Praise for Appointment with ISIL
“A roller-coaster ride to the finish, this book confirms Giordano as a writer to eagerly watch.”
- Kirkus Reviews Featured Review.
“An absorbing story with abundant scenes of nefarious activities and subplots. With Giordano’s imaginative writing, you’ll soon realize why ‘Thriller’ is in the title.”
- Robert Bartus Jr., Ambassador magazine of the National Italian American Foundation.
“Appointment with ISIL is a home run by Giordano. PRIMO highly recommends.”
- Five Stars. Truby Chiaviello, Editor, PRIMO magazine.
“Appointment with ISIL is an excellent, fast paced international contemporary thriller that kept me up well past my bedtime.”
- Five Stars. Miriam Smith, Top 1% Reviewer on Goodreads, UK.
“Joe Giordano’s superbly written new novel, Appointment with ISIL, is a must-read.”
- Five Stars. Daniel VanTassel, editor The Zodiac Review.
Appointment with ISIL
An Anthony Provati Thriller
When her son Billy was sent to Iraq, Angie Dekker purchased fifty-two pairs of athletic socks. She sent him one every week. Like an hourglass, the pile shrunk marking the year until her son returned home. Pair thirty-two was in her hand when the two marine officers appeared at her door. She heard, “Fallujah,” “Killed in action,” and “Deepest sympathies.” The funeral at Arlington National Cemetery was mostly a blur. She remembered “Taps” and the folded flag clutched to her breast.
At home, a female friend tried to console her. “You’re an attractive woman with plenty of life ahead of you.”
She might as well have spoken to a corpse. Angie’s depression was as deep as a canyon. When everyone left, she cried alone. She anguished over Billy’s last moments like a stuck record in her brain.
Her grief evolved into a singular desire to see where Billy died. The U.S. State Department blocked her visa applications. Iraq was dangerous even before the Islamic State in the Levant, ISIL, ate its cities. Frustrated, she flew to Istanbul and approached her hotel concierge for a guide recommendation. He called an ex-colonel in Turkish intelligence.
Erol Dogan had gray cropped hair and a mustache. He lost a son in a military helicopter accident and was sympathetic to Angie. Nonetheless, he recoiled at the danger of her requested destination.
Dogan said, “Ms. Dekker, may I call you Angie? Please accept my condolences for your loss. Going to Fallujah won’t accomplish anything.”
Angie’s eyes wandered to the horizon.
He continued. “Why don’t you allow me to show you the real Istanbul? The Bosporus is beautiful, especially at night. I know an excellent seafood restaurant.”
“Erol Bey, you’re very gracious. I’ll go to dinner if you agree to take me to Fallujah.”
He said, “I understand your need for closure, but there’s nothing for you there. Trust me.”
“I have money for expenses.” She reached for her purse.
He raised his palm to stop her. “I don’t want payment. It’s a matter of safety.”
She took his hand in both of hers. “I beg you.”
“I’m sorry.”
She spoke firmly. “I’ll go on my own.”
“A woman shouldn’t travel alone. Men will take advantage.”
“Then guide me.”
He said, “Give me the chance to dissuade you over dinner.”
She released his hand, saying coldly. “I’m not hungry.”
“Please.”
“Excuse me,” she said. “I need to get ready. I’m starting out tomorrow.”
The next day, Angie was at the Istanbul Atatürk Airport waiting for the Turkish Air flight to Diyarbakir. Dogan’s shadow fell across her.
She said, “You followed me.”
“Please don’t leave Istanbul.”
“I’ve decided.”
He crossed his arms. “Perhaps I’ll have you arrested and sent home.”
“That won’t stop me. I’ll fly to Amman and enter Iraq through Jordan.”
He puffed out a frustrated breath. “You’re being stubborn.”
Her eyes held his. “I will go to Fallujah. Erol Bey, have you gotten over your son’s death?”
He broke eye contact. “No.”
“Then you should understand. Will you help me?”
He sighed and sat next to her. “You can’t go alone.” He rubbed his forehead. “If I agree, you must follow my instructions.”
“Of course,” she said excitedly.
“We must cover your blonde hair, or you’ll be recognized as foreign. We’ll buy you Arabic dress.”
She offered him money in a pink pouch.
He refused. “You’ll need that when we’re back in Istanbul. Insha’Allah.”
She gave him a tight smile.
He made a couple of phone calls.
The two-hour flight was bumpy. Dogan had prearranged a taxi for the six-hour, two-hundred-mile trip to Silopi at the Iraqi border. He cautioned Angie not to say “Kurdistan” as a Turkish inspector in fatigues reviewed her passport and kept a copy. He showed the inspector his credentials, and the man saluted.
A huge yellow sun pictured in a red, white, and green Kurdish flag flew over the customs building when they crossed the Habur River into Iraq. Dogan negotiated a ten-day visa, lying about Angie’s purpose and paying the Iraqi stamp tax.
“The south is aboil,” the uniformed officer said.
Dogan grimaced. Angie smelled the sour sweat that rose on his back. In Zahko, they procured another taxi, a gray Renault with the “e” lost from the Magane hatchback logo. Dogan told the driver Erbil was their destination.
As the car passed brown hills with patches of green, Dogan turned to Angie. “Don’t be alarmed.” He showed her the Luger pistol he carried in his shoulder bag.
Her eyes widened with anxiety.
He said, “It’s necessary.”
He leaned forward and put the barrel of the gun to the Kurdish driver’s head.
The man’s cigarette dropped from his mouth. His hands flew off the wheel of the car. “I have no money.”
Dogan said, “Drive. South.”
“Where?”
“Fallujah. You’ll be well paid.”
“Al-ama. Give the money to my widow.”
The taxi smelled of rose water and rattled like a box of wrenches on the three-hundred miles to Fallujah. They traveled at night. Angie dozed on and off. Dogan was alert.
They arrived in Fallujah at dawn. Broken palm trees gave the city the look of an ancient ruin. Atop spiked mosques, Morning Prayer had begun. Minarets boomed the melodic chant of the muezzin’s voice. “Allah Akbar…”
Dogan’s face glistened. He turned to Angie. “Fifteen minutes, then we go.”
The taxi driver’s head swiveled as he searched the street and nearby buildings. He left the engine running.
Angie wore a black niqāb and burga covering her from head to toe. She trembled as she opened the taxi door and stepped onto the dusty street. Billy died here, she thought, what a filthy desolate place. Her tears welled.
The driver’s neck craned from the car window. “Let’s go.”
Dogan spoke urgently. “Angie, we must leave.”
She sighed. She nodded and slipped back into the vehicle.
The taxi had only moved thirty yards when two stolen U.S. military jeeps with camouflage paint appeared on either side of the street and sped toward them, blocking their path back and front. A brace of dark-haired men in black flak jackets, carrying rifles with scopes and large magazines emerged from doorways on both sides of the street and surrounded the taxi.
Dogan’s fist slammed down. “Bok.”
Angie stiffened. Her stomach turned to acid. She put a hand to her mouth.
A tall, well-built man in a black skull-fitting takiyah and full beard strode to the car with rifle pointed. He said in Arabic, “Get out.”
The driver stepped into the street with hands raised. Two men grabbed him. He struggled, then burst into tears. Dogan grabbed the pistol. Angie touched his forearm. He nodded and left the gun when they stepped from the car.
The tall man turned to Dogan. “He’s a Kurd. You look to be a Turk.” His rifle pointed at Angie. “What nationality are you? Remove the veil.”
Angie didn’t understand.
The tall man’s voice rose. “Woman, remove the scarf.”
Dogan spoke English in a low voice. “He wants you to uncover your face.”
The tall man became excited. “English. Turk, what have you brought me?”
Angie peeled off her mask. She wanted to be defiant, but she had the urge to urinate.
Dogan said in English, “She’s Swedish. A tourist. We meant no harm.”
The tall man stroked his beard. He spoke English with a British accent. “You didn’t pray. That was a mistake. Lying to me is another.”
The tall man turned to Angie. “I’m called Al-Nasir li-Din Allah. What’s your name and country?”
She glanced at Dogan before speaking. “My name is Angie Dekker. I’m Swedish.”
Al-Nasir tilted his head looking dubious. He pressed the barrel of his rifle into Dogan’s chin. “Lie to me again and you’ll watch his head explode.”
Dogan said, “Don’t…”
Al-Nasir cracked Dogan’s skull with his rifle butt, and he fell to the ground bleeding and unconscious.
Angie gasped. She bent to Dogan.
Al-Nasir said, “Tell me, woman. Now.”
She gulped. She didn’t look up. “I’m an American.”
Al-Nasir’s grin revealed white teeth. “And why have you come to Fallujah?”
Her eyes rose to his. “My son was killed here. I wanted to see what he fought for.”
“Now that you’re here, what do you think?”
“He died for nothing.”
Al-Nasir roared in amusement. The men around him didn’t understand, but they smiled.
She asked, her voice quavering, “What will you do with me?”
Al-Nasir caressed his beard. “Something Shakespearean.”
~*~
The building where Angie was kept smelled like an outhouse pit. Bugs in her lumpy bed bit her left eye and it swelled. Fly bites itched and festered. Weeks passed. She was grimy from unwashed sweat. Her hair was filthy and matted. An old woman, clothed in black, brought food and water and emptied her latrine bucket. Angie feared she’d be raped, but no man touched her. She worried about Dogan. The old woman wouldn’t say what had become of him. She regretted involving the Kurdish driver. She had plenty of time to think.
When the old woman brought the orange tunic, Angie gulped. She didn’t want to die. She prayed for the first time since she was told of Billy’s death. The thought of an afterlife comforted her. She’d see Billy again. What if it all was a myth? There’d be nothing. They said Billy died instantly, without pain, without contemplation of his fate. That was better, she thought.
The morning Angie was taken to the desert, the water tasted bitter. She became unsteady and her mind dreamy. The old woman helped her put on the orange tunic. She was loaded into a military jeep that bumped along a sandy road, then swerved onto the dunes for about a mile. In her sleepy state, Angie saw a line of men dressed completely in black, all but their brown eyes covered. The tallest man in the middle she guessed was Al-Nasir. Angie’s hands were bound. She was half-carried from the jeep across the sand to Al-Nasir by two men on either side of her. She thought, I must fight, run, scream, but her spacey head damped down action. They pushed her to kneel at Al-Nasir’s feet facing a camera on a tripod.
Al-Nasir spoke to the lens in Arabic. To Angie, it seemed a long speech. Dogan came into her mind. She said a silent prayer. Her vision blurred.
Al-Nasir’s last line was in English, “America, you can’t protect your women.”
Angie caught the glint of the steel knife in his hand.
Al-Nasir brought his lips close to her ear and said in a soft voice. “I’ll be quick.”
She gasped, and a black curtain fell.