Betrayed Read online

  I heard the shower stop running, made sure there was nothing amiss with his papers or the positioning of the briefcase, and returned to the sofa. Soon afterwards I was on my way back to the office with the information. I wondered if this was how those Russian spy girls controlled their emotions. Those honey traps they set. I wondered if they ever fell in love with their diplomatic and commercial targets or whether they remained cold hearted and treated their various missions as just another job. For me, what I was doing was a passage out of Kurdistan. I was pleasing Zana and I was pleasing David. Both had promised to help me, Zana because I was giving him something back; David because he had fallen for me, of that I had no doubt. The only disturbing element was that I had also fallen for David and I felt wretched each time I remembered my spying mission.

  On my fourth visit to David, with the same routine occurring—he going to the shower, me rifling through his papers—he said he wanted to ask me something as I prepared to leave. My heart missed several beats as he went to his briefcase and pulled out a handful of documents.

  He held them up in front of me. Dear God.

  ELEVEN

  ‘These documents,’ he said. ‘Not only do I have to cope with all these, as though that’s not enough, but I’ve also lost my interpreter who’s been shifted to do another job. So I’d like to ask you Latifa—will you work for me as my interpreter?’

  I don’t know whether my face revealed my relief but I could not stifle a gasp.

  He grinned. ‘You seem overwhelmed. I hope you aren’t going to turn me down!’

  I hugged him, unable to prevent the tears welling up. Working as David’s interpreter would tear my heart open even more. I would be drawn even closer to him, there was no doubt about that, but the job would also give me access to all his paperwork and allow me to be present at all his meetings. I would, like the suspicions I had about my mother, be the perfect spy—an interpreter with access to all the information that an outside party wanted.

  When I saw my father that evening I told him about the job offer. His response shocked me.

  ‘Work for the UN? Oh no. I will never allow any daughter of mine to work for them. All the girls who work for the UN are nothing but whores. They have a shocking reputation. They mingle with foreigners and they sleep with them. They defy the love of their parents. They leave for work in the hijab but as soon as they arrive at the office they put on their mini skirts and their lipstick and they make themselves available to anyone and everyone.’

  ‘But Dad, don’t assume that I’m like that. And the pay would be very good. I’m told I could earn up to $US500 a month.’

  That was, in fact, an excellent wage in a country where $US1 would buy enough fruit and vegetables to feed an entire family.

  ‘In any case,’ Khalid continued. ‘Money is not our problem. My project is working out well.’

  He had told me previously about the contract his welding company had received. The Mayor of Dohuk had asked my father to build a tourist attraction on a large area of land that would comprise restaurants, a children’s playground, a convenience store and even a small botanical garden. Many of the employees working on the project were his own relatives. ‘Always look after your own first,’ he constantly told me. The money he would be making in the summer, he said, would more than easily cover the slack winter months.

  I knew that any attempt at getting my father to change his attitude about the UN job would be futile. Not only did he dissuade me from ever talking back at him, he was a stubborn man and he was a far less relaxed father than the one I had known in Sydney. His turning to the Muslim faith had changed him and I suspected, too, that he was still upset about the break up of his marriage. I heard chatter among my aunts one day about my mother ‘seeing another man’ in Germany, but I didn’t hear any more details.

  When I called David about my father’s refusal, he was disappointed. We agreed we would try to meet as often as possible, but the irony was that the only way I could get any transport to see him was when Zana arranged it for me so that I could actually spy on David. I had no idea of the value of the information I was passing on to Zana, whenever I could get hold of anything new, that was. All that I was able to pick up from David’s briefcase and from any papers that might have been lying around were names and phone numbers, but often they were the same ones over and over again.

  Warning signs were beginning to sound, though. My approach to my father about working as an interpreter had prompted a question the following day.

  ‘Aren’t you happy working with your aunt and Zana at the company? You should be grateful that you have a job there, because you are surrounded by relatives, unlike if you were working for the UN.’

  It sounded innocent enough, but I knew my father well enough to know that problems could lie ahead.

  How grateful I was for the company of the sisters across the road. On my days off on Fridays and when the men were at the mosque, I would snatch the opportunity to meet them in their house and chat, with me doing most of the talking, telling them about my life in Australia and describing some of the well-known sights in Sydney. I described the famous bridge and Opera House and they sat around in a circle and listened in awe. They could see how much I was missing it all and assured me that they were praying for me each day, asking God to open the door so I could return to Australia.

  As the weeks rolled by, reports continued to spread around Kurdistan about the inevitability of war. The UN weapons inspectors were having trouble getting permission to travel around Iraq and George W Bush was threatening an attack if Saddam Hussein did not co-operate. I spoke to David frequently and also saw him from time to time whenever Zana felt it was worth another look at his documents in case I could find any new names.

  There were times when David had to travel to Baghdad or Jordan, always returning with gifts for me, including my favourite perfumes, Chanel No. 5 and 24 Fauburg, but I had to be careful to wear them only when I was with him. I had to wash the perfume from my neck when I left because my aunties and my grandmother would be certain to smell it and ask where it had come from. He even brought me back a sexy DD bra, after first checking my size. He was a giver, a man of great charm and I hated using him to please Zana because I loved him.

  However, Zana was beginning to show impatience. He told me that I just wasn’t bringing him enough useful information. I asked how that was possible if all I could find were the documents in David’s briefcase.

  ‘There’s another way to find out what they’re up to,’ he said and I braced myself for his next suggestion.

  ‘We want to find out who he’s talking to on the phone and what the discussions are all about.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘he’s more likely to be doing that in his office. There’s no way I’m going to be able to get an invite there because he doesn’t want his staff to know that he’s been seeing me. And even if I got there, do you honestly believe he’s going to chat away on the phone, discussing all kinds of UN things with me sitting around? Even if I was working with him as an interpreter, he wouldn’t want me listening in to his phone conversation which might be of a more secretive nature.’

  Zana studied me as I spoke. ‘What you have just said reveals to me, once again Latifa, that you are the right woman for this work. You have assessed what “we” have already agreed on. We’ve talked it over and we believe that what we’ve decided is something that you can do without running into any kind of trouble.’

  I suddenly thought about the driving lessons and the shooting practice. Was he now dragging me towards dangerous waters?

  ‘There are two steps to go through. The first will be a test run. The second will be the real thing.’

  Zana’s ‘first step’ was a phone call he made to David. His company, he told David when he knew he was at his office, had completed all the plans for the tender for the pipeline project and would it be convenient to send Latifa around to drop them off? Of course, David agreed. So around to the UN compound I went and m
et David in his office. He was delighted to see me but we did not embrace, with other staff members moving about. As we chatted generally, standing in the middle of his office, I made a mental note of the layout, just as Zana had requested. He was coming and going with staff asking him to check this and that, so I had an opportunity to look around his office. Then, at last, when I laid the plans out on the desk I suddenly exclaimed that one of the sheets was missing. This again was according to Zana’s plan—but poor David thought it was something I had engineered so I could see him again when I brought the missing page back.

  Returning to the company’s office, I told Zana that I thought I had noticed a good place to hide a voice recorder. When he discussed the new spying venture he had planned for me he said he wanted me to plant a recorder somewhere in David’s office. He showed me the gadget. It was a Sanyo digital recorder with a voice activation switch and a running time of many hours. Zana explained that when arrangements had been made for me to return to David’s office, it would already be switched on and while it would pick up the sounds of me travelling there and any conversations I would have with David, it would also pick up anything he said in his office in my absence. All I had to do was conceal it somewhere!

  The following day I was driven back to the UN compound with the ‘missing’ page of the pipeline project. It genuinely gave David and me the chance to chat. I had the recorder in my bag so I was careful to not make my conversations with him too romantic. Although Zana knew, or had certainly guessed, that David and I were in a relationship, I didn’t want any recorded conversation between us to end up in the wrong hands—like my father’s.

  I thought I might know where I could plant the device, but I needed David to be out of the office. I had thought of a plan which might work. I asked if he had a small notepad because my diary was full and I wanted to keep a record of my daily activities. If he had something with UN on it, a constant reminder of him, so much the better. He checked in his desk drawer, fumbled around and said he had to go to the storeroom to get what he thought would be the very thing. As soon as he left the room I hurried across to the desk because it was the very place that I had decided, on my previous visit when I had managed to idly wander around as I talked to him, I would hide the recorder. I had noticed a gap between the drawer and the side of the desk—a space like a small open-ended box. Now I put my hand into it to see how deep it was and was surprised to find that the space ran around behind the back of the drawer. Perfect. Even if David looked into the gap beside the drawer he would not see the recorder. He would have to pull the drawer right out to find it and I doubted whether he would be doing anything like that. So into that hiding place I put the recorder. Although now encased in wood, I hoped it would still be able to pick up his voice when he spoke on the phone, which was on his desk.

  By the time he returned—thankfully he had been called into another room on his way back from the storeroom—I was comfortably seated away from the desk. He handed me a nice leather-bound notebook which the UN used as a promotional gift. Inside he had written my name, along with the words: For My Love, followed by his name.

  ‘David,’ I asked softly as I was leaving, ‘is there any more news about me? Have you been able to make any inquiries about how I can get a passport?’

  ‘It’s taking a little while, but don’t worry. Things will be all right, Latifa. Just be patient. Don’t dwell on it or the time will drag by. Wait until I have good news for you.’ He gave my hand a quick squeeze.

  As the company driver took me back I realised the great risk I had taken. Suppose the UN’s tea boy had walked in as I was fumbling around with David’s desk? It had been a big risk, but I’d gotten away with it.

  Zana was pleased with my success, but said it was now important that I get the recorder back the following day. Of course, I had to recover it! I hadn’t even thought about that. How was I to make yet another excuse to go back to David’s office? As it transpired, it was David who called saying he’d like to see me again because he’d forgotten to give me some calligraphy pens that went with the notebook he’d given me.

  ‘I’ll find an excuse to come over and pick them up,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell Zana that I’ve left my personal diary behind over there and that I need to get it back. I’m sure he’ll let me come over.’

  I was getting myself tangled in lies. I had to pretend to David that I was pretending something else to Zana—while Zana was of course delighted that I’d received the invitation to return to the UN office.

  ‘Be careful, Latifa,’ I told myself. ‘Don’t get into a mess.’

  I felt like I was riding on a fast train to an unknown destination, travelling with passengers who all knew one another but weren’t acknowledging it. Would the train crash on the way, destroying us all, or would we reach the destination and be able to run free?

  At the compound, David was sitting behind his desk, the gift box of pens in front of him. He rose to formally shake my hand—the most daring form of romance we could show—then returned to his chair. He propped his arms on the desk. His elbows were half a metre from the hidden recorder. I tried to remain calm as I thought: ‘How am I going to get him out of the office? I’ve got to get it back.’

  Then another thought struck me. Didn’t recorders make squealing sounds when the batteries, or the tape, or the small disc or whatever operating system it was, ran out? David asked how things were and, aware that the recorder would be picking up our voices, I told him that I was happy working at the company with my aunt helping me and other relatives coming and going. He seemed surprised at my words because I had told him at the beginning of our friendship how unhappy I was and what a deadly situation I was in. Quickly and playfully and with a big smile on my face I skipped around the desk, put my lips to his ear and whispered: ‘Only kidding!’ He thought it was funny and grinned. I was about to give him a kiss when one of his office-bound interpreters popped his head around the door to say that an Arab-speaking person wanted to have a word with David and the interpreter would have to act as a go between.

  David excused himself, but told me he’d be back in a moment to say goodbye. It was my chance!

  I slipped around behind the desk and felt in through the gap. I couldn’t find the device! Had it been on the right side or the left that I’d pushed it through? I got on my knees and slid my hand through the gap on the other edge of the desk and felt around behind the drawer. No it wasn’t there. Back to the other side and this time I reached in further. There it was. But in my fumbling I’d managed to push it slightly further away. Sweat bubbled up on my brow. I couldn’t reach it! I’d have to pull the drawer right out! But no, I could hear David talking in the hallway outside. He was coming back! I wanted to scream. My finger was flicking against the edge of the recorder, as I tried to draw it back into a position where I could grab it. When all seemed lost I managed to pull it out. My bag was on the other side of the room. If I’d carried it to the desk David might have wondered why. I pulled the top of my blouse open and quickly stuffed the slim device into the top of my bra before jumping to my feet and spinning around to pretend I was looking out of a nearby window.

  I’m sure my face must have been white with fear or bright red with soaring blood pressure. I kept my back to David as he entered the room, pretending that I was looking at the distant mountains. He came and stood behind me.

  ‘At least the view’s nice,’ he said. ‘But I don’t recommend the honeymoon suite.’

  Well, that comment went on the tape, but then, whoever heard it aside from Zana might think it was the UN man’s way of complaining about his accommodation.

  Back at the office, Zana grabbed the recorder from me without a word of thanks and said he was leaving for the day. I assumed he was taking it to his friends in the government. I wondered what they would hear on it, whether David’s conversations would reveal great secrets, but I was never to find out.

  There was a genuine reason for me to return to David’s office several days late
r. I had to deliver a final schedule for the company’s tender relating to the pipeline project. David had already told me that a number of our competitors had been dismissed because they were either not up to the task or they were too expensive. This time I called at the house, a request that he had made and which Zana, expecting some good news about the project, agreed to.

  But instead of a smiling David, he seemed upset and a little cold towards me. He’d found out about the recorder! Was there a hidden security camera in the office? Had I dropped something beside the desk? Had he found the device, replaced it and then talked nonsense to a make-believe acquaintance? Almost daily something happened to scare me. For at home I was still having to turn down requests from mothers who came knocking at the door asking permission for me to marry their sons. I was in danger of becoming a mental wreck and until now it had only been David’s love that had kept me on an even keel. Now, as I looked at his face, I feared my world was about to totally collapse.

  I walked to him and gently took his hands.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I have a problem—and it does involve you.’

  No, no.

  ‘I need you to put my mind at rest.’

  It would not have been difficult to see the alarm on my face.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s not you directly, Latifa. It’s about work and it’s really distracting me. I have narrowed down the pipeline project to two companies, one of which is yours, or rather the one you’re working for. The problem is, your competitors’ proposal is the better by far. I have to make my recommendations by tomorrow. If I recommend your competitor, it means I won’t have any excuses to see you. I don’t want that to happen, but on the other hand, I don’t want to give the project to your company, which hasn’t come up to the required standard.’