcomed American action, the Imams in the mosques were also preaching war, not peace, in their sermons. I knew this, and so did all the women in the street where I lived because of the proximity of the local mosque.

  When my father was at the mosque saying his prayers and listening to the Imam after his call to prayer on Fridays, I would sit with the girls across the road listening to his voice being unintentionally carried out by loudspeaker across the immediate neighbourhood. He would speak about the power of men over women and he would ask for ongoing prayers for the freedom-fighting PDK (Party Democratic of Kurdistan). Men had power and politics was power, I’d hear him say. Every man had to pray that the PDK would be victorious in the defeat of Saddam. And every man should return to his home and ensure that his sons and daughters were not influenced by the work of the devil being spread from satellite television screens. Local television was acceptable, he said, knowing that it was strictly limited to controlled progaganda channels. What I objected to was the fact that these Imams were brainwashing our parents into controlling their children, holding them back to a mediaeval life, while the outside world soared on. Whenever my father returned from the mosque I would notice how quiet and confused he seemed. He had, after all, spent more than 20 years in the West, drinking, smoking, mixing with Western friends who went to the races, cursed and watched all manner of shows on TV. Some of those teachings had clearly hit home with my father, evidenced by the lack of satellite TV and no telephone.

  At the office the following day I saw two men in the corridor with Zana. They were Westerners, dressed in cargo pants and T-shirts, but they also understood Kurdish because I just happened to catch Zana telling them: ‘Be careful what you say when she’s around because she speaks English.’ They nodded and made their way out, but when I heard them speaking to one another as they left the building it was German they were using. It was a curious interlude and I never found out who they were but I thought it interesting that they should have been present at a time when Zana was asking me to work as a spy. Were they spies as well?

  My problem was that I had come so far with Zana that I now could not back out of anything that he asked me to do. I knew too much: that this company of his was more than just a construction company. I thought of it more as an intelligence-gathering centre, although I never really knew whether the employees, who were all related, were in on it. At least I felt that the men must have been.

  Each time my aunt was in the building, Zana left me to continue my office duties, retyping old typewritten documents into the computer so that the records could be stored as data.

  A few days after my bizarre driving lessons and while my aunt was away, Zana drove me to the Jyan Hotel. It was where all the foreigners stayed or called in for a drink or a meal and where they held casual business meetings. It also had a reputation as a pick-up joint for expensive prostitutes from Turkey. Zana knew everything about the place. As we sat on the plush lobby sofas I became concerned about being there, worried that someone would tell my father. He told me not to worry—people who came to the Jyan would not know my father. He pointed out a diplomat, a company director, an oil executive from the Arab side of the Kurdish line and prostitute after prostitute.

  I wondered if he used them but as if to read my thoughts he laughed and said: ‘You soon learn to pick them.’

  I ordered an Arab version of Coca-Cola and then we were joined by a Swede, working for an NGO (non-governmental organisation) building a hospital in the area, who had brought along a male interpreter. I don’t know why either I or the other interpreter was needed because both the Swede and Zana spoke English. Zana introduced me to the Swede as the receptionist and administration officer from his company and, taking a hint, I pulled out a notebook from my bag—I usually carried one around for sketching rather than note taking—but went through the motions of recording the conversation.

  At one stage during their chatter, Zana turned to me to ask a question about a house we had set land aside for. Was it two storeys or three, he wanted to know. I had no idea what he was talking about. I was sure the house didn’t exist but not wanting to embarrass either him or me, I said: ‘That’s the two-storey one. We’ve yet to complete the plans for the bigger property.’

  Later, as we drove back to the office, I asked Zana what that had all been about.

  ‘It was your initiative test,’ he said. ‘I wanted to see how quickly you latched onto the situation—suddenly being introduced as an adminstration officer—and realising the need to immediately start taking notes. Your answer about the house was excellent, seeing that neither exist.’

  ‘And did I pass my test?’ I asked, trying to hide the sarcasm in my voice, for I felt I had been used.

  ‘Yes,’ he said with a grin. ‘You passed.’

  ‘I assume you don’t want these notes, then.’

  ‘You can throw them away as soon as we get back.’

  He drove on for a while before speaking again. ‘Not only was it important for you to reveal to me that you can handle a situation that is suddenly thrust upon you, I wanted you to see that hotel. I wanted you to see the false smiles of everybody, because believe me they are false. I wanted you to see how they are all feeding off one another. It’s nothing but a nest of
vipers and many of those people you saw today are going to get bitten by poison.’

  Welcome to more of the joys of Kurdistan, I thought.

  There was one final lesson for me, before I was to embark on my spying mission. In between times, I had spoken to David, each time feeling that warm glow covering me as I heard his voice. I told him I was trying to find a way to come out to his house to see him again because I was missing him so much. That was true. I really was missing him. The time gap since I’d last seen him had curiously drawn me closer to him.

  ‘We have to go out into the desert again,’ said Zana as he led me to his car for my final training session. I was expecting a freshening-up course in my driving. But what came was a big jump forward and left me in no doubt about the dangers Zana knew might lie ahead.

  When we climbed from his car in the middle of nowhere he led me away from the car—then brought a handgun from his bag. A moment of panic rushed over me. Alone in the desert with a man, the mountains to the north and east, too far away from the car for me to run and drive off, now that I knew how to drive.

  ‘Have you ever fired one of these?’ he asked, holding out what he said was a Russian-made pistol.

  ‘I’ve never even touched one,’ I said. ‘We didn’t go around shooting things in Sydney.’

  He ignored the comment. ‘By the time we leave here today you will know all about this weapon and you’ll also be able to hit a target.’

  Zana placed a large green apple, an import from Syria, on top of a rock.

  ‘I’m going to teach you how to shoot. First, give me a demonstraton.’

  He gave the gun to me, made me stand about 10 metres from the target and told me to gently squeeze the trigger. I tried to remember what I’d seen on TV, how the police used to hold their guns with two hands. In fact, it was so heavy that I had to use both hands in any case. So I did the same and pulled the trigger. The crack of the weapon rang out across the desert. The apple was untouched.

  He nodded as though he expected that was how I would stand and how I would miss. Then he gave me his instructions, showing me how to use one hand underneath the other—not side by side—as a support and how to wrap my thumb around the top rear of the gun and not have it sticking out. In effect, I had to use the left hand as a support while the right hand did the aiming and pulled the trigger. As for my body, it was all about balance. My legs should not be straight and side by side. Rather, they had to be slightly bent, with one leg slightly forward.

  By the end of the morning I had successfully destroyed our lunch. The bag of apples he had brought, the gun-smashed pieces lying on the hot desert sand were testimony to my newly-acquired skill.

  ‘What are you getting me into, Zana?’ I asked—a question I seemed to be putting to him frequently. His answer was the same. Being able to drive and shoot were priceless skills and I should be grateful to have acquired them. I asked what the point of learning to drive and shoot was if I didn’t have a car or a gun.

  ‘I can’t get you a car because that would be obvious and stupid, but I can get you a gun.’

  ‘I don’t want one,’ I said.

  ‘When—if—you do, let me know.’

  A few days later I spoke to David at his office, calling from the company phone. This time it was not a secret call. Zana was standing right behind me. I told David that I had a chance of being dropped off at his house by the office driver who was going to the area and that I had explained to the driver I needed to pick up documents. David was ecstatic that I was coming around. But there was no involvement by the office driver. It was Zana who drove me to the big UN house with the fluttering flags.

  On the way he asked me to open the glove box. I brought out a white cloth wrapped around something heavy. I knew exactly what it was. A gun.

  ‘Zana, what do you expect me to do with this?’ I asked with sudden alarm.

  ‘Are you expecting me to use it on—‘

  ‘Don’t be silly. I don’t want you to shoot your boyfriend. It’s for you to hang on to.’

  ‘I don’t want it. I can’t keep it for a start. Do you think I’m going to walk into my father’s house with a gun. If he found it what would he think? Worse, what would he do?

  ‘I’ll keep it at the office for you, then,’ said Zana. ‘If the time ever comes—‘

  ‘The time will never come, Zana,’ I said.

  At the UN house, I jumped from the car and, as with the first time I had been there, I entered through the kitchen, nodding a hello to the Assyrian housekeeper again. This was to be a two-pronged visit, while Zana remained parked down a laneway. I had to draw David closer to me—and that would not be so difficult because I truly wanted him to be closer—but I also had to look around, check out the lie of the land so to speak, and look at any documents that might be lying about. I felt like a rat. I was on a mission of love and deceit.

  ‘Latifa!’ David cried when I knocked on his lounge room door and entered. He jumped from his sofa and came towards me, arms outstretched. We hugged and kissed and then he invited me to sit down—in front of a huge cheese cake that he said he’d asked a colleague to bring from Baghdad the day before.

  ‘It’s fate,’ he said. ‘I didn’t even know you would be able to come. This is a special celebration indeed.’

  So we ate cheesecake and then he showed me around his house, but there wasn’t much to see. The three bedrooms were basically empty, one being used to store a gas canister and an electricity generator and the other had his bed. But it was not until we returned to the lounge that I felt his arms wrap around me from behind and then he turned me and kissed me. I’ve read it in novels—how a girl feels like she is melting in the arms of a man—and that is exactly how I felt then. But I was scared, too. I didn’t want this to go too far. Not because I was afraid of losing my virginity—it was a bit late for that!

  ‘Can we move just a little more slowly, David,’ I said as we caressed. ‘I don’t want to get pregnant.’

  ‘Don’t worry, that won’t happen. I am well prepared. You will be safe.’

  That convinced me and we made love. It was the passion I had desperately longed for. It was wonderful to be touched and there was a thrill about it because it was forbidden. I was totally smitten by this man and all thoughts of betraying him by trying to look through his documents vanished. In any case, how was I to carry out my mission for Zana with David present? I had noticed his brief case, propped up on the floor beside a chair when I had entered the room, but there was no opportunity to look into it—even if the desire to do so had been there.

  So David had become my second lover after Ojo. I do not count Mikael as a lover—he was a rapist. As much as I wanted to stay, I told David shortly afterwards that I had to leave. Two hours had passed and he did not know that Zana was waiting in his car down the lane. I couldn’t tell him that, of course, nor could I tell him that I had a company driver on stand by because that would have been equally suspicious. As if he realised my concern about how I would get back to the office, he arranged for one of his drivers to drop me there. We kissed goodbye for the time being, with me telling him I would try to see him again as soon as possible, and then his driver took me to the office. I then had to ask the company driver to take me back to the laneway where Zana was still waiting. It was crazy, but it was the only way. Zana made some excuse to the company driver about why he was sitting in his car in the laneway.

  ‘So how did it go?’ asked Zana as we headed back. ‘Did you manage to find out anything?’

  ‘It was impossible. He was with me the whole time.’

  ‘But did you see any documents lying around? Is he the kind of person that leaves papers on a table, that kind of thing?’

  ‘I didn’t see anything like that. There wasn’t really any opportunity.’

  ‘Well you must try, do your best, it’s very important.’

  I felt terrible. Depressed that I had been so betrayed by my mother, I was now doing the same thing with a man that, yes, I had
to admit it, I had fallen in love with.

  Zana continued to ask me about David’s house, what it was like inside, how many rooms it had and so on. ‘That’s a typical UN house,’ he said. ‘Big and bleak with a housekeeper. Does he have a fax machine in there?’

  ‘No, just a telephone. I didn’t see any other technical things if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Well, you don’t seem to have got much from this visit.’

  ‘Zana, I can’t just walk in there and start picking up documents or writing things down. As far as he was concerned, it was a social visit by me. I need more time for this.’

  His face hardened. ‘Just remember this,’ he said. ‘Your time is not important. You are working in our time. It is our time that is important, not yours.’

  I didn’t ask who he meant by ‘our’, although I assumed it was the Kurdish authorities.

  With Zana’s knowledge, I was now able to keep in daily contact with David and it was soon arranged for me to go back to his house. This time Zana sent me there with the company driver and it was agreed he would return for me after a couple of hours. David had decided to send his Assyrian housekeeper home early after she had completed her morning chores, telling her to return later in the afternoon.

  This time David and I did not hesitate with our love making. Again, it was on the sofa, but it was at my initiative. Afterwards, unlike my first visit when there was more of an urgency about our intimacy and my having to leave, he asked if I wanted to take a shower with him. I told him I would shower when I got home, so he slipped away to wash.

  With trembling hands, I went to his briefcase when I heard the shower running. I made a quick note of the fax numbers across the top of the pages I found and also wrote down names of the senders. There was no time to read through the documents and find out what the contents were—some were written in English, others in Arabic—although the general tone appeared to be of a technical nature. While I could not understand spoken Arabic, I could read the written symbols. There was a map of a village in Syria, some architectural designs, and a few pages in handwriting that I assumed was David’s. I had not been asked by Zana to read through the documents in any case. He simply wanted phone and fax numbers and names.