Cold Snap

by J. Clayton Rogers

  "You have told me very little, Mr. Lawson. In fact, nothing except where you live, which is not pertinent to my research."

  "And what would my having served overseas have to do with your 'research'?" Lawson shot back.

  "Of course, the fact that you received your unspeakable injuries while serving with Regimental Combat Team 7 in Fallujah has no bearing," Ari said.

  Lawson went still. His breathing became even more labored. "Right...the Semper Fi sticker on my bumper. Still, that's still a helluva good guess..."

  "Only a guess," Ari nodded.

  "Well...I'm hungry," Lawson said finally. He reached up to his face and began prying at his prosthetic mouth. Ari caught a glimpse of a tongue divided in two pinks, half flesh-toned and half the shade of bubble gum. The left side of his face, losing support, began to sag.

  "Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Lawson," said Ari, standing. He retrieved his coat. "Please bear in mind my offer of assistance. I believe you are looking for Ethan, too. I can be extraordinarily discreet when the occasion calls for it."

  A slobbering sound came from the direction of the easy chair.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The fortress was vast. The terrain was insurmountable. The opposition was formidable. That was how the display floor of Amis Discount Furniture Universe first appeared to Ari, and ten minutes' experience only confirmed this assessment.

  "I warned you," murmured Karen as salesmen flanked out to either side of them, one wing preparing to ambush them from Sofa World while the other wing took up positions behind row after row of rocking chairs.

  Ari clutched the front of his coat. "We are heavily outnumbered."

  "Best advice? Duck and run. But remember, you can't hide."

  "Why are they looking at me that way?" Ari complained. "I am only a prospective customer."

  "Yeah, the best kind of raw meat." She noted the way Ari shifted his overcoat. He caught her frown.

  "Is something amiss? Has a button run off?"

  "No...just the way you're moving."

  "I am not a storelifter." He glanced around. "There is nothing here that would fit under my coat."

  Karen made an erasing motion with her hand. "It was a stupid idea. But Ari? Don't shoot any salesmen. They're harmless."

  They didn't look all that harmless. Their gleaming teeth made Ari think of the Barbary Pirates that so alarmed Elmore Lawson. Lean. Hungry. Instant chums. A highly toxic combination.

  Karen, apparently a veteran of such situations, sailed ahead to a department that caught her interest. With curt sweeps of her hand she brushed salesmen out of her path. Well...that looked easy enough. Now the question was...where to begin? He turned and was blinded by a searchlight of pearly whites.

  "Hello, sir. That's a fantastico coat you're wearing. Italian?"

  "As a matter of fact, yes."

  "Fantastico..." The man's smile amped into a nova, as though he had just found an open safe under his mauve sportsjacket. "We have a great selection of—"

  Ari raised his hand to his face and darted away. He realized this reaction might seem extreme, but he couldn't help himself. He had not gone five steps before his way was blocked.

  "Can I offer you some assistance?"

  Ari raised his other hand and shot in the opposite direction. He did not go far before he stopped to take a deep breath. Glancing up, he saw Karen gaping at him from the lamp department. Confirmation that he was indeed overreacting. He lowered his hands and bravely faced his next adversary.

  "Good day, sir. Were you interested in anything in particular? I would be happy to assist you—"

  Ari turned and walked blindly into a lamp. It rocked perilously before he reached out and steadied it. Another salesman appeared miraculously on the other side to help him.

  "May I remind you in the friendliest possible way that if you break something, you're responsible for payment?"

  "In the friendliest possible way, may I ask if that includes your face?"

  Well, that worked. The salesman hastily retreated. Ari felt much better. He began to stroll unhampered through the incomprehensible jumble. Why had Karen abandoned him? He had no clue as to what he should be looking for. Hearing echoed murmurs, he looked towards the back of the store. Nearly a dozen salesmen were staring at him apprehensively. Suddenly, they grabbed someone from behind the group and thrust him forward. Tentatively, he began working his way through the numerous switchbacks in Ari's direction. He shared Ari's dark-olive skin tone. Apparently, it was the consensus that he would be more comfortable talking to one of 'his own'. A wonderfully nonsensical notion. In fact, Ari's tension only increased.

  The salesman stopped several yards from him. He was small, quite a few years older than Ari. Flecks of gray were spread unevenly in his trimmed hair. He gave Ari a nod, gathered himself up like a man hefting a stone, and said: "Assalam alaikum."

  "Ditto," Ari scowled.

  The salesman's face drooped into a No-Sale and he took a step backward. "That's the limit of my Arabic…"

  "I didn't mean to offend—"

  "No offense," Ari sighed apologetically. "I had an unpromising evening. Valaikum-salam."

  "I understand," said the salesman, halting his retreat while his eyes lit with hope. "If I can be of any assistance—"

  "I will accept your assistance if you stop talking like one of them." He nodded at the salesmen watching curiously from the side of the hall. "How long have you been in America?"

  The salesman gave a small cough. "I didn't think I had an accent."

  "Your English is impeccable. If I spoke to you on the phone I would mistake you for Efrem Zimbalist, Jr."

  "I don't know..."

  "Ah, you aren't fully assimilated. He was second in command at the American FBI, just under Hoover. I used to watch him when I was a kid, on JTV. He was always tracking down Arab terrorists. I studied his methods. I thought they might come in handy one day, in case I decided upon a shady career."

  The salesman had gone still. "JTV?"

  "You know, Jordanian television. That's the same station I saw you on. You worked alongside those German and Italian engineers to build the Chambarakat Dam. You were standing next to some mealy-mouthed politician from the Ministry of Water Resources."

  "My name is Joe," the salesman stuttered, pointing at his name tag. "Joe Pine."

  "You picked a tree for your new name?" Ari offered a friendly smile. "No matter. You used to be Othman ibn Tariq. What are you doing working here? Do these Furniture Universe people really need a top notch engineer?"

  Joe Pine seemed to be studying his own breath.

  "It's a shame to waste your intelligence and training selling furniture...but it's a living, I suppose." He felt the eyes of the salesmen collective on them. "Let's move around some. Maybe we can shake off some of this attention. What is this thing I almost knocked over?"

  "Um...that is a Caron Lamp, part of a set. Sir, you are mistaken—"

  "I frequently am. Let's go look at those chairs over there. What are they called?"

  Joe Pine followed Ari reluctantly down the aisle.

  "Baghdad University? Jordan University of Science and Technology? Or did you train in the West?"

  Joe Pine stopped. "I think it would be best if one of the other associates helped you."

  "You shouldn't emulate them too much. Keep the distinction of who you are and where you're from. We don't want to look like copycat clowns, do we?" Ari took his elbow to keep him from running off. "Come, come. You're their sacrificial lamb. None of them want to deal with a lunatic customer. And I'm nobody, myself. I don't belong to any tribe."

  "No tribe?" Joe Pine said, scowling.

  "Ah, you understand."

  "I...I only meant—"

  "I'm not here to harm you, if that's what you're worried about. Of course, I might not purchase anything, which you might consider a grievous wound." Ari stopped before a club chair. "May I?"

  "Oh...yes...please do."

  Ari lowered him
self into the deep cushions. His chin was thrust forward onto his chest. "I am buried alive."

  "It's a very popular item," said Joe Pine, looking ready to burst into tears.

  "Could you assist me..."

  Joe Pine helped exhume him from the chair. Ari looked down at his hand. "You should stop sweating so much. It makes you look nervous."

  "Nervous?" The salesman wiped his brow. "I'm only a little warm."

  "In this big drafty hall? Listen...I am in deep need of..." Ari paused, unsure of what it was he needed.

  "I believe I would be less...nervous...if you weren't under the misconception—"

  "OK, Joe. I suspect you are a cultured man. That you have taste. I need furniture for a dining room...and a living room...and where is my brain! A kitchen."

  "Well we have all of that."

  "But I have to please a very particular person."

  "Your wife?" Joe glanced in Karen's direction.

  "Oh. Her? She's just a servant. The woman I'm speaking of is not my wife. She is French."

  Joe smiled in surprise.

  "You married a Frenchwoman?"

  "Well, no. I'm speaking of a friend. I need to make her feel at home."

  "Follow me," Joe said and strode ahead, suddenly more confident. "Do you have any particular color scheme in mind?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "Colors can emphasize certain moods. Yellow is a happy color."

  "I'm not happy very often and I don't wish to have it crammed down my throat."

  "I see...well, orange is congenial, if you plan on entertaining."

  "Possibly."

  "Pink is feminine. Red is bold, a particular favorite with enterprising people." Joe looked back at Ari, as though to see if he was hitting the right chord.

  "We're talking about the Frenchwoman, not me."

  "Blue, then. It's very relaxing. Creates a sense of home."

  Ari thought of Madame Mumford bustling through the Mackenzie kitchen, toting heavy serving dishes and apparently relishing the work. "I don't think this woman relaxes very much."

  "Purple is playful. Green represents liveliness, with lots of imagination."

  "Where do you get such ideas?"

  "Sir? Um..."

  "It's what you have been trained to say. What did I tell you about bad emulation?"

  "There have been studies done..."

  "Very well," Ari sighed. "Continue."

  "Black is basic, simple. Beige is for calmness. Brown is down to earth—"

  "Appropriate."

  "Gray is dependability, for practical—"

  "Gray..." Ari mused.

  "It's very versatile, and a perfect foundation for other schemes you might wish to include."

  "Could not gray also be bland?"

  "Not at all. Let me show you..."

  The other salesmen had stopped ogling Joe and Ari and had dispersed to assail other customers. In the middle of a sea of couches, Ari plopped into a loveseat and pointed at the ottoman across from him.

  "Let's have a little convivial talk."

  "You've made up your mind?" said Joe Pine hopefully. A man who had no intention of buying anything would fly out the door, not sit and chat with the salesman. He propped himself on the edge of the ottoman and leaned forward eagerly. "The chesterfield? The davenport?"

  "We'll discuss that in a moment. Now...Othman..."

  "Not that again," Joe pouted and pushed himself back in his chair.

  "You never answered my question," Ari persisted. "How long have you been in America? You didn't learn your English here. There's not the slightest trace of an accent."

  "Perhaps that's because I was born in New York. I can prove it."

  "I'm sure you can. "Hal tatakallam al-'arabiya?"

  "I don't understand what you're saying," Joe Pine shrugged.

  "What? You're saying you're third generation American? That not even your parents spoke Arabic? Very ambitious. But if you don't want to admit the truth…kool khara."

  Joe straightened up.

  "Ah, you do understand. That's one lie out of the way. And I would like more details about that sofa. You said the leather is Moroccan? That's near Siberia, isn't it?"

  This last was said for the benefit of one of Joe's fellow salesman, who was doing a poor job of disguising his eavesdropping. The man marveled at Ari's profound geographical ignorance and leered as he drifted away.

  "You should visit my mosque one day," Joe said in a low, surly voice. "Our Imam would wash your mouth out for you."

  "Alas, the complaints about my mouth are many and close between. To resume, it would be of great interest to me to know if the American authorities know of your presence here. I know the Iraqi authorities had the usual suspicions about you."

  "Why would you say that?" asked Joe, alarmed. "Not that I'm anybody but Joe Pine."

  "Being an educated man would be enough to rouse their suspicions, especially one who refused to join the Ba'athist Party and sing Ardulfurataini Watan. But there were other issues..." Ari closed his eyes and reflected on this man's file, long lost in the SSO archives. "You attended the ICCEM civil engineering conference in Cairo and 'accidentally' ran into survivors of the Safar Intifada. Since Iraq was at war with Iran at the time, and a bunch of misguided souls were going over to the Badr Brigade, it was only normal for state security to spy on you."

  Joe Pine sank deeper and deeper into his chair, until he was little more than a chickpea buried in an oversized napkin. "They told me there would be no trouble."

  "'They'?"

  "Are you from Immigration?"

  "How could I be, if 'they' said there would be no problems? And 'they' would certainly know."

  It was obvious Joe would say no more about the identity of the mysterious 'they'. This was no place to torture the information out of him, and Ari had no desire to do so. Othman had been a good man, so far as he was concerned. His only problem, if he recalled correctly (and of course he did) was that Saddam Hussein blamed him and other engineers for the dismal failure of the berms on the Kuwaiti border during the Gulf War. He became Mr. Congeniality. "In fact, what I wanted to talk to you about was your experience in your new home."

  "Yes?" said Joe Pine in a tone that said, 'Liar'.

  "How did you end up in Richmond? It's not the largest Arab community in the States, by any stretch."

  "My...sponsors..."

  "'They'?" Ari interjected.

  "They recommended this area. Small city, pleasant accommodations."

  "And because you were bound to be recognized in one of the large Arab communities."

  "I never said—"

  "First off..." Ari pointed at Joe. "I want that."

  After a startled pause, Joe smiled uneasily. "You mean this chair?"

  "No, that...your pendant. What is it called, again?"

  Joe Pine reached up to a small pendant dangling on a tiny gold chain attached to his jacket. It was shaped like a piece of furniture.

  "This? It's just a little trinket we got off a Korean importer." He preened a little. "It was my idea—the only idea of mine that management ever agreed to. Now all the salesmen wear one."

  An alarm went off in Ari's mind, but it was more like a ping than a gong.

  "I mean, what is that piece of furniture called? You showed me one earlier."

  "You mean from the Teal Collection?"

  "Yes. But that's only the beginning. Come..."

  They rose together and Ari guided Joe on a retrogressive replay of the tour they had taken earlier, with Ari pointing out each piece he wished to order. Joe brightened visibly with each sale. He seemed to forget that his American identity had been exposed as a fraud by a very questionable client. Ari found it sad. A once prominent engineer was reduced to selling furniture—but was Ari himself doing any better? He was, by some lights, a traitor, and a very effective one. By his own light, he was something even worse: a bit of a loafer.

  At the customer service desk Karen pranced up to him. "At least I bou
ght something," she said, proudly displaying a tiny lamp.

  "Very quaint," said Ari, and showed her his receipt.

  "Oh?" She took it and began to read. Her eyes widened. "Ari! We can't afford all of this!"

  "'We' can't. 'I' can."

  "Really?" she said after a moment. "Maybe you really have been 'storelifting'. You slay me, Ari. I don't understand—"

  "And this doesn't include the delivery cost. I need to arrange—"

  "Like hell you will. I'll work out something. I don't want you giving out your address. Why do you think we gave you that special credit card? No one can trace it. Speaking of which, how do you intend to pay for this? That card has a strict limit."

  Ari took out an enormous wad of bills from his coat pocket. Karen gasped.

  "Come on outside so I can take you to a dark alley and rob you. No one told us you had an outside source of income."

  "America is very remunerative."

  "If you know the right people. I didn't think you knew anyone."

  Ari shrugged.

  "I notice you didn't get any bedroom furniture."

  "This is for my public face," said Ari.

  "You're expecting guests?" Karen said uneasily.

  "Yes. Including yourself, I hope."

  "Sure..."

  Outside, Ari quickly smoked a cigarette before getting into Karen's blue Civic. She had refused to ride in his smoke-tainted Scion. She waited impatiently, arms crossed against the cold.

  "Ms. Deputy Marshal, I was wondering..."

  "Aren't you always?" she said, her teeth chattering.

  "That little GPS you have planted in my car..."

  "I can't remove it."

  "Who else has access to that information?"

  CHAPTER TEN

  Fallujah

  April, 2004

  "Many soldiers fled here after the government betrayed them, and the Americans..."

  "Fired them," said Ghaith, still somewhat awestruck that a nation's entire defense could be summarily dismissed like the staff of an unprofitable restaurant. It seemed an easy proposition to the occupiers: simply withhold pay and entire armies vanished. It had happened innumerable times throughout history. But the Coalition scholars must have skipped the chapter where disgruntled veterans very often turned on their former paymasters.