Parnell - Man of War

To my Three Es

Algiers

Khalid arrived at his commanders house before first light. At fifteen, he was built like a Great Dane puppy, all legs and feet except for the wisp of hair growing around his upper lip. The facial hair marked him as a man, but it was the pistol in his waist that made him feel invincible.

Khalid was a jundi, what the men of the Algerian Liberation Front called a gun boy. Armed with Kalashnikovs, they were street thugs who took what they wanted. Khalids only loyalty was to Commander Cheb Massi.

Massi ran the Bir Mourad Ras district, the strategic strip of land that ran from the plateau of western Algiers to the Hydra district where the westerners had their embassies. He also controlled the docks where Khalid traded hashish and opium for guns and RPGs. It was because of the docks that everyone called Massi the emir, and as long as Khalid worked for him, he was untouchable.

As he always did when summoned to the emirs house, Khalid went straight to the fridge for a beer. The kitchen was dark, and he yanked at the handle. The seal gave way with a wet pop, and the harsh light hit him in the eyes, dilating his pupils. He was twisting the cap off the bottle when a voice said, in Arabic:

A bit early.

Damn. Khalid jumped, and the bottle slipped out of his hand and shattered on the tile floor. He stepped back, reaching for the pistol stuck in his waistband, glass crunching under his feet. A match flared at the table, and a pair of scarred hands appeared in the circle of yellow light. The man leaned in to touch the end of the cigarette against the flame, and Khalid froze.

His face was gaunt and skeletal, and suddenly Khalid had to pee. It happened every time he got nervous or scared.

You pull that piecethe man paused to drag smoke into his lungsand I will blow you out of your shoes.

It was too dark for Khalid to make out if he had a gun, but if he did there was no doubt that the man would kill him right there. So he raised his hands, palms out like they did in the American movies, and prayed that Commander Massi was close by. He thanked Allah when the lights came on and his boss stomped into the kitchen.

Khalid, why are you standing like that?

Massi nodded to the man at the table.

This is the boy I told you about.

The man calmly brought his right hand up, his eyes freezing Khalid in place. They were black and emotionless, just like the Egyptian cobra that had bit his cousin, but instead of fangs the man was holding a large revolver centered on Khalids gut.

Do you know who I am? he asked.

Khalid nodded. There was no mistaking the face. It was the burned man. His voice cracked when he answered. Yeeess... yes.

Cheb says you have the hadia, is that true?

The gift. It was the name his mother had given his ability to find things. When he nodded again, the burned man put his thumb on the hammer and eased it forward.

Khalid hadnt realized he was holding his breath until his head began to spin. His legs trembled beneath him, and he could hear his heart hammering like a drum in his chest. He would have killed me, he realized.

At that moment Khalid understood that he knew nothing about death. He had been strong before walking into the kitchen, and now he was weak, helpless to control the shaking that ran up his legs.

Have a seat before you fall down, Massi snapped.

Khalid walked to the table. He heard the refrigerator open behind him when he sat, and forced himself not to jump when the man pushed a photograph across the table.

Can you find this man for me?

Massi had to thump the fresh beer against his shoulder before Khalid realized it was there. He took it and poured half the bottle down his parched throat, stopping only when he ran out of air.

As a jundi, Khalid spent most of his time running errands for Massi and his lieutenants. He knew the city like the back of his hand, but the gift he couldnt explain. Somehow he was able to find people even if they wanted to stay hidden.

The man in the picture was an Arab, light-skinned but not like the Berbers. He had soft features, short black hair, and a thin nose. Khalid focused on the eyes and the nose; they were the hardest to change. Finally, after memorizing the face, he nodded.

Okay.

Massi took out an old flip phone and handed it to Khalid.

If he finds him before noon, I will give you an extra hundred thousand dollars, the burned man said to Massi. My number is the only one on this phone. You call me as soon as you find him. If you tell anyone I will kill your father first. He is still working at the oil fields in Gassi Touil, correct?

Khalid didnt feel right again until he was riding through the bazaar. He wanted to stop and smoke some hashish, but then he remembered the burned mans gun. He drove around for two hours before ending up back at the bazaar. This is where he is, he thought, so he drove back and forth until his stomach began to rumble.

He was so hungry that he almost didnt notice the silver van creeping down the road.

Shit, police.

The cops in Algiers were dirty, and if they stopped him they would want money. Money he didnt have. Khalid was about to scurry away, but then he got a good look at the driver of the van. He was whitea foreignerand Khalid realized that he had seen him before.

The American embassy, he said aloud.

Something told him that the van was looking for the man in the picture. So instead of cutting through one of the alleys that led away from the bazaar, Khalid released the handbrake and aimed the motorbike at the vehicle. He happened to glance toward the sidewalk, and that was when he saw the man in the photo.

The target was walking toward him, head low and unaware of the van creeping up from behind. Khalid couldnt believe his good fortune. He pulled the motorcycle to the curb and dug the phone from his pocket.

That was quick.

He is at the bazaar. The Americans are here in a van.

What is he carrying?

Uh... he has a bag.

Are you sure they are Americans?

Yes...

The van sped forward so fast that Khalid almost dropped the phone. It jumped onto the curb amid angry shouts from pedestrians. Three burly men jumped out.

Khalid relayed what was happening in real time. Three men, they have beards and rifles.

Breul, dont you fucking move! one of the men yelled in English, pointing at the man Khalid had been sent to find.

They are yelling at him. He is running.

Behind him tires screeched and another car flashed around the corner. Khalid barely got out of the way, and almost dumped the bike in the street. The man in the picture tried to run, but one of the Americans pulled out a yellow pistol and fired.

The Arab ran into a woman carrying a bundle of oranges, a pair of wires trailing from his back. The fruit went flying and then there was a tick, tick, tick sound that sent the man to the ground. He dropped like a bag of stones and flopped around on the pavement like a fish in Khalids cousins net.

I told you not to run, one of the men said before kicking the Arab in the face. They grabbed his hands and forced them behind his back.

We got him, one of the Americans said into the radio.

They are binding his hands and carrying him back to the van.

Follow them. I need to know where they are going.

Yes, of course.

Khalid shoved the phone into his pocket and waited for the two vehicles to pass. He turned the bike around and hurried after them, his hunger forgotten. The only thing he remembered was the burned mans eyes and the pistol leveled at his stomach.

He would not fail him.

Beirut

Four thousand miles to the east, Eric Steele turned into the alley, the headlights of the stolen Mercedes playing across the cinderblock wall. He cut the lights, and before stepping out of the car made sure the dome light was disengaged.