"Perhaps I didn't make myself clear. You are probably overmatched." While the ninja mulled this over, Ari turned back to the prisoner. "This man doesn't have a mark on his body. Hasn't anyone even begun to interrogate him?"
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, sir," answered the ninja.
"What's a piece of Fatah cum fungus like you doing in the States?" Ari asked the prisoner in Arabic as fast as he could speak.
The prisoner glared at him.
"Sir, I didn't understand most of what you just said, except I think it was on the rude side. Around here, we usually start out nice before getting nasty."
"I'll bear that in mind," Ari nodded. He wondered if the man had learned anything in class beyond colloquial Arabic swear words. In an almost bored tone, he continued the interrogation. "How many men are in the house? What do you know about the death of Mustafa Zewail? How holy are you? Would you give God a rim job?"
The prisoner did not react. A devout Muslim would have leapt at Ari's throat, handcuffs notwithstanding. Meanwhile, the young ninja was frowning as he ran Ari's words through his mental Arabic dictionary.
"Naw, I'm still not following. I know you couldn't have said what I thought you said."
Ari straightened his back, and winced. He snapped his fingers at Karen, pointing at a chair.
"What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded.
"I would like to sit."
"I know you want to sit. I mean, what do you mean snapping your fingers at me?"
"I'm sorry, was that rude?"
"And offensive."
"I apologize," said Ari, noting the smirk on the prisoner's lips. The bastard understands everything we're saying. "Bring me that chair."
She might have gone ahead and done it, out of consideration of Ari's condition, but for the snigger from the ninja kid. Instead, she grabbed the back of the chair and shoved it in Ari's direction. It was an old, heavy chair and didn't go far. With the air of a reasonable man confronting the irrational, Ari went over and dragged the chair in front of the prisoner. He sat and smiled at the man, who was wearing neat, crisp jeans. Complexion aside, this clearly demarked him as a foreigner. Americans liked to wear jeans that were as decrepit as industry could make them. Why this was so, Ari could not fathom.
"That's Israel in the background," he said, again tapping the tattoo. "I'm sure the Israeli security forces would open their doors wide for you if they saw this. But you're not planning to blow yourself up in Bethlehem, are you? You got this artwork—and very poor artwork it is—in prison, didn't you? Is that where you met Samir Salman?"
The prisoner shook his head and looked away.
"Ah, you were released from Powhatan before Samir arrived. But you still kept your contacts there, through that idiot Sid Overstreet, who lives just around the corner from the prison. That led to all sorts of interesting things." Ari turned to the ninja. "Did he have identification on him when he was stopped?"
"Oh, sure." The ninja reached around and picked up a wallet from the table. He tossed it to Ari, who just managed to catch it. "Sorry, sir..."
Ari opened the wallet and studied the driver's license. "'Bill O'Reilly'. You have a distinctively Irish look about you, Bill."
Ari wondered if the sneer he received had been honed on Fatimah at the Stop-N. He turned to the ninja. "Please let me advise you that this tattoo bears the symbol of Fatah."
"Yeah?"
"There are several organizations associated with Fatah. Among them is the ANO. You have heard of this?"
The ninja shook his head.
"I am verily surprised. You have heard of Colonel Oliver North?"
"Of course! He's a hero! Sir."
"He was quite concerned about the ANO, which had agents operating in your country. It was founded by a man who went by the name of Abu Nidal. 'Abu Nidal Organization', in your parlance. After years of creating mayhem, they have dropped out of sight. In fact, they haven't done anything of significance since Abu Nidal's sordid death in Baghdad several years ago." He turned to Bill and continued in Arabic. "Let's talk about this particular event, my misguided friend. The events are a bit hazy...it's been awhile. But as I recall, when I tortured him to death on Palestine Street in Baghdad, he squealed—"
The ninja might have been a former Marine, but his reflexes were up to Corps standards. Bill had only made it halfway out of his seat before the ninja was on him, thrusting him back into his chair and then, almost magically, reaching back to prevent the chair from falling.
"I don't know what you said, sir, but you sure riled him. I haven't seen this much action out of him since we intercepted him on the road."
"I can't imagine why he's upset," Ari said innocently. He sighed. What he said next hurt him as much as anything else he had ever confessed, excluding his nightly apologies to Rana. "You must delay this operation."
"I can assure you, sir, we're not overmatched."
"Don't be so sure." Karen came up to Ari and placed a hand on his dirty coat. "Are you sure?"
"I believe the ANO is being reactivated in this country. I believe they are being intentionally assisted by one of their old allies, and unintentionally assisted by your own government. I think the phrase you use is 'double cross'."
Karen was nodding her head, then began to shake it. "Ari, I know how full of bullshit you can be..."
"I'm not suggesting that you stop this operation, only delay it until you have the proper resources at your disposal."
"Wish we had old Ollie here now," said the ninja. "He would know what to do."
"Perhaps," said Ari doubtfully.
"I think I burned up all my credit when I told those guys to act like adults," Karen sighed. "What do you want us to do? Bring in the Army?"
"At the very least," said Ari. "And be...preemptive."
"This isn't Iraq," said the ninja.
"Not until now." Ari crossed his arms and gave Bill a hard look. "Don't be too smug, my friend. If any Americans are harmed, I will cut off your dick and insert it in your anus."
He said this in English.
"Deputy Marshal, you think you could get your translator out of here?" said the ninja.
"Come on, Ari. I hope you haven't made your point."
Feeling worn, Ari lifted himself out of his chair and followed Karen out of the classroom. They found the main hall strangely hushed. The sound of singing emerged from a hidden loudspeaker.
"It's Billy Joel singing the National Anthem," someone half whispered to them as they entered the old cafeteria.
The main door to the building suddenly crashed open and a large, imposing blonde strode into the room. The shoulder patch on her jacket displayed an eagle on a blue background. It said: U.S. Customs and Border Protection – Field Operations. There were two stars on her collar. She stared intently for a moment, listened intently for a moment, and bellowed:
"Turn that fucking music off!"
"'…the bombs bursting in—'"
The music died.
"The only bombs bursting in air around here are the beans you had for dinner. Who's in charge?"
Three men stepped forward, each from a different government agency, and gave their name and rank. She heard them out, hands on her prominent hips. Then she said, "I wasn't asking, I was telling you who's in charge here."
"We're a long way from the border or a major port of entry, Ma'am," said one of the FBI agents.
"This is what you get when you work on the short hop," she answered. "I was at Richmond International, in transit to JFK, when I won the booby prize—and boy did I ever. I'm the ranking field operations officer in this area on Stupid Sunday. Anyway, you can't say I'm not in the right place. From what I understand, you have got illegal immigrants, illegal drugs and illegal weapons down at that house. I've got my Heckler & Koch. Who says the Border Patrol doesn't belong here?"
"Geography," said a man with a DEA jacket.
"The call came straight from DOD, so if you want to gripe about it, call the Pentagon—and good l
uck finding anyone…kickoff's in five minutes." She looked over the room of silent faces. "And you can address me as 'Director'."
"Is there religious significance to this game?" Ari whispered to Karen.
"You get more prayers at the Super Bowl than in a whole year in Mecca."
"Oh, surely you are exaggerating?"
"I hope you die as hard as you blow," the Director continued. "Now fill me in."
It seemed to Ari that no one in the room had any idea if the Director's claim was legitimate. There were whispered murmurs about the Patriot Act, plus a heady dose of unfamiliar acronyms: MSCA, MSCLEA, EP, ES and DOD-HLS. Ari seriously doubted the agents fully understood what each was saying to the other. But the Director had brought a definite hop-to-it into the proceedings, more scampering than hampering, and there was no further move to question her authority. Things began to fall into place. Ari wondered if the Director was ex-military, and if she had served in Iraq and, if not, why not. She walked down the improvised aisles, asking questions, getting answers—some of them too tentative for her liking.
Karen, who like everyone else was intimidated and confused by the woman's presence, took several minutes to screw up her courage before daring to approach.
"Director," she said—too diffidently, to Ari's thinking. It was a bit like stopping a mountain. She raised her voice. "Director, Ma'am?"
When the Director finally looked her way, Karen gave a little twirl so that she could see her U.S. Deputy Marshal back panel. It was a bit like a ballerina practicing a pirouette for her teacher.
"This gentleman here…you might want to call him a clandestine human intelligence asset…"
Alarm stirred in the Director's eyes when she saw the bruised Ari. "Were you inserted in the opposition camp?"
"Alas, the opposition inserted itself into me."
Karen winced.
This was too nonsensical for the Director, who began to move on.
"I really can't tell you his name, Ma'am, but he interviewed our prisoner and believes we should put a hold on things for a bit."
"It took a whole lot of doing to get thirty men here on short notice on a night like this."
"Thirty…" Ari shook his head on again hearing that number. The same number Office 8 had sent against Abu Nidal and his four hapless guards. Uday disposed of many more. "You have some idea of how many are in the opposition?" he asked deferentially.
"I think surveillance counted around fifteen. I think we can handle them. We have weapons, a SWAT team on hand. We can take them down."
"Then I can rest assured that you are prepared for explosives, RPG's and heavy caliber machine guns?"
The Director stopped her forward progress and turned back to him. "And who do you think we're dealing with?"
"A very militant branch of Fatah," Ari said. "One of the al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigades, perhaps. Or the ANO."
"This isn't Israel."
"I'm afraid not everyone sees things that way."
"And the ANO is ancient history," said the Director.
"If only it were so," Ari said in a contrite voice, as though succumbing to a guilt not his own.
The director eyed him skeptically. "You’re sort of an Ahmed Chalabi in reverse, aren’t you? He sucked us into a fight that wasn’t ours, and you look to be sucking us back out."
"Ahmed Chalabi is a true thief and patriot," Ari smiled.
To Ari's astonishment, Karen contributed a surprisingly bright and feminine laugh to the discussion. "He will joke."
The Director arched a brow her way.
"Director," Karen continued, "a week ago or so we lost an important DEA asset to these people. You may have heard about it. Mustafa Zewail and his wife."
"The beheading?" the Director asked. Details had been broadcasted while Ari lay recuperating in the motel bungalow.
"Yes, Ma'am. If you had seen the body, you would agree that they're capable of anything."
"May I add," said Ari, "that I have profound sympathy and respect for the disaffected, but—"
"You mean 'terrorists'?" the Director curtly interrupted.
"As you will," Ari shrugged.
"You have profound sympathy and respect for terrorists?"
"Naw," said Karen, barely restraining herself from kicking Ari.
"What I mean is that the men in that house are not like that. They are mercenaries without allegiance. Abu Nidal himself was a gun for hire. I said something to your prisoner that would have caused a true believer to sacrifice himself on the spot, yet this chap did not blink."
"Biding his time," said the Director.
"Yet when I told him Abu Nidal had died a cowardly pig's death, only the intercession of your ninja saved me."
"Ninja?" the Director said.
"Uh…" Karen blushed.
But reassessment was growing in the Director's eyes. Not doubt, really, but an awareness that there was more at stake here than met the eye. "Well, the place is sealed off. I don't suppose it would hurt—"
"Movement!" the tech at one of the consoles shouted.
Ari and Karen shadowed the Director to one of the flat screen monitors banking the wall. Darkness had fallen and what they saw were grainy images from a remote night vision camera—pinpricks of porch light through the trees and shrubbery.
"What am I looking at?" asked the Director.
"The house is set back around a hundred yards from the road. They have lookouts and we couldn't move the scope any closer. But we have an observer in the yard."
"Alone?"
"A volunteer," the tech said sheepishly.
"Swell, gung-hung," the Director fretted. "Can he communicate safely?"
"He thinks so."
"Put him on the speaker."
The tech flipped a switch. "BASEOPS to Hot Dog."
"Oh Christ," the Director half-moaned.
"Hot Dog here," said an amplified whisper.
"What's your status?"
"Bunch of guys out in the driveway. They're shaking their keys like they're threatening to hit the road."
"Are you secure where you are?" asked the Director.
"Sure, Babycakes, snug as a bug in a rug."
The Director's glare shut down extraneous commentary from onlookers. "I apologize for not identifying myself first. This is Director O'Bannon, head of Field Operations."
There was a long pause, then the whisperer said, "Well, I was secure."
"Please take this seriously. We have some indications here that the subjects are heavily armed and very dangerous."
"Yes, Ma'am. I'll stay put until I get the word."
"How many do you see?"
"Five…no, six. None of the Arab persuasion. But I saw some Middle Eastern types earlier. A bunch. I don't know how many."
"I was given an estimate of about fifteen in total."
"I…uh…I…uh…"
"You think there could be more?"
"Could be, Ma'am. Oh yeah, and there's some weird bottles all over the place here. Anyone ever year of Almaza?" There was a clinking noise. "Or Taybeh? And here's another one: Petra."
Ari made a sound of disgust. When everyone looked at him, he said, "Those are beers brewed in the Middle East. Petra is famously undrinkable."
"Great, we can get them for littering, too," said the Director. "Hot Dog, can you hear what those men in the driveway are saying?"
"They're arguing. There seem to be a lot of…poorly chosen words."
Ari found this wonderfully funny and wished someone else would laugh so he could join in. Then he laughed, anyway. The Director was looking away at the moment, giving Karen leeway to poke Ari with stiffened fingers. She hit a tender contusion and he doubled over.
"Oh…oh…" she gasped in remorse and sympathy, leaning over to help him up.
"Director," said the tech at the console, "we have a parabolic mike out there."
"Hold on, Hot Dog, we'll listen in with you…" She nodded at the tech, who pressed a green button on the panel next to him.
&
nbsp; "—wouldn't you?" came a distant sounding voice over the loudspeaker.
"Sure, I'll go. I mean, he wants to watch fucking handball! I didn't even know it was a team sport."
"World Men's Handball Championship, whoever heard of it?"
"And they're playing in Germany, for fuck sake."
The Director rolled her hand in the air and pointed at the main door. "Do all of you know your assignments? Get going. These guys are going to bolt. I would, too, if you made me watch handball."
Fred Donzetti came up and nudged Karen. She gave Ari's arm a squeeze. "Sorry about the hit. I'll make it up to you. You like sushi?"
"Come on!" Fred urged Karen as they were buffeted by the surge of agents racing for the exit. Excited chatter and the clatter of equipment punctuated the departure. Already, engines were revving in the parking lot.
"You all right here, Ari?" Karen asked, pulling on her vest. "There must be a cot around here. Go take a nap. We might need you to interview the perps. Try to build up your energy." She reached into her pocket. "Here's an energy bar."
"How delectable," Ari frowned, reading the wrapper.
"Shoot and scoot!"
Within less than a minute, Ari was alone with the Director and the techie manning the comm links, listening to the men in the driveway.
"Did you hear who's he's rooting for? Qatar. I didn't think Qatar had a team of anything. Fucking ragheads."
"Germany! Fucking mopheads in Germany!"
"There's a place called Charlie's in Farmville. Big sports bar. We'd only miss half of the first quarter."
"He doesn't want us leaving. Where the hell is Nazal? Shit on these people—handball and pistachio ice cream!"
"The Boss doesn't want us going anywhere."
"The Boss can stick his dick in the nearest cow."
The Directed turned to Ari. "Any idea who this 'Boss' is? He must really have their balls in a sack if he can keep them from watching the Super Bowl."
Ari shook his head.
There was the sound of a door closing, then a voice that Ari recognized as belonging to Sid Overstreet came over the speaker.
"The Boss said he's sick of our griping and we can go with his blessing."
"He said that?"
"Actually, he said something like 'go fuck yourselves'."
"Sounds like a 'yes' to me!"
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