The two soldiers eye you warily as you pass them with your luggage in tow. They look tired, bleary eyes and unhappy, their assault riffles hanging loosely on straps. You keep your head down and try to ignore them, not wanting to give them any reason to single you out, though the scarcity of passengers gives them few targets to vent their frustrations on.
Another run of waist high concrete barriers scattered haphazardly across the airport concourse presents an obstacle. You have to lift your suitcase over it and squeeze through a gap. At least the relative emptiness of the airport makes it easy enough to spot who you are looking for.
Imam el-Bayoumi stands ramrod straight in front of the arrivals board. You’d have to be looking very closely – and you are as a matter of course – to notice that his gaze isn’t fixed on the board. His eyes flicker from side to side as he checks for threats and he spots you almost instantly. His stance changes subtly as you approach, more guarded, ready to fight. He doesn’t recognise you, as you are wearing a face chosen to blend in: A mix of half a dozen young Arabian men picked up from around London: Clean faced, youthful and strong.
The imam, of course, is much older. He must be well into his late fifties by now, with a lean body and face that looks almost cadaverous. A thick, bushy beard hides much of that face behind iron grey curls. His eyes are the colour of the stormy sea and he fixes them upon you as you draw close.
“Uncle Mohamed,” you say with a grin. It is how you agreed you’d identify yourself to the Imam when you phoned him a few days ago.
His frown eases a little but doesn’t go away. “Ah, my nephew Tariq,” he replies. The tone seems warm enough, but there is no mistaking the suspicion there. “How was London? And my friend Charles?”
“Enjoying his retirement,” you reply. The answer seems enough to finally mollify Mohamed el-Bayoumi’s suspicions and he smiles cautiously at you.
“Welcome to Baghdad,” he says to you. “I wish I could offer a warmer welcome to you, but… Well things are as they are. Come. My truck is outside.” He grabs your suitcase and starts walking over to the exit.
“What’s going on here,” you ask him as you follow along beside him. A pair of soldiers saunter past in the opposite direction, glaring at you as they go. You try not to stare at the black mist that pools round their feet. “The security seems crazy."
“I appreciate you efforts to not stand out Will,” says the imam very quietly, so that only you can hear. “But anyone that comes through the airport now is instantly subject to suspicion. Doubly so if they ask odd questions. I will explain more once we get to my truck.
“I see,” you say quietly. As you reach he exit of the airport terminal you pass a pair of Caucasian young women, twins in fact. They are both very blonde and the manner of their dress – vests, shorts, hiking boots and large rucksacks – seems to have caught the attention of another group of soldiers. The same black mist seems to gently swirl round the feet of these soldiers too, almost writhing in reaction as they argue with the blonde
“As I said,” says the imam quietly after you are out of earshot of the group. “This is not a time to be standing out from the crowd.” He is silent for a moment. “You saw it too? They are afraid and desperate. They fear for the future.”
The imam is an Eldibria too, of course. He sees the same ghosts and images that you do.
It takes a good ten minutes of walking to reach the imam’s truck. It’s a solid looking Japanese pickup truck, built more for reliability than anything else. The truck might have been white once, but it is caked in a thick layer of sand and dust that obscures its true colour. The imam shoves your suitcase into the back of the truck and climbs into the driver’s seat. You run round the opposite side and climb in as he guns the engine.
“So,” you ask after he has been driving for a few minutes. “All those soldiers at the airport.”
“The country is falling apart Will,” explains the imam as he drives. There is little traffic on the roads, but he still moves slowly and cautiously. After the north of the country broke away earlier in the year, everything has fallen apart. The government in Baghdad can barely control the city itself, let alone the other provinces. Riyadh and Tehran both watch greedily in the hope that they can grab the southern oil fields when it all finally falls apart.”
“But that isn’t why you asked for help,” you say. “Because however bad it is for the people living here, it isn’t Stellae business.”
“No,” acknowledges the imam tersely. “Very little comes out of the provinces, and very little of that makes it out of the country, but some of it still reaches me and I am troubled.”
The conversation grinds to a halt as the imam pulls the truck to a halt at a checkpoint. Two heavy looking trucks painted in military drab are parked lengthways across the road. A dozen or so surly looking soldiers mill about, two of them breaking away from the rest of their group to come towards you. The imam rolls down the window as they approach. It takes a good five minutes of anxious discussion to satisfy the pair that your papers are valid and then you are on your way again.
“I don’t have the luxury of almost instant backup that the Stellae in Europe and America have. And I have to cover most of the Middle East too, though sometimes I work with the Akshardam,” explains the imam as the checkpoint vanishes into the distance. “I have a few friends that watch out for events that might interest us. One in Baghdad contacted me a month ago to let me know that in the absence of the government, a cult was asserting its control over the southern provinces. I asked him to investigate for me.”
He falls silent. “And,” you ask.
“He did not return,” says the imam sourly. “So I flew to Baghdad myself to hear the stories. They are enough to make me ask for help.” He shakes his head sorrowfully.
“But not so bad that you’d ask Rosalie,” you interrupt.
“Charles owed me a favour,” says the imam, looking out at the road ahead. The buildings are thinning out and you seem to be leaving the city behind. “He will be missed.”
“Rosalie has a tough act to follow,” you concur. “But I think she’ll do well.”
“We shall see,” is the imam’s answer. “I do not know her.” You look at him for a moment. The answer is a cagey one, born of Eldibrian caution and Lurgan suspicion. Better, you think, to let the comment slide.
“This cult then,” you ask, changing the subject.
“The Flame of Purity is what they call themselves,” spits the imam. “There is nothing pure about them. They have taken over several towns and villages in the south. The few who disagree with them disappear. Their supporters engage in acts of self flagellation by all accounts. It is like no religion I have heard of.”
You nod. “They sound bad, yeah, but I still don’t see the Stellae angle.”
The imam makes a harrumphing sound. “Some of the villages,” he explains. “Their conversion has been abrupt, in the face of previous opposition and total.”
“Enough to make you suspicious, but not enough to warrant calling Rosalie,” you say. “I see now. So you called in your favour with Charles.”
“As you say,” states the imam flatly. “Charles speaks highly of you.”
“Uh…” you say. “Thanks, I guess…”
You sit there silently as the imam drives on. There is no other traffic on the road at all now, no signs of life anywhere.
“So, where are we going,” you ask after several minutes have passed. “Straight to one of the towns the cult has taken control of,” you guess.
“Yes,” says the imam gravely. “To Amarah. It is three hundred kilometres to the south of here and I have head reports that the Flame of Purity took control within the last month. I will interview the people of the town and identify what the next step is.”
It’s actually a reasonable plan, you think. One that plays to his strengths: A Lurga assisted interrogation of the cultists should be quite revealing and from all you’ve heard about the imam, he is adept at using his other ouisiarch in conjunction with Lurga too.
But it isn’t the way you do things. You prefer to work in secrecy as much as possible, using you prodigies to remain hidden. Even just talking about acting so openly leaves the hairs on the back of your neck raised and your palms tingling. You would far prefer to work in your normal manner, stealing the information you need from people’s imagos. Imam el-Bayoumi is the senior Stellae here though, and while he can hardly order you to do something it might be wise to defer to his experience and knowledge of the region.
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