Cold Snap

by J. Clayton Rogers

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  The camera turned to a group of men emerging from a hallway. There was Dr. edin Shkara, along with the Dean of the University. Then came Sultan Hashim Ahmad al-Tai (Minister of Defense through 2003 and condemned to death by an Iraqi court after the war, a sentence indefinitely postponed), Tariq Aziz, Deputy Prime Minister (his death sentence also indefinitely postponed) who had gotten a lot of face time on international television during the run-up to the war and who was smoking his trademark Cuban cigar—maybe Bush declared war because the Iraqis flaunted the embargo. In other words, tobacco envy. And then, much to Ari's surprise, came Abdul Sattar Abu Risha, the leading tribal sheik in Anbar. He had been assassinated in 2007 for dealing with the new government—the usual fate of moderates. Behind him came a bigger surprise: Dr. Ibrahim, the Sunni cleric Ari had more or less insulted in the souk in Fallujah. Seeing the orange canisters, his eyes hardened.

  "The college grants Doctorate degrees with the Iraqi and Arabic Boards," the Dean was saying to the men following him. He looked uncertainly about him, as if wanting to tell his visitors this was not really part of the university. It was only a storage room. You did not take notable guests on tours of one's closets. Nervously, he added: "We are very proud of our reputation."

  "If you are so proud, why are you speaking in English?" said Dr. Ibrahim in Arabic from the back of the group.

  Ahmad al-Tai laughed this off. Dr. Shkara scowled. Aiziz sighed. Abu Risha looked down. Dr. Ibrahim did not belong in this cultured group.

  "Medical instruction...scientific instruction...is given in English," the Dean said apologetically. "Forgive me for using it out of habit."

  Dr. Shkara continued in Arabic.

  "Of course, we do mainly medical research, but the medical colleges are only a short walk—"

  Dr. Ibrahim forced his way past the speaker and stood close to the orange drums. "This is radioactive material?"

  "For research purposes—"

  "Has Blix seen it?"

  Hans Blix, former head of the U.N. Monitoring, Verification and Inspection Commission. Ari guessed that, when this video was made, Blix had already made it known that there was almost zero probability of there being WMD's of the nuclear variety in Iraq, a conclusion the United States lost no time in ridiculing.

  "His inspectors have been here," Dr. Shkara answered. "We were able to satisfy them as to the harmlessness of this material."

  "If it's so harmless, why does it have a warning on it?" Dr. Ibrahim persisted.

  "It's for X-rays and such things, that's all," said Aziz, turning to Dr. Shkara. "I am right in this?"

  "But could it be weaponized?" said Dr. Ibrahim.

  "As you can see, the Commission saw no need to leave remote cameras to monitor the canisters," said Dr. Shkara with a gentle wave at the ceiling, as if inviting the visitors to see for themselves.

  "But if you packed this material around a conventional bomb, it would be more effective?" said Dr. Ibrahim.

  "It would be useless," the Minister of Defense asserted.

  "Please..." As Abu Risha began to raise a placating hand when the laptop screen went blank.

  "That's it?" Ari asked after a moment.

  "The program's still running." Ahmad glanced down at the information bar. "According to this, there's still ten minutes left in the video. I'll fast forward..."

  But the screen remained obstinately blank. Ahmad shook his head.

  "What a bust. That's the only file hidden on the disk. Everything else is just the same old scenic Iraq."

  "Can you tell when the video was made?"

  "Before the war, obviously," said Ahmad.

  "I mean, when it was put on this disk?"

  "You mean burned? Sure. Just look at the detailed view." Ahmad switched screens. "Here...July 6, 2002. And Scenic Iraq was burned in 1999. The producer was some place called To the Ends of the Earth Travel Bureau."

  Ari thought of a day in April, 2003, when he had heard the explosion that signaled the end of the travel agency. He turned to Ben, who had come up on the other side of Ahmad to watch. "Where did you get this?"

  "In the Green Zone," Ben answered. "Some guy had set up a magazine kiosk and these were on the counter. I didn't see anything I wanted to read, but I felt sorry for him so I got this for a couple of bucks."

  "Why did you feel sorry for him?"

  "He was an Iraqi, but his English was good. He told me he was about to be kicked out because some American distributor held a monopoly on publications being sold to troops in the safe area. Of course, they told him it was for security reasons. It was too bad, he'd gone to a lot of trouble to set things up. He even took plastic."

  "I don't recall Iraqi vendors accepting credit card payments so soon after the invasion."

  "Some of them did in the Green Zone.," said Ben. "Not the troops, though. We used Eagle Cash."

  "Ah, yes," said Ari. "Your military credit cards."

  "Not really," said Ben. "More like a debit card. You take the card to an EZPay kiosk, which is like a bank teller machine. They're on all the base camps, here and overseas. You stick your card in the machine, punch in your code, and the card reloads for whatever amount you ask for, so long as you have the cash in your account. The military set it all up after the war in Bosnia." He stopped, blushing.

  "What is it?" Ari asked him.

  "We weren't supposed to take credit cards with us. I mean, in a war zone...what if you're captured? Some jihadist lifts your card and wipes out your account. But some of us set up new accounts with limited credit before going over, because you never know if you come to a place where you want to buy something but don't have the cash for it. And what the hell, the Army still puts our Social Security numbers on our dogtags, which is the biggest security risk of all. Identity theft is pretty bad among the troops."

  "You used your new credit card to buy the video, then?"

  "I remember...I didn't have any cash on me and I didn't know where the nearest EZPay kiosk was. We were in the Green Zone, and I figure the guy had been vetted or something. Anyway, I only had a $500 credit line, so the most a thief could buy with it...well, maybe a bicycle, or a week in a motel..."

  "Oh shit," said Ahmad. "What's your last name, again?"

  "Torson," Ben responded with a puzzled look, "T-o-r-s-o-n."

  Ahmad alt-tabbed out of the DVD files and opened the next directory.

  "This is another Excel spreadsheet..." He did a search. "And there's Mr. Torson."

  Ben leaned down. "That's my old address. What are those other numbers?"

  "Your credit card number," said Ahmad, grinning. "Isn't that—"

  "No, it isn't 'cool'," Ari admonished. "It isn't even acceptable. How did the number get here?"

  "Stolen, obviously. Maybe the Koreans bought a batch from some Russkie hackers. They're good at this sort of thing."

  "No," said Ari, perusing the list. "These match the gallery. They were very specifically absconded."

  Ahmad switched back to the gallery. "You're right. That answers one of your questions, then. How did the bombers know where the bombees lived?"

  "How recently were these credit card numbers acquired?" Ari asked.

  Going back to the Excel spreadsheet, Ahmad went into properties. "Summer of 2006, all on the same day."

  "I was still in Iraq," said Ben. He had taken out his VISA and was staring at it in astonishment, as though only now discovering he had been carrying a barracuda in his pocket. "So stupid. I could have used Eagle Cash. But the guy in the kiosk was moaning about all the trouble he had gone to get his credit card swiper approved."

  "Then it was approved by idiots," Ahmad asserted. "These numbers were taken at source. It's called 'skimming'."

  "Which sort of begs the question," said Ben, jamming his card back into his wallet. "What the hell is
that hidden video doing on the disk in the first place?"

  "I have a speculation," Ari said. "I think this was intended for the Americans."

  "Well..." Ben looked doubtful.

  "If it was intended for the insurgency, would they be propagating these videos in the Green Zone?" Ari shook his head. "Anyone cooperating with the Americans risked death, usually in the most horrible manner."

  "I guess you'd know about that," Ben said.

  "Whoever inserted these videos was hoping an American, or someone working for the Americans, would do what Ahmad here has done: watch it on their computer. They would see the strange file—"

  "WMV isn't strange," Ahmad informed him.

  "Very well. They would see these oddities, open them, and be introduced to this nuclear horror."

  "Not really a 'horror'," Ahmad observed. "What we saw in the video isn't fissile. It's all low-grade, for research."

  "Salt that radioactive material on a bomb, place it on top of a building in a large city..."

  "Well...horror," Ahmad nodded.

  "And out of almost a hundred buyers...no one saw it?" Ben's expression was remorseful. "All the guys laughing through this thing, without even guessing..."

  "This is four years old," said Ahmad, his eyes bright with adventure. "The 'whoevers' must have the stuff by now."

  "Then why are they killing with such extravagance?" Ari said. "I think the volatile material is still in Mosul. Dr. Shkara was bluffing about the U.N. inspectors. They never saw those drums. The insurgents want to keep the Americans unapprised of them."

  "Colonel?" said Ahmad tentatively. "When are you going to start talking normal English?"

  "I will alert your uncle to your rudeness."

  "Aw—"

  "So the guy at the kiosk—" Ben began.

  "Is probably dead," Ari said. "What do you expect? He was trying to help the invaders."

  "Hey, we're liberating your country—"

  "From a fate worse than Saddam," said Ari. "I think you will learn that his removal is a mixed blessing."

  "Tell that to the people he's tortured and oppressed all these years," Ben shot back.

  "Ah, the Shia, the disaffected intellectuals, the renegades," shrugged Ari, who possessed a substantial mean streak.

  "You mean you're not glad he's gone?" asked Ben warily.

  "To put it honestly..." Ari began honestly. "...I don't know."

  "You're crazy," Ben asserted.

  "Yes, I'm honest."

  Ahmad was shaking his head.

  "What?"

  "This guy was warning the Americans with one hand and stealing their credit card numbers with the other? Kind of a mixed message, there."

  "Ah," said Ari. "A hole in my theory."

  After a brooding pause, Ben said, "So, what now?"

  "Now we have to arrange it so that you do not have to move out of your lovely new house, to the detriment of your mental health."

  "Which is precarious, right?" Ben sneered. He continued, "OK, Sherlock, who's the next victim?"

  "These people are ruthless," said Ari

  "So I gathered."

  "They almost killed a Korean importer because he had accidentally betrayed the list of immigrants."

  "Jesus, so you were mixed up in that?"

  "That list included many of the names on this credit card spreadsheet."

  "You mean...they're snipping off all the loose ends."

  "When it comes to nuclear surreality, I believe such an action would only be prudent."

  "OK..."

  "Ahmad, are those people in the gallery also listed among of those whose credit card numbers were stolen?"

  "I haven't had a chance to look at all of them, yet."

  "Is Elmore Lawson listed?"

  "You're talking about an American, right?" said Ahmad. "He wouldn't be on the immigration list."

  "Forget the immigration list for the moment. Don't forget, your uncle's picture is in the gallery. He left Iraq long before the war. There are others here targeted for other reasons. Our only connection—"

  "Immigration list?" said Ben.

  "I think some of the intended targets were in this country illegally, under assumed names."

  "So the credit card list would be useless, right?" Ahmad asked.

  "But they would still be in the photo gallery. How many credit card names are listed and how many photos are there?"

  Ahmad checked. "Thirty-eight credit card numbers, forty-one photos." Shaking his head, he continued, "But there's a thousand names on the immigration list. How would they pick the three they're looking for?"

  "You are alarmingly unobservant," Ari frowned.

  Ahmad went back to the immigration list. "Oh crap...there's two columns for names."

  "Exactly. One for their current alias and one showing their real name. Mr. Rhee kept this information to threaten his customers, in the event of non-payment of his fees."

  "Blackmail."

  "Sayid Mohammed Al-Rafa'ee and his group used the list to justify their need for assistance. They were put off by the gunfight at A-Zed."

  "Help from the Chaldeans," said Ahmad.

  "Who I think are no longer a threat. They are busy racing off the compass."

  "You mentioned this immigration list before," Ben frowned.

  "I'll supply details later," Ari said hastily. "The insurgents saw Lawson last night. They won't be as quick to give up as the Chaldeans. Besides, they're American citizens."

  "American insurgents?"

  "A nefarious breed." He speed-dialed Lawson's number. After four rings, he was transferred to voice mail.

  "Why do you think Lawson is next?" Ben asked.

  "Because they have already planted the bomb." He placed a hand on Ahmad's shoulder.

  "Rouse your uncle. We must make haste."

  Ben donned his coat. "Yes, it's about time we brought the police in on this. I'm not sure why we ran away so fast last night."

  Abu Jasim's eyes popped open and he sat straight. "Flics?"

  "If that's Arabic for 'cops', I say sure. We take this database to them, let them send in the bomb squad, the SWAT teams, whatever else—"

  "That would not be a good thing," Ari cut him short. "Some of those illegals would certainly have their throats slashed if they were returned to their homelands."

  "Judging from those thugs we saw in the motel parking lot last night, I can't say that would be all bad," Ben said grimly.

  "Those were the rotten eggs all in one basket," Ari responded.

  "So we leave the immigration file off," Ben suggested. "Give the police the credit card list—"

  "Which also includes illegals," said Ari.

  "Then the target list! We have to protect those people. You know, people like me and my wife! You don't think this is the only copy of that file, do you?"

  "No. But once again, you would be replacing the frying pan with the fire. I recognized some of those people in the gallery. If they are sent back—"

  "I get the picture," Ben said, irritated and frightened. "But how many of these 'American insurgents' are there? If you think this is something we can handle alone, maybe you're due for a re-think."

  "No time for that," Ari said, buttoning his coat. We must go to Lawson now."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Second Battle of Fallujah

  SPC Roger Newell frowned at the crumpled form in the road, about twenty feet beyond the barrier where he and Ghaith were crouched.

  "I don't like dead bodies."

  "Indeed," said Ghaith.

  "I don't like new dead bodies, or old dead bodies, or anything in between. I don't even like to visit graveyards."

  "Then you have chosen a very inappropriate profession."

  "Yeah, I especially don't like the idea of my dead body." He eased back down to a seated position. "But it's a family tradition. One of my ancestors was killed at Gettysburg, another killed in Cuba, another in Korea, another in Vietnam, and an uncle in the first Gulf War. I do
n't visit their graves."

  Ghaith almost told him that he, too, was the beneficiary of a long military tradition before prudence zipped his lips. His father had been a high-ranking officer in the Iraq-Iran War. He had survived, only to die of cancer a few years later.

  "Americans believe in peace," Newell.

  "As evidenced by your family history..." Fortunately, the disguise Ghaith was wearing hid his doubt. But he despised the headgear. It was like a portable oven, and it retained the smells of battle: smoke, gunpowder, corpses. All combined with his own festering body odor in the stewing fabric of the balaclava.

  Newell tore open a small envelope of jalapeno cheese sauce and sucked it empty. "God, I love this stuff."

  "I thought that was supposed to be dispensed on crackers," Ghaith said.

  "Tortilla chips, or something like that," Newell nodded. "But it's just too good by itself..." He scrounged around in his battle pack. "Shit, all gone..." He looked back at the rest of the squad. "Anyone got some jalapeno sauce they don't want?"

  "You already took it all," another crouching infantryman complained.

  "You sure? No one has any left from their MRE's?"

  A loud grumble barely recognizable as human came from a nearby alley.

  "Eat some real food for a change," another grunt advised in a loud whisper.

  "Yeah, and you'd better shut up before the Turge gets you."

  Too late. Sergeant Turgeson emerged from the alley, running at a crouch behind the barrier the Marines had captured from the insurgents. The sniper in the apartment building at the end of the block could not get a clear shot.

  Turgeson threw a handful of condiment envelopes at Newell. "There, I got these out of the Cougar. Now shut the fuck up!"

  "Hey, Sarge, this is mayonnaise and pickle relish!" Newell protested, scooping up the envelopes and perusing the labels.