Display cases in the center of the room held other types of artifacts. Mustafa lingered beside a tabletop display of a war game. The playing board showed North America, divided into sectors; an invasion force of brightly colored plastic tanks and troops had landed on the east, west, and Gulf coasts and was pushing into the heartland. Mustafa was confused as to how this fit with the general theme of the room, but then he saw the art on the game box lid—the face of the invaders’ leader—and he understood.

“So what does it all mean?” Mustafa said. “If this is a puzzle, what’s the solution?”

“I’m still working that out,” Saddam Hussein said. “But these objects tell a story about another world, an Arabia and an Iraq with a different history.”

“And you are the hero of this story?”

Saddam spread his hands and smiled, as if to say, Who am I to argue with my fans? “Every legend needs its champion.”

“What about the other characters?” Mustafa said. “Who else is in the story?”

“Various celebrities, politicians mostly.” Smirking: “That clown Al Gaddafi, though I think he’s the comic relief.”

“Osama bin Laden?”

“Ah, that one.” Saddam shrugged. “He might have a role I suppose. But you know, I don’t even find him interesting in real life. He’s too stuck up, like a Saud without the pedigree.”

“And America?” Mustafa looked down at the game board. “What’s America’s role in the story?” He looked up again to find Saddam nodding.

“That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?” Saddam said. “Something to do with the Americans.”

“It seems this alternate-reality campaign, or whatever it is, has caught the attention of a number of crusaders,” Mustafa told him. “But they think it’s a true story.”

Saddam chuckled. “Americans . . . Always confusing fantasy and reality.”

“Tell me where you get these items,” Mustafa said. “Are they all from eBazaar?”

“I have various sources. Lately though, yes, a lot of items have been turning up on eBazaar. The auctions are typically private, but there’s an email notification list for people known to be interested in such things . . . By the way, as long as your friend Wajid Jamil is giving away personal information about his customers, I would love to know who has been bidding against me. That game, for instance, that cost me almost ten thousand riyals.”

“Ten thousand?”

“I wanted it,” Saddam said, sounding defensive. “But some bastard tried to snipe it out from under me at the last minute.”

“Do you know the source of these items?” Mustafa asked next. “The return address for the deck of cards—”

“A shop in Frankfurt, yes. It’s a front. All the return addresses are—I’ve checked them out. The ultimate source of the items is elsewhere.”

“Do you know where?”

“Let’s say I have an idea. If I’m willing to pay ten thousand riyals for a board game, what would a clue about the game’s maker be worth?”

“You want money?”

“If you were a banker I might ask for money. As a servant of the president, there are more important things you can do for me.”

“Like help you with a legal problem?” Mustafa guessed.

“There are rumors of a new indictment being prepared against me by the IRS. If the president could shut that down, it would go a long way towards earning my gratitude.”

“A long way, or the whole way?”

“Perhaps one other small favor as well,” Saddam said. “You’re not the only one intercepting my deliveries. Recently I had a private shipment that was stolen on its way into Baghdad . . .”

“That sounds like a matter for the local police. Surely you’ve got that covered.”

“Ordinarily that would be true. But the thieves come from a neighborhood where police influence is . . . weak.”

Sadr City, Mustafa thought. “The Mahdi Army stole a package from you? Does that mean Muqtada al Sadr is playing the alternate-reality game too?”

“No, no,” Saddam said. “This is nothing to do with that. It’s a different kind of shipment.”

“If it’s alcohol or some other drug—”

“Please. If it were that, the Mahdis would just have set fire to the truck. Who knows, maybe that’s what they had in mind. But the shipment is an antique, something whose value would be obvious even to ignorant Shia bandits. So they took it.”

“And you want me to get it back?”

“I could do it myself,” Saddam said, “but you know I hate to disturb the peace. And if I send my men into Sadr City . . .”

“Right.” Blood in the streets. More importantly from Saddam’s perspective, there was a good chance his men would never be heard from again. “What is it you expect me to do, send in the real army?”

“The method I leave to your discretion. But if the president’s servant can’t get my property back, who can?”

Mustafa frowned. “I can’t promise anything now.”

“Of course not,” Saddam said. “You go check back with the president—about the IRS thing too, don’t forget—only don’t take too long. If the Mahdis decide to destroy my property, or sell it to someone else . . .”

As they returned to Saddam’s office, there was an urgent knock on the outer door. “Come,” Saddam said, and Abid Hamid Mahmud—the ace of diamonds—entered looking flustered. “What is it, Abid?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Saddam, but there’s trouble at the main gate. A crazy woman. She says she’s Anmar al Maysani’s daughter, and says if we don’t let her in, she’ll have the estate reduced to rubble.”

Saddam Hussein looked at Mustafa.

“A friend of yours, perhaps?” he said.

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Mahdi Army

This article is about the contemporary, Baghdad-based Mahdi Army. For other Armies of the Mahdi throughout history, please see the

disambiguation page

.

The Mahdi Army of Iraq is a Shia community relief organization whose stated mission is to provide security, charity, and other services to poor neighborhoods that have traditionally been ignored or underserved by government agencies. Based in Baghdad’s Sadr City district, the Army has established chapters in other parts of Baghdad and in other Iraqi cities such as Najaf and Kufah.

The Army’s founder and leader is Muqtada al Sadr.

ORGANIZATION HISTORY

In 1959 the Baghdad city council, faced with a huge influx of poor Shia workers from southern Iraq, voted to build a public housing project called Revolution City in northeast Baghdad. Much of the money allocated to the project ended up in the pockets of corrupt city and union officials. The new housing was shoddily constructed, and Revolution City quickly gained a reputation as a slum.

This was hardly the last insult the neighborhood would suffer. In the decades that followed, Revolution City’s residents complained of being shortchanged on all manner of public services, from health-care access to street repair. Law enforcement was a particular sore spot—within the RC district, the Baghdad police often acted more like an armed gang, shaking down legitimate businesses while allowing criminals to run free. For their own protection, citizens formed militias, often organized around local mosques; while these militias did provide a semblance of order, they also fought one another for control, or were broken up by police when they became too powerful.

The cycle of corruption and anarchy continued until the late 1990s, when the election of Baghdad’s first Shia mayor, Anmar al Maysani, brought a brief period of hope for change. Unfortunately, Al Maysani’s sweeping reform program did not fare well against the reality of Baghdad politics. Crime remained a serious problem, and matters reached a crisis point after the RC district’s most prominent resident, the Grand Ayatollah Mohammed Sadiq al Sadr, was murdered. When police announced they had no suspects in the case, Revolution City—now renamed Sadr City—exploded in protest. At a rally attended by an estimated 50,000 men, the Grand Ayatollah’s son, Muqtada, called for the formation of a new super-militia to fulfill the promise of peace and justice the occupants of city hall had failed to deliver on . . .