The Godless One

by J. Clayton Rogers

"And I don't think you want even him dead." Ari cocked a damaged eyebrow at Ahmad.

  "I appreciate that," said Ahmad sourly. "But I’m still missing the game. I might as well be dead."

  "I'll figure out something else," Abu Jasim said. The idea of getting a new Sprinter had momentarily displaced danger from his mind.

  "All right, then, show some sense. Take my share of the money and go get your new van. But first, go back to the drug store and buy me something better than this crappy aspirin. And buy some good gloves, too. And three ski masks."

  When they were gone, Ari took one of the new phones Ahmad had activated out of its bag and made a local call.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Ari had been in this area before, first as a prisoner of Louis Carrington, then as his killer. Judging from the GPS, they were only three miles from the spot where the police detective had been lured into a trap, the murder arranged to look like a suicide. It had been unavoidable. Carrington had gone from being a nuisance to Ari to a threat to Rana, for whom Ari would do anything to protect.

  This was a landscape Ari had seen only as a narrow, headlight-pierced tunnel in the dark. In daylight, Route 60 (once one left Richmond behind) was a rolling, often scenic road that carried traffic from the coast to the mountains. Ari felt vaguely oppressed by the countryside, lush, even in the dead of winter, when compared to so much of Iraq. Whenever he saw verdant land, he felt his people had been cheated. What had happened to the Fertile Crescent? Could it really have disappeared so completely? No, it couldn’t. It was still there, more or less. But even in its heyday, when it was the cradle of civilization, it couldn’t match the Virginia Piedmont. Truly, God had spat on the Iraqis right from the beginning.

  They lost the GPS map to Cumberland when Abu Jasim switched off the GT’s engine. Ari remembered the address, but this was too wet-tech for Ahmad’s taste. Wearing an insufferable smirk, he plugged the TomTom into the van’s cigarette lighter and tapped ‘Go Home’. And there it was, the house number on Sugar Loaf Road.

  While Ahmad followed them in the old van, Abu Jasim gloried in his new Mercedes Sprinter and vocally itemized the luxury accessories even though they were plainly under Ari’s nose. Ari stopped him when he began boasting about the folding table.

  "Are you planning to serve tea and crumpets to the garden club in here?"

  "I might," Abu Jasim answered, allowing the sarcasm to whiffle harmlessly past him.

  Ari suppressed further commentary. Reclining on the cushioned bench was infinitely preferable to propping himself up in the passenger seat. The driver seat was out of the question. Ari would have been unfit to sit behind the wheel even if Abu Jasim had allowed it.

  On the outskirts of Cumberland, Ari spotted a closed heavy equipment dealer and told Abu Jasim to pull into the lot. Ahmad followed them to a line of yellow backhoes parked out back. He switched off the van’s engine and hopped into the Sprinter’s passenger seat.

  "Why are we going through all this rigmarole?" he asked as his uncle drove out of the parking lot back onto Route 60.

  "By ‘rigmarole’ I guess you mean ‘nonsense’?" Ari inquired.

  "Well, yeah."

  "The Colonel has a twisted way of doing things," Abu Jasim told his nephew. "I’ve learned not to ask. He’ll let us know when he wants us to know."

  "Turn right," the TomTom intoned.

  "Should I turn, or do you want to go straight to Joe's?"

  "Turn." Ari pushed himself up on his elbow so he could see past Abu Jasim and Ahmad. "Reconnaissance comes first."

  "A lot of woods around here," Ahmad squirmed uneasily as they progressed down Bear Creek Lake Road.

  "And we intend to explore it," Ari responded. "You're very lucky it's winter. Otherwise, you would be eaten alive by insects and wolves."

  "Ha!" Abu Jasim chimed in. "Don't upset the city boy, Colonel. He doesn't know a tiger from a pussycat." He reached across to give Ahmad a friendly cuff, but it sounded more like a slap. "What is it you like about America so much, Ahmad? Those juicy Chicago hot dogs I hear about? Is it the girls? Is it that team you like so much, the Illinois Maggots?"

  "Chicago Bears," Ahmad sulked.

  "Tough guys, I'm sure. Why aren't you as tough as them? You only like to sit back and watch? It's not even a proper game, this kickball. Now, Usood Al-Rafidain, that's a team!"

  "The Lions of Mesopotamia?" Ahmad said.

  "Congratulations, you still know your own language!" Abu Jasim struck his new steering wheel, then apologized to the van by giving the dash a gentle massage. "Usood Al-Rafidain smacked down Malaysia, smacked down Bahrain, smacked down Myanmar—"

  "Turn right," said the TomTom.

  Some of Abu Jasim's bombast drained away as they slid onto Sugar Loaf Road. He looked at Ari in the rearview mirror, now sitting up on the deep cushion bench and watching eagerly outside the tinted window that ran the length of the cargo bay.

  "Yes, I'm sure I want to go on," Ari said without waiting for Abu Jasim to ask.

  "Arriving at destination."

  They had passed few houses, most of them scruffy affairs hardly big enough to hold a family. But at least they had been visible from the road. The address the TomTom had brought them to was no more than a narrow dirt drive bracketed by a pair of huge forsythias, looking like fat, shaggy spiders in their winter dishabille.

  Abu Jasim slowed the van. "I don't see—"

  "There's a man with a rifle!" Ahmad cringed. "Keep going!"

  "Yes," Ari agreed, spotting the guard huddled in a lawn chair that was half-hidden in the dark shade of an evergreen. "You don't want holes in your new van. Good eyes, Ahmad."

  Fifty yards further on was a forest road. "Here," said Ari.

  "Make a U-turn and turn right," said the persistent TomTom.

  "Shut your filthy mouth." Abu Jasim yanked the adapter out of the cigarette lighter.

  As soon as they turned off the main road the tires flung gravel against the perfect Sprinter flanks.

  "No!" Abu Jasim moaned. He shot a glare at Ahmad. "Did I hear laughter?"

  "Not from me!" the young man lied, fearful of another slap.

  "Pull off here." Ari pointed at a cut in the undergrowth. It was another fire road, less well maintained, with a pole barrier erected by the Department of Forestry and a sign forbidding motor vehicle traffic. Briars and branches scraped against the van as Abu Jasim parked. He jumped out and stared at the damaged paint. Panting hard, he reached for Ahmad as he emerged. Ahmad skipped out of reach. "I hate that hair of yours," he fumed.

  Emerging like a resident from a nursing home, Ari stiffly planted his feet on the stony ground. He looked at the weeds spicing the ruts.

  "Get your gun out."

  "My Magnum?"

  "Something a little more prolific." He nodded at his feet. "Someone has driven here."

  "Not today," said Abu Jasim, studying the half-frozen slush. "But I see what you mean. Broken branches, and it’s near the house. A gun for the kid, too?"

  "Him, too."

  "And you?"

  "I don't feel like shooting anyone right now."

  Abu Jasim shook his head in near disbelief. Ari waited patiently while he went through his armory in the bench chest. He had broken down the inner panels of the Astrovan and transferred his cargo the night before. He came out of the Sprinter with an Uzi. He handed Ahmad a Glock and gave him quick instructions on how to use it. Ahmad wore the expression of someone holding a porcupine. Abu Jasim gave Ari a pair of Steiner marine binoculars.

  They scooted between the barrier and some prickly bushes and moved cautiously through ankle-deep grass. The deeper the stiff, half-frozen grass, the more obvious it became that someone had driven through it at least a few days ago.

  "It goes on forever," Ahmad complained after three minutes of walking. His uncle threatened him with a raised fist.

  Two minutes more, and they found the Lexus.

  "Who would park a car like this out here?" Abu Jasim was rocked by what he saw
. "This is a LS 600! Worth a hundred grand! Truly, we’re dealing with monsters."

  "It hasn't been driven for a few days," Ari commented on seeing small branches on the hood. Abu Jasim reached out to pluck them off. "Don't," said Ari. Abu Jasim flinched, not at the colonel's command, but at the offense against fine car-flesh. He noted the look on Ari's face and asked, "Why are you so happy?"

  "This is the escape hatch. I have prayed for something like this, and here it is."

  "You? Pray? That'll be the day."

  "Some things are worth praying for, fervently."

  The fire road ended at this point, but a path led away from the car, overgrown but clearly visible. Ari nodded towards it and Abu Jasim forged into the bushes. Wearing a look of disgust and doing his best to keep the Glock as far away from his body as possible, Ahmad half closed his eyes and followed, Ari limping along behind him. They had gone only a couple dozen yards when they came to a clearing. Abu Jasim crouched and pointed at a white clapboard house on a small rise. He grinned tensely at Ari.

  "If you were thinking of taking them on all by yourself, forget it," he whispered.

  There were about twenty cars parked around the house. Ari's heart sank. The opportunity to charge ahead and eliminate his enemy in a hail of gunfire was removed with a hard thump. His second prayer would not be answered. The two-story house was much larger than others they had seen on Sugar Loaf Road. Pregnant with adversaries. Several men were walking across the yard to a dilapidated barn. The house was in fine shape, the barn was practically a ruin. Ari lifted the binoculars. Immediately, Sid Overstreet, formerly if the 101st Airborne, filled his eyepiece.

  "Yes, you hate Arabs so much you lick the shit off their ass," he muttered.

  "Which one?" Abu Jasim asked.

  "The bald one, without a jacket. He was in the Army, one of the elite. Now he's an elite piece of shit."

  Ahmad touched Ari on the shoulder and pointed to their left. A man with a rifle slung over his shoulder was sauntering across broken cornstalks, coming towards them.

  "Why don't they protect me like this," he complained lowly. With a nod he ordered the other two back, but when he glanced at the man again he stopped and squinted through his bruised eyes. "I know that one. I can't think of his name..."

  "Really?" said Abu Jasim.

  "He's Iraqi, though. Our brothers are here. If only..." Ari kicked at the dirt.

  "If only what?"

  "If only I had the Hammurabi Division with me!"

  The guard was too insouciant, too comfortable with the fact that Iraq and all its troubles were far away. He had a dreamy look, as though marveling at the events that had brought him here.

  "Come on!" Ahmad insisted frantically. They retreated into the woods. Halfway to the van Ari bent over, gasping. Abu Jasim and Ahmad took him by the arms and helped him back. When they laid him on the Sprinter's cushioned bench, the smell of new vinyl overwhelmed him. He forced himself to sit up and just managed not to vomit.

  "No doctor?" Abu Jasim asked.

  "No."

  "Well I should at least get you back to the motel."

  "After coming all this way? Go up this road a little more."

  Knowing better than to argue when Ari was in this kind of mood, Abu Jasim obeyed. Like a man forcing his beloved’s face to a grindstone, he drove deeper into the woods. The stony caroling of his undercarriage drew furtive murmurs through his lips. Ari did not ask him to speak more clearly.

  A little further ahead they came to another secondary fire road. Like the first, it had a barrier and a sign that welcomed foot travel but forbade motor vehicles.

  "Here," said Ari.

  "But it’s going away from the house."

  "I see that."

  Abu Jasim locked the van and they proceeded down the lane, which soon petered out in a wall of toppled trees. Ari nodded in satisfaction and they returned to the van.

  "Get out your bolt cutters and snap the padlock on that pole," he ordered. "Make it messy, but don’t open it up, yet. We’ll do that when we get back."

  Abu Jasim hauled out a 24-inch cutter and thrust it into Ahmad’s hands.

  "I’ve never used one of these before," the young man bleated.

  "Stick your finger in here and I’ll show you."

  "All right…" Ahmad spent nearly five minutes gnawing at the lock with the cutters. When he finally managed to cut through, Abu Jasim looked at Ari.

  "There, that’s about as messy as it gets. Anyone would spot it right off."

  "Excellent," Ari agreed. "Now let’s get the van."

  Abu Jasim turned the Sprinter around and drove slowly back to Sugar Loaf Road. It took less than ten minutes to reach Route 60. Turning east, they returned to the heavy equipment dealership.

  "You stay here and wait for our call," Abu Jasim told Ahmad as he and Ari got out of the Sprinter.

  "Fine," Ahmad answered, wearing a long face and a longer slouch. Then he suddenly bolted up. "Aren’t you going to leave the keys?"

  Abu Jasim made a skeptical noise, but Ari said, "Give him the keys. He’s going to have to drive your precious toy. I’m sure he won’t run away." He gave Ahmad a friendly look.

  Shunting himself painfully into the old Astrovan, Ari forced a shout back into his throat as he sore knees banged on the glove compartment. Abu Jasim gave a worried glance at the Sprinter as he pulled out, as though he would never see it again. He could not trust a boy with purple streaks in his hair. Maybe it was a wound. Maybe Ahmad was brain-damaged.

  Joe’s Stop-N was on the eastern edge of town. The old house-and-canopy architecture was, to Ari’s thinking, pleasantly similar to the mud plaster houses of the Ubaid period, a style used to this day. Only a few handwritten signs in the window suggested that it was a Semitic island in the American sea.

  Abgousht! - Gauss! - Maqluba!

  Fresh burek & kadaif!

  Fried Chicken! - 10 Piece Bucket $5.99

  Special on Frozen Halal Lamb!

  Halal Pizza!

  Joe was obviously very excited about his cuisine. In Ari's experience, country folk were noticeably lax when it came to welcoming foreigners into their communities. As often as not, odd-sounding faces and names attracted midnight raids, smashed windows, at the very least rude graffiti. But the gradual absorption of traditional Mom and Pops by waves of Vietnamese, Koreans, Indians, Syrians and others had inured Americans to small-time commercial conquest, as well as to strange variations in roadside gastronomy. The day was not far off when hot ghormeh sabzi would be as common as the tacos and huaraches that had introduced America to the reverse side of globalization, with jalapenos scorching the unwary.

  Ari scanned the immediate vicinity. Joe’s Stop-N was tucked away in the far corner of a town that was historically significant but verged on non-existence, its primary commerce consisting of gas stations and antique shops—most of traffic was of the passing-through kind. The side of Joe’s Stop-N facing the down was bordered by a line of oak trees, like a veil protecting a Believer from the eyes of blasphemers.

  "I don't think anyone will notice if you park around the side," Ari told Abu Jasim. "You don't need to change. Just keep your coat on. But the rest..."

  Abu Jasim nodded, grunting.

  "You remember what to say?"

  "Colonel, there was a time I had to recite entire speeches to the National Congress. They weren't my speeches, but it was still a tough audience. I think I can remember a few lines for a little girl."

  "Forgive me, Maestro." Ari gave him a wry grin. He got out and waited for Abu Jasim to circle around out of sight before entering the shop.

  A customer was standing at the counter in heated discussion with the proprietor, a dark-skinned man Ari presumed was Joe himself. The man had unfolded a map on the glass top.

  "Cm'on, you must know what I'm talking about," the man complained. 'Farmville'. Like farm with a 'ville' after it. I know it's in spitting distance from here. Haven't you lived in Cumberland for a few years? That's what th
e guy down the street told me."

  Joe looked up and saw an obvious derelict, a man beaten to within an inch of his life, the kind of beating only convicted thieves were subjected to.

  "Can I help you?" he asked Ari in a demanding tone.

  "You don't seem to be able to help anyone," the irate traveler carped without turning. "Here, see the map? Can't you just point?"

  " Assalam alaikum," said Ari.

  Joe raised one brow, but that was all. Without sounding familiar, or very pleased, he responded, "Valaikum-salam."

  "Oh, great, you don't speak English," the customer said. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "Shell station, just down the road," was Joe's gruff answer. "Maybe help."

  "How far down the road? Why should I have to go all over the place to find a place?" The man turned to Ari, as though to confirm the legitimacy of his question, but one look at his battered face convinced him it was time to move on. "I guess you're the owner of this dump, so there's no one to complain to," the man said to Joe, crumpling his road map into an unwieldy ball. As he stormed away from the counter, Ari noticed the cigarette display. One panel held nothing but DJ's, the much-belabored brand sold in Baghdad to smokers low on cash. In fact, he noted a variety of items that would have been common to any shop on Palestine Street. Canned Persian barley soup, spicy walnut spread, rambutan, toddy palm seed, dried lotus seeds, Beit Hashita cucumbers, sharbat and quite a bit more.

  "I wish him luck," Joe said in Arabic, cocking his head at the car squealing out of his lot. "The Shell is run by Buddy Nguyen, from Ho Chi Minh City. His English is 'hello' and 'get out of my store'."

  Ari chuckled, revealing his not-so-perfect grin. The cuts in his mouth had broken open again, leaving blood on his teeth.

  "The nearest hospital is in Farmville," Joe said, wanting him out before he collapsed and stained his floor. "Take a left about a mile up the road. Route 45 goes straight to it."

  Ari suppressed a guffaw, knowing it would be painful.

  "Listen, I've got gauze and aspirin—"

  "I'm just looking for..." Ari's eye fell on the serving counter against the back wall. "...a bite to eat."