Cold Snap

by J. Clayton Rogers

  "You can't be hauling much in that thing."

  Ari had sensed the approach of a second worker but had been trying to ignore him. With a sigh, he turned to the man—also shielded in fierce blue overalls—then turned a disparaging eye on his xB. He needed to buy a car more suitable to the image he wanted to present. After recent events, he could certainly afford one. But Deputy Sylvester might look askance at the idea of him motoring around town in an unmonitored vehicle.

  "Alas, my Linguini is in the car shop for repairs."

  "Huh?" the man barked a laugh. "You mean Lamborghini? Ha! I'll have to remember that one!"

  Shit, thought Ari, shrinking into his Asiatic shell and turning a baleful eye on the young Korean, as though he was somehow responsible for the slip. Fortunately, he was too busy cringing before the first set of overalls to notice Ari's howler.

  "What's your business, Mister?" the second pair asked, neither friendly nor unfriendly, but not sounding particularly interested in Ari's business. "Or are you two together?"

  Conflating an Arab with a Korean was a stretch even for the most backward of backwoodsmen. But since Ari could scarcely tell the two workers apart, he let the suggestion pass without comment.

  "I'm entirely on my own. But you are correct; I wouldn't be able to pack much in my little car."

  "You work for a contractor?" the man asked, a little more interested now. Perhaps contractors provided the bulk of his business.

  "I have a great deal that needs to be discarded," said Ari in a sad, 'such-is-life' tone. "Buildings, monuments, cement plants, the Sword of Saddam...an entire civilization."

  Overalls #2 gloved the exaggeration easily, as no more than a negotiator's curve ball. A building by itself was a highly lucrative prospect. He held out a thick hand, indicating the wide open field gouged in the forest.

  "You got the buildings, we got the room."

  Deciding he had been too grand, Ari fell back on a personal chestnut. "You know that baseball field they want to build in downtown Richmond...?" He touched the side of his nose.

  "Say no more," Overalls #2 nodded, slapping his nose with a fat finger. The proposed park was so fraught with political consequences that the need for discretion was understood by everyone within a hundred mile radius.

  "You're the man with the plan, eh?" Overalls #2 stage-whispered.

  "We're not ready to commit ourselves, yet," Ari said.

  "'Course not." Overalls #2 leaned back against the shed, the bulk under his overalls jumbling out of shape for a moment before resuming its natural form. "And we understand you'll have to share out some of the load with SWAM dealers." When Ari looked puzzled, he continued: "Don't act innocent. It's the law. Government has to use a percentage of woman and minority businesses."

  He said this with casual frankness, as if he had not noticed that Ari might belong in the last category. Then he noted with a trace of alarm that his co-worker and the Korean had dropped their voices and drawn closer together behind the van. If Ari was a government representative, he might look askance at an illicit transaction taking place under his nose. After the browbeating the young man had taken from his uncle, it was obvious he would resort to all means available to consign the computers to hell. He might catch another tongue lashing if the bribe he was offering Overalls #1 proved too steep, but that would be mild compared to what could happen to him if the job didn't get done.

  The shed wall shuddered as Overalls #2 pushed off and took Ari by the elbow, guiding his innocent eyes away from the building. "I know your people will want to dole out some of the job to our runt competitors, but for the big macho stuff you'll have to come here."

  Ari nodded compliantly, as though agreeing to a transparent truth. Then he glanced back at the conspiratorial couple next to the van. "I couldn't help overhear something about computers..."

  "We dispose of electronics in an environmentally safe manner," Overalls #2 said as though quoting from an EPA manual. When Ari sniffed, he quickly added: "Don't mind that smell. Just the compactor warming up. Sometimes smells like burning rubber."

  The young Korean's girlish laughter drew Ari's attention. Overalls #1 was stepping away from the van and pointing at a side gate. The young man slammed the cargo bay doors shut and hopped in the driver seat. He waited for the worker to open the gate, then drove through. The gate wobbled shut.

  "I'm just doing a survey," Ari said. "I'll have to get back to you."

  "I understand," Overalls #2 conceded, both dismayed and hopeful. "I know how the government works."

  "It is troublesome," Ari acknowledged. "After all, your government allowed me into your country."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The head was freshly severed. The stark terror of the victim's final moment was strongly etched in his grimace, in the deep draws on either side of the nose and, above all, in the wide-open eyes.

  That's exactly how I'll look if they ever catch me.

  Who 'they' might be was arranged in a long list of enemies Ari had made over the years. Even now that he had hustled Uday Hussein into the loving embrace of the Iraqis, that list did not diminish. In fact, it was quite possible Ari had raised the ire of some powerful American entities. In an attempt to lure Uday out of his Cumberland hideout, Ari had called what he had assumed was a direct line to Saddam Hussein's heir apparent. But the man who answered had said 'ISAF'—International Security Assistance Force. Even if ISAF was based in Kabul, this strongly suggested that Uday had been living here under the auspices of the U.S., and that Ari had unintentionally trod on some very important toes. While Deputy Karen Sylvester might be appalled by the possibility that her country could be harboring a war criminal, this only betrayed her ignorance of international realities. The domestic scene could get pretty dirty, but not so dirty as to absorb a character like Uday Hussein.

  The man holding the severed head on Ari's computer screen was obviously pleased with his trophy. Ari recognized neither him nor the newly departed. The percentage of men he could identify for CENTCOM was growing smaller. This was only to be expected, since so many of those Ari remembered from old police and SSO records, or whom he had met personally, were now busy enjoying the rewards of Heaven. It might not be long before Ari would not be able to finger critical players in the shifting chaos. What would be his fate when he was no longer useful? The fate of Rana and his son?

  He skipped to the next photograph on the flash drive Karen and her partner Fred had left on his kitchen table. It was almost identical to the previous one. Same rocky field in the background. Same idiot flashing a toothy grin at the camera. But a different head. Ari immediately recognized the victim: known as 'Razor' by the police because that happened to be his weapon of choice. It appeared his namesake had been applied to his own throat, in spades. Ari sighed in relief. Still useful, after all. He sent an email to CENTCOM, including the victim's name, the possible killers, and the tribe they associated with.

  There, more countrymen sold down the drain, more enemies Ari would have to add to his list if Razor's executioners somehow found out he was responsible for their arrest. Hopefully, Special Forces would just shoot the entire batch on the spot.

  Ari felt no remorse. He put torturers and beheaders only one notch below cat-killers. He clicked on the next image—which turned out not to be an image but a video. It opened automatically in Realplayer. A covered Wide Bongo 4X4 was shown racing up a dirt road. According to a caption the video was taken in Nineveh Province, about twenty kilometers from Mosul. The billowing dust gave it the appearance of being rocket-powered. Maybe the driver had guessed at what was about to happen and was desperately trying to outrace his fate.

  The flash-bang of the roadside bomb sent the vehicle into a violent fishtail that ended when it flipped and landed in the ditch. The image began to shake as the cameraman ran forward, preceded by three men carrying AK's. They reached the truck as the injured driver managed to open the passenger door and climb out. He fell to the ground, gasping, his face bloody, one arm dangling.<
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  "Kalet!" the first man swore on reaching him. He planted a foot on the man's neck.

  "No!" the man cried, grimacing in pain—and horrified surprise. "What are you doing here? How did you get here? Are you working for the Americans?"

  "Working for the Americans!" the first man snorted.

  "It's full of Army rations back here," said one of the bombers from the rear of the truck. "Nothing else. Nothing from the university."

  "A pig feeding the pigs," said the first man, an odd emotion undercutting the insult. "You've been back for all of two months, and this is as far as you've gotten."

  "I don't understand," the driver gasped. "I never harmed you. I hardly know you."

  The apparent leader of the group murmured uneasily, his words indecipherable.

  "Someone sent you? Who? How did they…find out?"

  "Give me the sword," the leader said to the man behind him.

  The driver screamed. He yanked his head out from under the foot and pushed himself up on his haunches with his good arm. He turned and his amazement grew. He was staring straight into the camera. No. At the cameraman. "You! How could you be here? How could any of you...?"

  There was a sound of consternation from one of the bombers. "I forgot it. The sword."

  "You fucking idiot," said the apparent leader of the group—in English.

  Ari grunted, as surprised as the victim by the leader's identity, the front of whose kaffiyeh had fallen to the side to expose his face. Ari knew the man could speak English. But did he really expect his words to be understood by the other two men, the cameraman and the victim?

  The man who had surveyed the back of the truck was carrying a 20 liter NATO jerrycan. He mumbled something, incomprehensible to Ari but perfectly understandable to the leader, who gave the suggestion a moment's thought, then nodded. The second man opened the can and began tossing gasoline on the driver, who was tripped up when he struggled to his feet. He began rolling away, but soon he was soaked. The cameraman focused on the match in the leader's hand.

  "What you intended for the world will now happen to you," said the leader. "It's no worse than you deserve."

  Oblivious to the driver's pleas for mercy, he flung the match.

  Ari moved the cursor to the fast-forward button. A comet swept back and forth across the screen in high-speed silence. Then the flames subsided and Ari returned to normal view. The three killers stood before the camera, strangely somber. Even more strangely, the other two killers had unwrapped their kaffiyehs, revealing their faces. Ari froze the image and leaned closer to the screen. He had seen the files of all three men at SSO headquarters. And none of them should have been in Nineveh Province, or anywhere else in Iraq.

  For once, the identity of the victim was known. The caption read: Abdul Ghafour al-Mutlaq of Baghdad. And this perplexed Ari even further, because that name had also shown up in the files of Special Security. He backed the video ten minutes and paused. The driver's muted face was covered with blood, but now that the man had been matched to a name Ari understood his error. He had first mistaken him for yet another hapless fellah trying to earn a bit of bread by working for the Coalition. But no, he did not belong there, either.

  The truck had not been the target. This was a straightforward assassination. That three of the four killers (if one included the cameraman) did not try to hide their identities suggested this was intended as a personal message, either to terrorize the recipient of the video or to reassure him that this particular mission had been well and truly accomplished. Only the video had been intercepted by U.S. intelligence.

  Ari wondered if this was merely one of many copies.

  Vexed, he was having difficulty formulating a description that American MI would swallow when his cell phone rang. He looked at the small LCD screen and took a deep breath when he recognized the number that had been given him at the end of Tracy's brunch. He opened the phone.

  "Bonjour?" he said, forcing his force into calm amiability.

  "Bonjour?" came a woman's voice that was tentative in a strangely assertive way. "This is Monsieur Ciminon?"

  "Ah, oui, Madame Mumford. I am so pleased you have returned my call."

  "Pas du tout," said the Frenchwoman with the same stern demureness Ari had noted at the Mackenzies. "I happen to have a free hour this afternoon. If we are to discuss the arrangement you were speaking of, I believe we should do so in person. You do agree?"

  Ari found it hard to tell if she was asking him if he agreed or if she was telling him he agreed.

  Elated, he did as he was told: agreed wholeheartedly.

  "I live on Beach Court Lane," he began.

  "Yes, next to Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie, I know. We only live ten minutes from you."

  Afraid of putting her off—terrified, really—Ari said, "Yes, yes. You can come right away."

  "We'll see you soon, then. À bientôt."

  "Au revoir, Madame! Bless you."

  He winced as she rang off. He wanted to repair her first impression of him and had not intended to sound desperate. 'Bless you'? Those were words of sheer desperation. But his chagrin was quickly replaced by panic. How could he be so stupid as to consent to her visit without adequate preparation? He ran into the bathroom and looked in the mirror.

  "Merde!"

  His eyes were bloodshot, as was only to be expected after putting himself into a dismal semi-slumber with a half bottle of Jack Daniels. Before seeing his wife, it had been almost a bottle a night. Or more.

  He slashed his cheek as he hurriedly shaved. He slipped in the shower and nearly broke his arm. The only blessing was that he had a clean shirt and pressed trousers in his closet. His visits to the dry cleaners on Forest Hill were almost demonic in their intensity.

  With three minutes left he raced downstairs, his mind rampant with last-minute domestic chores. But there was a knock at the front. He glanced at his watch. The three minutes were gone. How had that happened?

  There was no question of not answering the door or of cracking it an inch and begging Madame Mumford to be patient for a minute, or five minutes...or however long it took. It was obvious she had planned this quick strike in order to see Ari au naturel, so to speak, giving him very little opportunity to disguise the true state of things. Any delay on his part would be seen as trickery.

  He checked his fly. He had recently opened his door to a little girl who had almost immediately observed this particular wardrobe mishap.

  Properly zipped.

  With a sigh of defeat, he opened his door.

  Madame Mumford was planted firmly on his door mat. Her expression of polite grimness sent a thrill of horror through him that was only partially ameliorated by the self-effacing shrug and grin of her husband, standing behind her.

  Something like 'I'm afraid you've caught me at a disadvantage' began to form in Ari's mind, but the lame phrase had scarcely made its way to his lips when Madame Mumford, sensing his dismay, gave him a gracious smile.

  "Would you prefer we come back another time?"

  He had expected her to dragoon her way past him, condemn the house and occupant, and depart in a huff all within five seconds. He found the courtesy painful and dropped back like a man half beaten to death by a cotton ball.

  "I couldn't put you to that inconvenience." He rolled his arm inwards and she stepped inside.

  And stopped.

  "Monsieur...?"

  "My furniture is in abeyance," he explained quickly.

  "But I understood you have lived here for half a year."

  "It's a long abeyance." He paused awkwardly. Among the French, etiquette dictated that it was the woman who decided if she was to be kissed on the cheek or proffered a simple handshake.

  She extended her hand. Ari shook it gently, not daring to kiss her fingers. Bill Mumford offered his hand and gave him a standard American yank.

  "That presents a problem, if you have guests," said Madame Mumford.

  "I haven't had the chance to socialize very much."
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  "But you've been to the Mackenzies..."

  Coming from her, Ari felt this was a blunt criticism. One did not accept invitations without returning the favor. That Matt and Tracy Mackenzie liked having him over to their house should have been sufficient. Matt Mackenzie, the incessant sponger, showed no qualms about allowing Ari to eat his chips and drink his booze. But Ari felt such reasoning would have held no water for Madame Mumford. There were certain courtesies—duties—that one must simply perform in order to be a good neighbor. Ari understood duty. He hung his head.

  "The furniture will arrive soon," he said.

  Madame Mumford stepped forward and paused at the edge of the dining room. "It will include a table?"

  "Certainly. Chairs, also."

  "That would help. May I...?"

  With an apologetic cough, Ari swiveled out of her way and she proceeded to the kitchen. Bill offered a tight smile of consolation, as though he was watching a dark cloud approaching the Avenue des Champs-Élysées and was in no position to warn strollers of the approaching storm.

  Ari's heart ached with every hollow echo Madame Mumford's footsteps wrung out of the empty house. But when she paused again, at the kitchen entrance, the sudden silence was far worse. She went to the stove and hovered over a stew pot. She sniffed. "Is this supposed to be nihari?"

  "A feeble attempt," Ari confessed.

  "No, a worthy attempt."

  Ari brightened. "You know about Indian food?"

  "I was married to a Pakistani chef many years ago."

  "Ah," said Ari, his dry mouth suddenly watering.

  "When he died, I married a German who taught me to make a most excellent Kohlroulade, which is a kind of cabbage roll."

  "That sounds delicious," said Ari.

  "After we divorced, I grew tired of marriage for a while and lived in sin with an Italian."

  "Ossobuco?" Ari said hopefully.

  "Of course...he was from Milan. When he ran off with a Lithuanian I was content to live by myself. Then I met William..."

  Bill smiled sheepishly, pointed at himself with one hand and held up four fingers with the other. "Anyone for cheeseburgers?"