"Ask him if he got a cut," the captain joked, then ordered his men to back off.
It was not a propitious moment for Nawaf’s distant cousin. Four of Nawaf’s relatives, including a child, had already been assassinated in revenge for Uday and Qusay’s betrayal. He might very well be next.
Three years later, there he was, his gory remains a testament to gluttonous bloodlust and Ba’athist tribal fidelity. Ari was now certain that the house across the square from the garage where the bodies lay was the one where Uday Hussein, his brother and a handful of others had made their last stand on July 22, 2003.
Image No. 56…
After testing Ari on his ability to put names on the faces of the playing cards distributed by the Coalition of Iraq's most wanted, a colonel in the Green Zone had quipped: "And what are you, the 56th man?"
Whoever posted this image knew more of Ari's background than he was comfortable with. Someone at the heart of the Armed Forces' military intelligence. Of course, it could be a coincidence. It could also be a warning, or a threat.
He decided that, for the time being, it would be best not to respond with the victim's identity. He logged off.
Going downstairs, he opened the door to see if the weather was conspiring with CENTCOM to ruin his day. The snow had stopped, leaving a dreamy coat of silence over the yard and gazebo. But the James sounded louder than ever.
He was about to close the door when he saw the tracks. They came right up to his front door, then shaded away around the side of the house. He considered running back inside to get his shoes, then dismissed the notion. He had hiked barefoot while negotiating the sharp icy slopes of the Zagros. He could certainly handle a bit of tropical snow.
"Sphinx!" he said in a loud whisper, dreading the possibility that Diane was hunting for her missing cat and might overhear him and destroy his hopes. Of course, these tracks might belong to any cat...Ari had seen one or two lurking about, before. But these tracks looked just the right size. And they were fresh. "Sphinx!"
He knew that exposing himself this way was infinitely foolish. A sniper hiding in the woods across the street would find him the easiest game imaginable. But he did not think anyone would be looking for him just yet. And no one had rear-ended his Scion and exchanged information. Then again, Mustafa had felt safe. Otherwise, what could have possibly possessed him to give his address to a complete stranger? America had accepted him, embraced him...protected him. What was there to fear?
Name the first president of the United States....
This stupid cat is more important to me than my life. It was an outrageous thought, worthy of a blithering idiot. Yet Ari found himself compelled to follow the tracks to the side of the house facing the Mackensies, where another patch of woods presented an even thicker blind for an eager hunter. His heart gave a little thump when he saw where the cat had jumped on a window sill in his search for entry.
I'll wring your neck, Sphinx....
The cat had jumped off the sill and continued its way to the back. They were as easy to follow as the tracks Sphinx had made in the flour Ari had tossed on the floor while in search of Moria Riggins' hidden cocaine. He short-footed the small slope leading to the patio and basement and saw to his chagrin that here, too, Sphinx had tried to sniff a way in through the glass panel sliding doors before heading towards the garage. Blindly, filled with irresponsible longing, Ari raced around the boxwoods. The tracks paused at the closed garage door, and then trailed down the driveway.
Where Diane stood. Holding Sphinx.
"Hello," he said wanly.
"Hi," she said brightly. "Aren't you cold?"
Now that she mentioned it, in pajamas and barefooted Ari did indeed begin to feel cold. Quite cold. It had been twenty years since he had chased those sly Kurds from ridge to ridge. His blood circulation was no longer quite so...efficient.
"I’m fine," he chattered.
"I was going to come here and when I opened the door Marmaduke got out. He must have known I was coming to see you. He wasn’t really coming here. He was just leading the way."
Ari scowled, then smiled, then glanced towards the woods, searching for the slightest movement. Clumped snow was thumping to the ground, disrupting any attempt to focus on particular sounds.
"My mother is making me do this," Diane said from within her scarf. Her knit cap was pulled down so low were eyes were almost invisible.
"Do what?" Ari asked.
"She thinks maybe I should share Marmaduke with you."
Ari’s eyes widened. "Share?"
"Just have him over here a little bit of the time, and with me the rest."
If sounded like a preciously good arrangement to Ari. But almost against his will he found himself searching for lines of fire, and he knew the possibility simply did not exist.
"My mom says you look so sad and you must miss the cat so much…" She gave Sphinx a proprietary squeeze, inferring the offer only went so far. Ari thought there was a touch of avarice in the eyes peering out of the slit between the scarf and cap. "Are you putting on an act?"
"I’m sorry?"
"Not eating and going all mopey and walking around in the snow without shoes or a coat. Are you trying to make us feel sorry for you?"
"I find it difficult to control how I appear, lately," Ari admitted. "But until I’m more presentable, I think you need to turn around take Marmaduke to your home."
"Huh?"
"Go. Go away now. This is the house where children are murdered. It is bedeviled. It’s haunted."
Diane drew back. "Mom said you were sad, not crazy."
Ari’s bare feet merged with his teeth into a giant ice cube.
"It’s Sunday!" Diane shouted, perversely arguing against her own best interests. "You’re supposed to be saintly!"
"Go!"
She ran back up the street, slipping and sliding on the thin layer of snow as she clung to Sphinx, who did not appear overly concerned by events.
As Ari hopped back inside, he cursed his forgetfulness. Sunday! What time was it? Eight. He had to hurry. A cursory shower and shave made him fit to be seen in public. For a very short while, he thought his timing was perfect. Then he backed the Scion out of the driveway onto Beach Court Lane. The small rise leading up from the river was an Everest to his little car. He was astonished that so inconsequential a snowfall could prove such an impediment. Low gear helped some, but it took him ten minutes of corkscrewing and zigzagging to reach level road.
Southside United Methodist Church, presided over by Pastor Harris Grainger, was a modest brick edifice located in a residential area only a mile from Ari’s house. When he arrived he found the parking lot less than half full. As his feet crunched on the rock salt, he noted the date chiseled into the cornerstone: 1920. He wondered if this was considered venerable.
There was no one at the door. He entered a hallway. From the right came the burbling of children. From the left, beyond three sets of doors, a choir was singing. A small pile of worship service programs sat on an offertory table in the narthex. Ari took one of them and studied it intensely, hoping to get a clue as to how to behave once he was inside the nave.
WELCOME TO SOUTHSIDE UNITED METHODIST CHURCH
The Third Sunday After Epiphany
We exist to be a beacon for God
Since when did God need a beacon? Ari wondered. To his foreign ears, it sounded as though the Deity was a pilot in need of a compass. But he appreciated the next line on the program:
*Please stand as you are able
The service had begun at 8:30 and, judging from the agenda, was almost halfway concluded. He was not overly dismayed to have missed the Prelude, the Time of Greeting, the Words of Welcome and Announcements, the *Presentation of Light (‘A Mighty Fortress is Our God’), the Sharing of Joys and Concerns, the Silence and Pastoral Prayer, the Lord’s Prayer, the *Hymn (‘Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing’), the *Psalter, the *Gloria Patri, the Offertory, the *Doxology—
There. The hymn that had j
ust concluded had included the phrase, ‘Praise God, from whom all blessings flow’, exactly what was written in the program. Next on the program was the *Gospel Lesson.
Feeling a bit like someone late for the theater, Ari slipped as quickly as possible into the nave. The door hinges swung smoothly, yet in the brief silence following the Doxology he garnered several curious glances. Pastor Grainger saw Ari as he was walking towards the pulpit and produced a quick smile. Or it might have been a grimace, with Ari’s presence reminding him of the fiasco at Powhatan CC. Where was Samir Salman, now? On a military transport to Guantanamo?
While Grainger stepped up on his podium and looked down on the fifty or so parishioners, Ari sought a congenial spot. The third pew from the back was completely empty, as were many others. He slid onto the maple seat and folded his hands over his open program.
"All rise…" Grainger was lifting his arms. Ari found the pastor's white robe and green stole mildly off-putting. He was not sure why. Perhaps because it seemed too lighthearted. If you were going to have a religion at all, he thought, it should be as dark as existence. There was a shuffling in the large hall as everyone stood.
"Our text for the day is from the New American Standard Version, Exodus 2:22: 'Then she gave birth to a son, and he named him Gershom, for he said, 'I have been a sojourner in a foreign land…'
"Be seated…"
Grainger embraced the gathering with a gesture. "Ah, my hardy friends! Never let it be said that the Commonwealth of Virginia can be crippled by a quarter inch of snow." Ari was startled by the chuckles from the congregation, which erupted into guffaws when Grainger nodded at the empty pews and added, "However, I see not all of my flock could handle the blizzard."
All right, so Pastor Grainger was a bit of a ham, and American religion was not one that put all joking aside. There were worse things, Ari thought. He noted that among the missing was Howie Nottoway, who must have found the slippery slope on Beach Court Lane too much for him. Grainger improved his thespian credentials by looking down somberly at the top of the pulpit for several silent moments while the laughter subsided. Then he raised his head, a totally different expression on his face. Sadness and reflection.
"I think our scripture for the day is particularly fitting. I'm sure you have all heard by now about the loss of our dear brother and sister in Christ, Mustafa and Akila Zewail."
So the news was out. Ari had not gotten around to looking at the morning headlines, preoccupied as he had been with the picture from Mosul. Had the public any details of the crime? There were a few murmurs of surprise from the pews, mostly from older parishioners who were not securely tied into the Net. Hearing this, Grainger nodded.
"Yes, it’s true...their bodies were found in their home the day before yesterday. The police only announced it yesterday evening. No details have been released, but that scarcely matters. For someone to have undergone such travail in a foreign land and to have come here seeking freedom...and then for this to happen...is bad enough. The details are immaterial."
What a precious little gossip, Ari thought. Tell that to the headless corpse. And aren’t you the one who told me Mustafa was Egyptian? Since when was Egypt so awful?
"I don't intend to proceed with a eulogy for the Zewails. You will be notified of the time and date of the memorial once the arrangements have been finalized. I just wanted to say how aggrieved we are by their demise, and how much we will miss them."
Ari wondered if he was reluctant to say more before he knew the reason behind their deaths. If the murders were drug related, he might want to tone down his encomium. Jumping the gun was an option to be avoided.
Grainger launched into his sermon, a grating paean to blandness. He followed for a short while the 'stranger in a strange land' theme, though he tended to take with one hand while giving away with the other. One had to tolerate other cultures, but one had to shun other cultures and their evil ways. One had to embrace strange lifestyles while simultaneously kicking sinners in the teeth, and somehow those sinners also happened to be people with the very lifestyles you were supposed to tolerate. Ari found the whole sequence incomprehensible, and suspected Grainger was struggling to jibe commandments from On High with dictates from the upper tier of his church's bureaucracy. He seemed to sense his own contradictions and retreated to safer drivel about Jesus. When Ari recalled some of the imams he had known, the way so many of them spat out their words (the spit was quite visible) with their violent rhetoric, which tended to focus upon unessential enemies to the exclusion of essential life, he decided Grainger wasn't so bad. Studying the tame, rather office-like interior of the church, he thought no one would ever see a need to plant a bomb here. All-in-all, it was rather reassuring.
His eyes wandered over the members of the congregation in front of him. His attention fell on a man in the third row, sitting erect and attentive. He spent the rest of the sermon trying to determine if he was Marine or Army, officer or enlisted man, veteran or some Stateside logician. Was he on leave, or was he due for redeployment next week?
When Grainger stopped talking and invited everyone forward for communion, Ari took up a hymn book and perused it intently. He actually learned a few songs before everyone finished their grape juice and reseated themselves. Then, to another tune, this time from a hidden organ, people began filing out of the pews. Passing him, some nodded and smiled, some just nodded and a few pretended he didn’t exist. The man he had been observing rose and gave his hand to the woman who had been sitting next to him, a plump woman who, when she turned, presented a pleasing face. Both her and the man wore sorrowful expressions. Could they be mourning Mustafa and Akila?
As they approached Ari, the man noticed him sitting in isolation and offered a puzzled but friendly smile. He nodded at the woman, then let go of her hand and sidled through the pews to Ari.
"Ben Torson," he said, holding out his hand. Ari stood and took the firm clasp.
"Ari Ciminon."
"I've never seen you here, before," said Ben. "Welcome to Southside. We hope you decide to make it your second home."
"You are very gracious," said Ari amiably. "I've only been in Richmond a few months. I thought it time to do some exploring."
"Well, you've explored the right place. These are good people. Don't mind a few frowns. They used to shoot Mustafa and Akila the same look, until they got to know them better."
I guarantee they did not know them at all, my friend. Nor did you.
"'Mustafa...is that the man your minister was talking about?" Ari asked innocently.
"It's terrible," Ben said. "Someone broke into their home and...it was like being back in the Sandbox."
"You're in the military service?" Ari asked politely, knowing that the ‘Sandbox’ was one of the kinder nicknames soldiers had given Iraq.
"Was," said Ben, withdrawing both his hand and his spirit. A spirit that Ari felt compelled to pursue.
"Ah, you were in Iraq? A terrible war, terrible."
"Yes." Ben seemed to give an inner shake. "I thought things like this were behind me. Mustafa and Akila were good friends. I would have gone and checked at the house, but Pastor Grainger said he had done all he could to reach them." There was a trace of rebuke in his tone, directed at himself.
"Oh, your...pastor?...is a good man. I met him the other day. He took me out to the prison to help communicate with one of the prisoners who doesn't speak English."
"You're..." Ben began climbing the long ladder of correctness to find the polite way to ask Ari if he was from the Middle East.
"I'm..." And then Ari hesitated. For some reason, he could not bring himself to tell this man that he was Italian. Something about Ben said all games stopped here.
Mistaking Ari's abrupt silence for some form of ethnic embarrassment, Ben nodded and turned to the plump woman. "This is Becky, my wife."
Becky's size made her approach through the pew behind Ari's cumbersome and slightly embarrassing. As she squeezed past a hymnal rack several books were dislodg
ed and fell to the floor.
"Oh," she said lowly, trying to bend over to pick them up.
"No, no," said her husband, leaning over the seat to retrieve the hymnals.
Glowing with despair, Becky held out her hand. Ari had not yet accustomed himself to shaking women's hands. He recalled the vigorous shaking he had gotten from Jennifer, Samir Salman's alleged lawyer, and prepared himself for a whiplashing. But Becky's handshake was gentle and becoming.
"The men go to war and the women eat," she said, releasing Ari's hand and presenting her body with a spread of her arms. "This is collateral damage."
"You're fine," Ben said assuagingly.
"If you had let me sign up and go with you, I wouldn't be in this mess."
"You personally, and not you as a woman, were not made for war," Ben said, and repeated, "You're fine."
Ari, usually so deft at timing the need to the moment, found himself oppressed by the challenge Ben presented. Inside of this American soldier was an answer, but one that could not be weaned or schemed out of him. Not that it could not be done, but Ari did not feel such tactics were appropriate.
"Do you mind telling me which unit you served with?" he asked gently, like a sommelier posing a wine list to an experienced customer.
"1st Armored." He could not keep the pride out of his voice. He wasn't trying to.
The answer sent Ari into a spin. He knew this man. For Ghaith Ibrahim, seeing a man's identity card meant he knew him on sight. Seeing a man for six intense minutes meant Ari Ciminon knew him for life. Ari glanced at Becky's benevolent, sad face, knew he would be committing a cardinal sin against his own security if he pursued what was on his mind...and pursued it.
"Specialist Benjamin T. Torson, U.S. Army. On April 6, 2005 a dear friend of yours hid himself behind some crates in a DRASH maintenance facility in Baghdad and committed suicide." Ari also knew the name of the victim, because he had seen his body resting against the crates, the barrel of his M4 resting where the head had been. The name on his blouse was still legible. "You were distraught. You went into the courtyard. You were weeping. You told your sergeant that you were going to follow your friend to the grave. The sergeant...a man every bit as good as your pastor...spoke...talked you out of committing the same grave sin. You carried on, like a good soldier."
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