The guard gave him a puzzled glance. Once outside, Ari critiqued his parting shot and found it wanting, if not entirely incomprehensible. He had been through a lot, lately, and his English seemed to be faltering. This surprised him, since he was physically and mentally much better than he had been the month before, and he had cut his consumption of Jack Daniels in half. Most important of all, he had been given the precious opportunity to see his wife.
Though his visit had been brief, the cars in the visitor lot had reshuffled and it took him a moment to find his tiny white xB, now buried between two SUV's. The U.S. Marshals Service had included a GPS tracking device in the loaner. Deputy Sylvester would be puzzled about this visit. Could Ari be taking out life insurance?
He had just squeezed himself into the driver seat when his cell phone rang. He removed it from his coat pocket.
"Mr. Ciminon?"
"That is I."
"Are you an officer of the law? A private detective?"
"Mr. Lawson? Thank you for getting back to me so—"
"Well?"
The voice was odd, as though Lawson was blowing through a pipe as he spoke.
"I am an interested party," he said.
"Not good enough."
"I will be contacting Officers Mangioni and Jackson of the Richmond Police Department to look into this further."
"I've already heard this," said Lawson, his strange tone making it hard to detect doubt. Rebecca had said she would call the police. Lawson had probably guessed the threat was empty, but hearing the specific names of two officers jacked up the stakes. "Where are you from, Mr. Ciminon? You don't look like an American citizen."
So he had been watching. It had to be the clock.
"I believe many American citizens don't look like American citizens, Mr. Lawson. I happen to be from Sicily, not that it matters."
"You don't look like an Italian citizen, either. You look like..." An epithet seemed to tremble on the piping lips.
"Same thing in Italy. Many Italian citizens look like they come from Timbuktu."
"Right..." For a moment, the piping was accompanied by a strange whistle. Ari wondered if it was static. Then Lawson said: "There's no cause for alarm. Mr. Wareness is alive and as healthy as you or...someone else."
"That is a strange way of putting it," said Ari. "Or perhaps not, coming from someone who was in the armed forces."
There was a tense, whistling pause. Then came a voice all the more deadly for being oddly mangled. "Have you been investigating me, Mr. Ciminon?"
"Not until this moment," said Ari. "I'm sitting in the parking lot, as you know, and across from me is an emergency exit very close to your ground floor office. Right next to that exit is a silver Land Cruiser with a license plate bearing a Purple Heart. I suspect you were in Afghanistan or Iraq and received a severe facial wound, which accounts for your odd voice and your reticence—"
"Stop there, you son of a bitch—" And then Lawson bit his tongue—if he still had one—realizing suddenly he had been tricked. The veteran's car could have belonged to anyone. But now Ari knew, and Lawson knew it. Ari waited for him to disconnect, but the whistly wheeze continued. There was a peculiar quality to the silence of a man weighing his options. In this case, though, the silence was imperfect.
"What is it you want, Mr. Ciminon?"
"What was Ethan working on when he disappeared? And do you agree that he has disappeared? Because, if you say he hasn't, a phone call from him to his wife would clear all of this up and we'd bother you no more."
There was another long, dull clickclacking of options bouncing off each other.
"Ethan is....lying low."
"He has been threatened?"
"He has not checked in at the agreed interval."
"Do you think he has run off with another woman?"
"Rebecca Wareness told you that? I can see why she would think so. But it's highly unlikely."
"Why haven't you called the police?"
The whistling went up a notch.
"For two very good reasons. If the police show up that might put him into greater jeopardy...well, they might create more problems than they cure. And Ethan might have been doing something he should not have been doing..."
"Something to do with computers?"
"Who the fuck are you!" This was followed by a choking rasp, then another long silence. Once again, Ari waited for Lawson to hang up. He heard a hissing noise. An atomizer?
"If you keep on with this, you'll end up in hiding, too."
"Keep on with what?" Ari asked, unconsciously donning an innocent face to accompany a voice free of guile. "Was he...what's the famous word...hacking where he shouldn't be hacking? That is a computer term, isn't it?"
"Only the most common one," said Lawson. "And I think it more likely he was phishing in troubled waters."
"This is such a strange word."
"I'm going to give you the address of a place called A-Zed Imports. If you get killed going there, don't come crying to me."
"I believe that would be beyond my ability."
"Damn straight."
"So this address you will give me...is it a residence? A business?"
"It comes up as a business address, but it might be a little of both."
"But...you haven't verified this information? If you are disabled, you could send one of your foot soldiers."
"All the rest of my investigators have too much common sense than to get involved."
"Then they should be dis-employed," said Ari, a little too imperiously.
"Easier said...you know the rest, or you should."
"I believe I do," Ari sighed. From his tone and attitude, Ari wondered if Lawson had been an officer. Ari had sent men to their death, but felt little qualm because he had shared the risks with them. The American Army bred officers less inclined to send their men into harm's way. It was the natural result of replacing flesh with machines. But there were still losses. The emotional cost was heavier because Americans believed death could be avoided. A conceit with devastating emotional consequences throughout the entire society. Ari tried to guess the rank Lawson had held. Had he been a non-com? A lieutenant? Even a captain? Beyond that the pain lessened, simply because the distance from the ordinary soldier or conscript increased. You could read about a plane crash with no survivors and not shed a tear. But seeing a man disemboweled before your eyes could shred your soul. Ari thought of a field in southern Iraq, of a man being tortured to death....
The two men were not discussing a battlefield, but this did not diminish the subject in Ari's eyes. He could never recall an Iraq free of violence. Even between wars, death was omnipresent. Saddam Hussein's claim to success was to centralize tribal violence and put it to the service of his government. This was an improvement on America, where the violence was more scattered, but came in a wide variety of forms, some quite unexpected. Saddam would have known how to deal with those highway snipers, for example: set up hundreds of checkpoints, torture a few hundred people, and those two jokers would have been on the rack in no time. Such was Ari's opinion, at least. The violence committed by the leadership itself was tamed, to some degree, by the media, which took glee in exposing the foibles of the government. But it was an imperfect instrument. What little news that had been released about the events in Cumberland was comically inaccurate.
"Mr. Ciminon, were you in the military?" Lawson asked.
Startled by a question on a subject already on his mind, Ari paused before answering. "I was with the Esercito Italiano in my younger days…before it became an all-volunteer army."
Lawson grunted.
"What is that address you mentioned?" Ari asked.
"You have a pen and paper?" Lawson asked.
"Yes," said Ari, who had only his phone in his hand.
Lawson gave him an address. Still unfamiliar with the city and the surrounding counties, Ari had no idea where it was. But everywhere he turned, in gas stations, drug stores, quick-stops and tourist centers, Americans were selling maps.
There seemed to be a prevailing terror of getting lost. Even worse, being inconvenienced by a superfluous turn.
"These people are guaranteed Grade A dangerous, my Arab friend."
"I'm pleased to remind you that I'm—"
"I know one when I see one. Iraqi? Afghan?"
"The majority of Iraqis and Afghans are of lighter complexion, as I'm sure you noticed."
"You sound like one of the bro's talking about a skinny."
Hmm, Ari thought. Had Lawson been posted to Somalia?
"And what are these dangerous people suspected of doing?"
"You mean besides being dangerous? They're into crash for cash, big-time. That may sound small-time, but we think they're part of the Kkangpae Gang. That's South Korea's equivalent of the Mafia. We call them the Kkangpae Puppets. Some of my investigators have been known to...put it this way, Ethan was the only one of my operatives willing to get close to them. Even if I had insisted, no one else was willing, even if I threatened to fire them—and I didn't."
"And you yourself are not inclined to investigate?"
"In the old days, I would have gone in and busted their chink asses on my own."
"The perpetrators are Chinese?" Ari continued.
"Uh...no. Korean. Forgive my lack of political correctness. Every time I walk out the door I get a dose of shit, so I'm not inclined to be sympathetic. Believe it or not, I'll wish you good luck."
Lawson disconnected.
CHAPTER FOUR
Ari wanted a cigarette badly, but he did not want to look like Sam Spade on a stakeout. In the past, he had been able to go without a smoke for weeks on end while hunting down insurrectionists and smugglers in Iraq's northern mountains. But the anxiety stirred up by his task and the harsh environment combined to sweep aside petty addictions. In the luxury of his xB, if it could be called that, Ari found the blandishments of the Winstons in his pocket almost irresistible. We know how bored you are. That little itch in your lungs could be so easily satisfied. Take a puff. Just one. No one will notice.
But the man at the warehouse door who had looked twice in his direction might notice if the small white car became a veritable smokestack. A short walk up the street would have confirmed that the building was, indeed, under observation. But so far, the glare of the sun off the windshield and the blatant insignificance of the vehicle had convinced the man there was no threat.
As an alleged hub of criminal activity, the single-story warehouse was in a surprisingly active part of the city. Traffic from the Downtown Expressway off-ramp squirted through the narrow side streets before debouching on Broad. Cafes carved into the monotonous umber blocks catered to local businesses and state employees from the Seaboard Building. The police would be hard-pressed to see any sinister goings-on at a glance. Ari's attention was drawn to the two garage bays facing an alley. Cars damaged in staged accidents might be repaired there. And yet, even facing away from the street, they still seemed too open to outside scrutiny. He could clearly see the white van parked in the alley, both cargo doors open. It was filled with black plastic bags and a young man was laboriously adding to the van's load, hauling more bags across the narrow lane and dumping them in the back. His task was made all the more arduous by an older man who slapped him upside the head every time he brought out a new load. Cracking his window open, Ari could make out "Jotbab!" and "Ttong-koo-mung!"—meaning, respectively, 'weak piece of shit' and 'asshole'.
Many years ago, Ari (as Colonel Abu Karim Ghaith Ibrahim) had accompanied Saddam's weapon's negotiator, Munir Awad, to Syria to negotiate a partial refund of the $10 million downpayment he had made to North Korea for Rodong missiles. The $1.9 repayment was intended as a penalty for North Korea missing the first installment. The Iraqis, quite hopeless in certain matters, did not realize Kim Jong-il was conning them. The Rodong was a paper weapon that had never existed beyond blueprints. The Iraqi negotiators did not retrieve the $1.9 million, or any other portion of the deposit. In the meantime, however, Ari picked up a few Korean words, not all of them suitable for diplomatic missions.
The man standing at the building's entrance finished his cigarette and tossed it in the gutter before going back inside. Ari opened his window a little further.
"You played stupid" something-something "you do the work!" the older man shouted. "They could kill you" something-something "for this! I might still kill you!"
The older man faced away and his words shaded off into something-something-something. The young man never raised his head, never answered back. Could he be the man's son? If so, his lack of response was understandable. Children raised in the proper manner were well-advised to suffer rebukes in silence—especially when the elder threatened to kill the wayward child.
After receiving a final slap, the young man, shivering in shirt sleeves, closed the cargo doors and stood contritely before the older man.
"Chesonghamnida, Keun-ah-buh-jee! Joung-mal mee-yan-heh!"
The older man was the young man's uncle. He was wearing a jacket. He reached inside his pocket and took out a knot of keys. With a great show of avuncular malevolence, he sifted through the keys, found the one he was looking for (as if he had not already known its exact location) and pulled it off. He held the key in front of his nephew and seemed to lecture him on its proper use, as if it was a holy icon worthy of extravagant care and solicitude. In many places, a car key was exactly that.
Like a man whose hand was strapped to a mule, the uncle stretched his arm forward and planted the key in the young man's hand. He added another slap for good measure, then pointed at the end of the alley.
"Gguh juh!"
The young man raced to the front of the van.
Ari had originally intended to brazen his way into the warehouse with the usual barrage of lies and half-truths. But he was still far too ignorant of what he was getting into. The contents of the van, and their destination, might give him a better idea of what he was dealing with.
He followed the van as it negotiated the maze of side streets before coming to Broad and turning west.
Ten minutes later, Ari was northbound on I-95. Whatever doubts he had about the Scion's esthetic appeal and roadworthiness were allayed by its anonymity. A single medium-sized car was all he needed to avoid the rear-view glances of the van's driver. An added bonus was the traffic, heavy enough to blend into but moving steadily.
But when the van turned off at the Hanover-Ashland exit, Ari was exposed on a country byway. It was now headed east on a narrow road short on buildings and long on empty stretches. Ari was forced to fall further behind.
He did not know if the U.S. Marshal Service tracked him in real time, but sooner or later Karen Sylvester would know he had strayed at least thirty miles outside of Richmond, a distance that promised to increase with each minute. He was busily concocting lies to explain away his behavior ("I am enamored with the scenic Virginia countryside," "I heard the best coffee is available at bucolic mom-and-pops," "I read the Spanish searched this area for the Fountain of Youth...") when he suddenly discovered the van was no longer ahead of him.
He used a dirt driveway to turn around and slowly backtrack. Marking another dirt road was a sign: Beacon Corner Junk & Salvage. The road was wide and heavily used. The trees bordering it were powdered from years of dust thrown up on dry summer days. He swung the xB onto the packed rocks and drove a short distance. The woods opened up on a scene that was reminiscent of Fallujah after the Marines had finished with it.
The white van was parked at the main office, an oversized shed that looked as if it should have been condemned along with everything else around here. The young driver was standing at the back of the van, cringing with fear before a worker armored in overalls and a sour-face. The young man opened the cargo bay doors. The worker dumped the contents of one of the plastic bags on top of the heap and rolled bleary eyes up at the overcast sky, as though calling upon the gods to witness earthly idiocy. The worker emptied another bag, then another. Ari drove past slowly and glanced throug
h the gap between the two men. The van was filled with desktop computers, laptop computers and computer peripherals tumbled together in an angry heap.
Ari parked at the other end of the shed and stepped out with purpose, like a man with a train-sized checkbook in his pocket. He did not know what it was he was supposed to be buying, but in questionable situations it was best to appear as if one was on top of the world. It was also good to look modestly threatening. In his Vittorio St. Angelo's full-length coat, Ari looked like a sleek bear. A mild adjustment in his expression could make the bear look hungry.
He surveyed the stained and tattered exterior of the shed as though scrutinizing a work of modern art for meaning, or at least monetary value.
"They can't be recycled!" the young man was complaining, his thick accent coiling liquidly around the 'r'. His voice was exquisitely girlish and rose in pitch as he argued, as if he had just stepped out of a cold shower to find the towel missing. "They have to be destroyed in the flames of hell!"
The worker took a step back and stared down at the young man, temporarily mesmerized by the extreme analogy. Or perhaps the boy had inadvertently exposed the real purpose of his day job as a satanic destroyer.
Ari was less than charitable when it came to the linguistic malformations of foreigners and stifled a laugh. His own blunders he immediately forgave—usually.
The worker decided he had to take control of the situation. Obviously, his imposing size and the fact that he was standing out here in the cold in shirtsleeves did not sufficiently intimidate this occidental sprat.
"I got regulations to follow. You know, laws."
"Laws?" the young man squeaked.
"Those damned Democrats have shoved all sorts of environmental hoo-haws down our throats."
"Democwats?"
"Yeah, the people who let people like you into our country. Those computers got all sorts of elements like uranium and kryptonite in them that'll melt down to China if we nuke them here. 'Course, that would be one way for you to get back home!"
Each burst from his "Ha! Ha! Ha!" shoved the young man further into his Asiatic shell.
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