“You know,” she said, gently, “it’s not your fault.”
He didn’t answer.
“The man was crazy.”
“I know that,” he conceded. “But now he’s dead.”
“Through no fault of yours. He attacked you, with a knife, and all you did was defend yourself.”
He shrugged, as if to say, I know you’re right . . . but it doesn’t matter.
And it occurred to Beth that she had had this conversation before . . . back in New York. After the lab assistant had misused the laser, and set off the fatal explosion, Carter had blamed himself for everything. How strange, she thought, that even here in L.A.—where they’d gone to start over—such awful accidents were haunting them again.
“So, how come you’re up?” Carter asked, as if to change the subject.
“I don’t know. Just woke up, to an empty bed.”
But Carter could read her as well as she could read him. He could see the concern in her eyes. It was one reason he’d gotten up and come outside; he didn’t want her to be disturbed by all his tossing and turning. He’d tried to sleep—God knows, it had been a long enough day—but every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was the terrified face of Geronimo as he sank, slowly, to the bottom of the pit. He kept thinking that there was something else he could have done, some way he could have saved him.
And he wondered what the man’s real name was.
No one knew—and there was a good chance no one ever would. Even if his body was recovered from the tar one day, there was no guarantee he’d have identification—that was still legible—on him. He’d become just another anonymous victim of the pit.
“At least it’s not so hot out anymore,” Beth said.
“Yeah, that’s a relief,” Carter agreed.
Another silence fell.
Carter finished the bottle of beer. “How’s your work coming? On that bestiary.”
“Good,” Beth said, sounding as chipper as the late hour would allow. “The book is spectacular—the most beautiful I’ve ever seen—and I can’t wait for the script analysis to come back. Trying to read it right now is an ordeal.”
“How come? You were always pretty good with Latin.”
“This text is so archaic, and the handwriting so peculiar, it would take me months to translate it on my own. Not to mention the fact that in some places it’s very faded, and in others it’s so intricately woven into the illustrations that it’s hard to separate out.”
“But apart from that,” Carter said, with a laugh, “it’s a piece of cake.”
Beth smiled. “At least on my job I don’t have to worry about getting attacked with a knife.”
“But you do have to worry about the mysterious Mr. al-Kalli.” A breeze blew through the canyon below, rustling the dry leaves. “Is he breathing down your neck?”
“Oh yeah,” Beth said with a laugh. “He acts as if he’s waiting for a doctor’s report to come back from the lab.”
Carter nodded companionably.
Beth levered herself out of the lawn chair. “I guess I’ll try to get some sleep.”
Carter reached out, took her hand, and drew her down onto his lap. Beth’s robe fell open. “Hey, what’ll the neighbors think?” Beth said.
“That’s the great thing about this place,” Carter said, gesturing out over the wide, dark canyon. “There aren’t any.”
He bent his head and kissed her. And for the first time in a long while, Beth felt herself . . . go with it. Maybe it was just the shock she’d had, hearing how close Carter had come to being killed in the pit, and maybe it was something else entirely, but right now she wasn’t thinking about anything but her husband—not the baby, not her work—and the way his lips felt on hers. His hand moved up onto her breast, and she felt the nipple, usually so sore, stiffen under his fingertips. She let out an inadvertent moan, and his tongue went into her mouth.
Together, they slipped out of the chair and onto the parched grass. Carter pulled the robe off her shoulders as she shoved his Jams down. He pressed himself on top of her, and she opened her eyes, gazing up at the moon and stars—in L.A., you could actually see the stars at night—then closed them again. She didn’t want to be distracted, even by something so beautiful; she didn’t want to miss a moment of what was happening.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE GOLF CART rolled to a stop at the far end of the facility. Overhead, a bird swooped and cawed, making lazy circles around the perimeter of the high, slanting roof.
Al-Kalli waited as Jakob pulled Rafik out, then said, “You know what to do.”
Indeed, Jakob did—it wasn’t the first time. Holding Rafik by the collar of the orange jumpsuit, he dragged him to the gate of the last pen and shoved him inside. He slammed shut the outer gate, leaving the prisoner boxed as if in a shark cage. Until the inside gate was released, Rafik still had some small measure of protection.
There was no sign of the pen’s occupant, and that was a good thing. There was information that al-Kalli still needed to glean from his prisoner, and if he was already out of his mind with fear, it might prove difficult.
Al-Kalli drew a gold cigarette case from the pocket of his trousers, tamped a cigarette on the lid, then lighted it. Normally he would never allow such a thing in here, but on these special occasions, it seemed the right thing to do. Weren’t the condemned always given one last cigarette?
He held it out to Rafik, who shrank back as far as the cage, roughly the size of a phone booth, would permit, and regarded him warily.
“It’s a Marlboro,” he said, the most popular brand in Iraq before the war. To prove it was safe, al-Kalli took a draw on it himself, then exhaled the fragrant smoke. He held it out again, and this time, Rafik extended a shaky hand through the bars and took it.
Al-Kalli let him savor the moment—and perhaps hear the denizens of the facility as they stirred themselves awake. The overhead lights were blazing, uncharacteristically at this late hour, and some of the creatures were so sensitive that they might have already detected the smell of the cigarette. They would know something was afoot, and they would be curious. A yelp came from one of the nearby cages.
Rafik’s eyes did dart in that direction, as he no doubt wondered what animal had made the sound. A hyena? A jackal? A coyote? Al-Kalli gave him time to run through the possibilities, knowing that he would never arrive at the right one.
“Now,” al-Kalli said, calmly and in Arabic, “we still have some things to clear up.”
Rafik, pinching the cigarette hard and holding it to his cracked lips, said nothing.
“There were four of you, to the best of my recollection.”
Rafik had been through all this before.
“And three of you I have now come to know.”
Rafik knew what that meant. His life had been nothing but torture and imprisonment since he’d been kidnapped in Beirut.
“But I want to know you all.”
“You want,” Rafik said, lowering the cigarette, “to kill us all.”
“Not necessarily,” al-Kalli said. “I am not without mercy.” The same mercy, he thought, that had been extended to his own murdered family.
“Do you have a wife? Children?”
Rafik, he could see, was debating how to answer.
“Just tell me the truth,” al-Kalli said, in reasonable tones.
Rafik finally nodded; yes, he had a wife and children.
“Then I’m sure you would like to see them again.”
Rafik was sure that he never would. But the tiniest flicker of hope nonetheless stirred in his breast.
“I can send you back to them, or I can bring them here. To this country.”
Al-Kalli was surprised that the beast, no doubt sleeping in his cave at the rear of the enclosure, had not yet made an appearance. He began to worry that it might be even more gravely unwell than he thought.
“What,” Rafik ventured, “do I have to do?”
Ah, that pleased al-Kalli. He hadn’
t been sure that at this stage of the game he would be able to ignite any hope at all in the prisoner—surely the man would know his fate was sealed. But the human spirit was a strange and wondrous thing—even in the face of the obvious, it could harbor all kinds of illusions.
“Very little,” al-Kalli said. “I know that it was Saddam himself who ordered the executions.”
Rafik had never actually said so—what was the hold that Saddam, now a toothless lion who would never again walk free, held over these men?—but he hadn’t bothered to deny it, either. In his dreams, al-Kalli imagined what he would have done if Saddam himself had ever fallen into his hands.
“But I wish to know how he chose you, and your comrades, for such a delicate task. Were you part of an elite squad? Were you handpicked?”
Al-Kalli had no real interest in the answers to these questions. He simply wanted to get Rafik talking. To give him time to think about his predicament—locked in some wild animal’s cage—and to let him think that there might possibly be some way out.
“We trained together,” Rafik said.
“Where?”
Rafik shrugged. “Baghdad.” Both of his eyes were black and blue, and his nose, slightly askew now, was clearly broken.
“So you must have grown close. Training together, enjoying all the special privileges that only Saddam could provide.”
Al-Kalli gave him a conspiratorial smile, and for a split second Rafik seemed to acknowledge it with a smile of his own. Al-Kalli was delighted.
“The others,” he said, “were all from Tikrit originally. Were you?”
“Yes.”
Saddam had always relied upon his fellow Sunnis for his most important tasks.
“And the man with the mustache,” al-Kalli said. “Also from Tikrit?”
Rafik stopped talking.
“Who served the soup to my wife,” al-Kalli said helpfully, though there could be no confusion about whom he was referring to.
“I didn’t know him.”
Right back where they’d started, al-Kalli thought with disgust. And he didn’t disguise it. He turned to Jakob, standing with his hands folded, and with his chin gestured at a paint bucket lying by the gate.
Jakob lifted the lid off the bucket, walked to the gate of the enclosure, and threw the contents of the bucket all over Rafik.
For a moment, it might have been mistaken for red paint. But then the smell came—the smell of fresh blood.
Rafik dropped the cigarette and stared down at his blood-soaked jumpsuit.
From the next enclosure, the yelping suddenly surged into a series of frenzied barks. From even farther off, a low growl arose. On a perch high above, a huge bird loudly screeched.
Rafik’s eyes went wide with the sudden cacophony—and the shock from his drenching.
“The man with the mustache,” al-Kalli said, his words now as hard as flint.
“I tell you, I didn’t know him!”
Al-Kalli pressed the release button for the inner gate, which opened wide. Rafik was now exposed to whatever lay within the enclosure.
And he knew it.
“What was his name?” al-Kalli asked.
Rafik looked frantically around the large enclosure, taking in the wading pool, the stunted trees, the low shrubs . . . the broken bones, covered with dust. What lived in here?
“I can close the gate again, as easily as I opened it,” al-Kalli said.
A lion? Rafik thought. A tiger? All the way in back, he saw a cavernous stony grotto, raised a few feet off the hard-packed earth.
“All I need is a name.”
What harm could it do? Rafik thought. He could give him a name—any name at all—and it might buy him time. But what if al-Kalli guessed that he was lying? What if, the clever bastard, he already knew the name, or had his suspicions, and was only waiting for Rafik to confirm them?
From within the lair, Rafik thought he saw a shadow move. Something was awake now. Something was alive.
Al-Kalli saw it, too, and was greatly relieved.
There was a long, soft sound of exhalation. A creature was struggling to its feet. And sniffing—Rafik could hear the echo from inside the cave as it sniffed the air appreciatively.
He looked down at himself. Covered in blood. And his hands flew at the zipper of the jumpsuit.
Al-Kalli laughed and glanced over at Jakob to share the joke. “He’s smarter than the last one.”
Rafik stripped off the suit as fast as he could, wadded it into a ball, and hurled it away; unfurling in the air, it caught on the branches of the nearest tree and hung down like a banner.
There was a growling from the cave.
“It’s Ahmed!” Rafik cried out. “His name was Ahmed!”
“That’s a start,” al-Kalli said, suspending his hand above the control panel that could open—or close—the entry cage.
And then, they could both see the creature’s eyes—blinking as they adjusted to the bright lights outside.
“Ahmed Massad!”
The name was familiar, and then al-Kalli realized it was Rafik’s last name, too. “Was he—”
“He’s my brother! Yes, he’s my brother!”
Al-Kalli felt a warming glow. This would explain Rafik’s reluctance for so long, and it impressed al-Kalli as the truth.
But now the beast had lumbered into the opening of the cave. Even after all these years, al-Kalli never failed to be moved by the sight of it. Its massive head, with a long, low snout and large, lizardlike eyes mounted on either side. Its cruel jaws, lined with dozens of sharp incisors, and overhung, like a saber-toothed cat, with two curving fangs.
Rafik was frozen with fear.
The creature smelled him and moved its head, slowly, from side to side. Al-Kalli had never been sure how well the beast could see.
Rafik screamed, but the beast did not react. It had, al-Kalli knew, no visible ears—just triangular holes set well back behind the eyes—though he knew from experience that it could indeed hear. Quite well, in fact.
Rafik whipped around and clutched the bars. “Let me out!” he shouted in Arabic. “In the name of Allah, let me out!” His hands clenched the metal so forcefully, al-Kalli noticed, that the knuckles had turned as white as ivory.
“First,” al-Kalli said, taking a deliberate pause, “I’ll need to know more.”
The beast had moved its forequarters out of the cave now and was standing on the lip of the rocky ledge. It was, in al-Kalli’s estimation, a prize beyond compare. The size of an overgrown rhinoceros—and a very large and strong one at that—the creature was covered with scales, the kind you might see on a snake. Black, but with a dull green undercast that made them flash in the sun. Under this artificial lighting, that effect was not as pronounced.
“What? What else do you want to know?”
“I want to know,” al-Kalli said, drawing out his words, “where this brother of yours—this Ahmed Massad—lives now.”
“I don’t know!” Rafik cried, “I don’t!”
“That’s too bad.”
The creature stepped forward on its stout front legs, longer than its rear legs, an anomaly that gave it the appearance of always rising up. As if perpetually lifting its fearful head in search of prey.
Which was not, al-Kalli knew, inaccurate. When well, when it had lived with its companions in the desert heat of Iraq, the beast had been a mighty and voracious predator. It could, and would, kill anything that came within its range. Al-Kalli had personally seen it attack and devour everything from a water buffalo to a hippopotamus with frightening dispatch.
Except when it wanted to play.
Like the cat whose fangs it shared, the beast sometimes liked to taunt its prey, to play with it and wear it down, before suddenly tiring of the game and slashing it to pieces.
Now, it hesitated on the ledge, its legs splayed out from its body, like a crocodile’s, before deciding which way to leap.
“No idea?” al-Kalli said.
Rafik was staring at
the monster, speechless now.
“Then I’d run if I were you,” al-Kalli advised, softly, in Arabic. He didn’t want the game to end too soon.
The creature sprang, like a lizard, off the ledge and landed on all fours with a loud thud. Dust plumed up around its broad clawed feet. Its long reptilian tail swished first one way, and then the other, in the dirt. Like a broom, it flicked some crumbling bones to one side; the pieces rattled as they rolled along the ground.
The beast knew where Rafik was now, and it slithered forward, its fanged head still held high. Among its scales sprouted incongruous clumps of filthy hair.
Rafik saw it coming and took al-Kalli’s advice. He suddenly raced from the open cage and ran, naked, for the far end of the enclosure.
The creature turned its head to watch him with one large, unblinking eye.
Was it hungry at last, al-Kalli wondered? Would it feed again?
Rafik was frantic, leaping at the white-tiled wall that surrounded the enclosure to shoulder height; above that, thick steel bars rose much higher, higher than he would ever be able to climb . . . or to hold himself. Each time he fell, he whirled around to see where the beast was.
And now it was coming toward him again. Past the wading pool, with its smooth, sandy bottom. Past the stunted olive trees, with their gnarled, barren branches . . .
“Where is he?” al-Kalli called out.
Rafik could barely spit out the words. “Afghanistan.”
“That’s a big place.”
“He went there to fight.”
“Not good enough.”
“It’s all I know!” Rafik cried, his voice breaking with fear and anguish.
The beast jerked its head and squirmed forward. Al-Kalli knew it could move slowly . . . and, when it wanted to, as fast as a shot. Over short distances, he had seen it bring down gazelles.
“How will I find him?” al-Kalli said, with weary annoyance. He wanted Rafik to know that he was at the end of his patience.
The beast was close enough now that Rafik had to run again. Would he try to hide in the cave? al-Kalli wondered. No, that would be too absurd; he’d never do that.
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