by Chuck Dixon
The block was a long one as it encircled the main city square where the market was set up. Where it had probably been set up since before the time of Christ. Hector was easy to spot on the crowded corner where Levon left him. He was taller than almost everyone and balancing a melon on one hand held over his head.
“Man, I thought you ditched me,” Hector said. He piled into the passenger seat with the melon and string bags full of produce in his lap. One bag held a block of cigarette cartons. He held out a bottle of Fanta to Levon.
“It’s still cold,” he said.
Levon took the bottle. As he drove he held the chilly glass to his temple.
“Got melon. Pistachios. Goat cheese. Garlic.” Hector rooted through the bag.
“I smelled you before I saw you.” Levon was not smiling.
“You’re going to want to smell like the locals, right? Olfactory camouflage, am I right?”
“You’re not wrong.”
Levon drove them through town and toward the highway that would take them to Mosul. The sun was low in the sky and shadows dropped down from the high face of the great citadel looming above to create a false twilight over half the city. Hector cracked pistachios and enjoyed being the passenger awhile, a boot up on the dash. Two checkpoints, one manned by kids and one official, blocked the access road back to 80. Some sodas made the kids happy. The quartet of Iraqis wanted a twenty each. Hector got them down to fifty total.
They were up on the highway and heading across a table-flat landscape turning purple as dusk approached. Ahead of them the roadway was marked by head and tail lights of semis hauling oil tanks. Darkness closed in all around them. The string of lights moved back and forth through the black to infinity.
“Low on gas,” Levon said. He took a hand from the wheel to punch Hector in the shoulder. The man came awake with a start. His hand moved snake-fast for the short-barrel revolver tucked in his waistband.
“We’re near empty.” Levon pointed to the fuel gauge on the dash.
Hector rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and peered forward. The high beams shone off the road before them. All else was black inkiness. They were an hour past the oil rigs of Bai Hasan and the truck traffic had died away until the highway was empty but for their HiLux. As far as Hector could tell they were alone in the universe with only the cold light of the stars for company.
“Pull up somewhere. Up there looks level,” Hector said. He pointed at a place ahead on the right.
Levon pulled to the side. The tires crunched over the broken stone. He came to a stop.
“I’m going to keep the engine running,” Levon said.
“Yeah. Good idea.” Hector climbed out and moved to the rear of the truck where he had jerry cans strapped down.
He unbuckled the straps and freed a five-gallon can. He snatched up a funnel with a long hose and placed it in the fuel intake. The gas glugged into the tank, the steel skin of the can making metallic pops as it emptied. He held the can in both hands to tip it up to get every drop. Hector was replacing the empty in the truck bed and reaching for the handle of a second can when he heard the grind of stones behind him.
“Asir bekheyr,” a voice said from the dark.
Farsi. Hector’s Farsi sucked but he knew that was ‘good evening.’ The tone wished him anything but.
Two men emerged from the surrounding dark, lit in the reddish glow of the HiLux’s tail lights. Magnum P.I. mustaches and bad skin. They wore camo fatigues speckled gray and white. Urban camo. On their shoulders garish red and yellow patches featured a falcon landing atop the crossbar of an anchor on a field of crossed daggers.
Iranian army.
“Koja mikha y beri?” the other one said.
“Sorry?” Hector said.
“English? American?” the first one said.
“Canadian,” Hector lied.
The second one said something to the first one who nodded. Both raised their rifles at Hector.
“A ya taena haesti?”
Hector understood that much. Are you by yourself? He glanced at the truck cab. Levon Cade was nowhere in sight.
“Baleh,” he said and never felt more alone in his life.
17
They drove through the night past dark houses of just another suburban Smurf village. Roads with names like Rambling Way and Windrift Drive curved and looped and wound back on themselves. It was a maze of identical streets lined with single homes of one and two stories on quarter acre lots.
Merry sat upright, belted in, next to the woman from domestic services. Her name was Miss Nussbaum. Merry would have found that to be a funny name on any other day but this one.
"The Knoxes are a nice family. They already have a girl in foster. I placed her there six months ago. A couple of years older than you," Miss Nussbaum said. She tried on a smile.
Merry said nothing. She didn’t want this woman to hear the catch in her voice. Her eyes still stung from crying. She held back the tears as the lump grew more and more painful in her throat. If she tried to talk she knew that lump would come up to fill her eyes again.
“You’ll be there a few weeks until we can place you somewhere more permanent. I’ll be by in a few days to see how you’re settling in.” Miss Nussbaum glanced at the clock on the dashboard.
Merry nodded.
“I gave you my card, didn’t I?”
Merry nodded again.
The car pulled to the curb at the foot of a driveway. The house was in the middle of a long block — an older split level with vinyl siding. A pair of hatchbacks sat on the cracked concrete driveway. Miss Nussbaum kept the engine running while she retrieved a bag from the back seat of her car. Some of Merry's clothes picked out for her by one of the women, a Treasury agent in big glasses, who had been at Uncle Fern's house. The petite black woman who was very kind to Merry. She sensed that the woman's kindness wasn't pretended. Not like Miss Nussbaum or Agent Valdez.
Miss Nussbaum rang the bell. The muffled sound of a television went silent and the door was pulled open. A woman held the door open for them. She wore cut-off jeans and slippers and a Crimson Tide t-shirt several sizes too large.
“She’s white,” the woman said by way of greeting. She wore a painted-on smile too.
“Well, yes,” Miss Nussbaum said.
“I wasn’t sure. Can’t tell by names anymore,” the woman said and accepted a sheaf of forms on a clipboard offered her by Miss Nussbaum. She took a pen from under the clip and began signing papers.
Merry leaned to one side to peek past the women at the room beyond. A narrow living room with wood paneled walls. There was a sofa and two easy chairs, all covered in clear plastic. A man lay back on the sofa, watching some kind of show about fishermen on a big TV set on the far wall. The volume on mute. Merry couldn’t see much but that the man was skinny and had a ponytail. He had an ashtray resting on his belly and a cigarette burned away between his fingers. A pizza box lay open on a coffee table with half a pie still left. Merry felt a gurgle in her stomach.
“This is Mrs. Knox, Merry,” Miss Nussbaum said. She stooped to touch Merry’s arm.
“You can call me Carrie. My husband’s name is Greg.” The woman nodded toward the man reclining in the next room.
“Do I have to sign a paper too?” Merry said.
The women shared a dry chuckle.
“No, that’s all taken care of. You have some of your things here? I’ll show you to the room you’ll share with Lisa. She’s another girl we’re taking care of,” Carrie said.
“So, we’re done here?” Miss Nussbaum said. She was backing toward the doorway, anxious to leave.
“We’re going to be fine. Aren’t we, Merry?” Carrie smiled and tilted her head in a way she probably thought was comforting.
Merry picked up the bag while the women made their farewells. She could tell by the weight there were no books inside the bag. She didn’t see any books anywhere in what little of the house she could see.
“Is there anything you
need, Merry? It’s late and you’re probably tired,” Carrie said.
Merry's stomach was tight as a fist. Her last meal was at breakfast. She would not tell this woman that. She longed to be alone, away from all adults. She wanted to be able to drop the mask she was wearing and cry to herself.
“I’ll lay out your sleep clothes while you take a bath. There’s fresh towels for you.” Carrie took the bag from her hands and led the way up to the second floor.
Carrie showed her to the bathroom. It was a tiny room with a clawfoot tub, a sink and cracked white tile on the walls and a yellow linoleum floor. A stack of clean white towels sat on the sink counter with a new toothbrush and a bar of soap resting atop it.
“We have rules here but they can wait until morning. I’ll be taking you to the school tomorrow to get you registered. Lisa will make sure you get up on time to get dressed and have breakfast. She’s the other girl we have in care. You’re sharing a room.” Carrie bent to put the stopper in the drain and turned on the tap in the tub.
“Will you be all right on your own?” Carrie said. She was already moving to the door.
“I’ll be okay,” Merry said.
“You’ll find your pee-jays on the bed that’ll be yours. Just bring your towel back to put in this hamper.” Carrie pointed to a basket by the bathroom door and stepped into the hall, drawing the door closed behind her.
“Good night,” Carrie said through the door.
Merry moved on tiptoe to shoot a bolt lock closed. She pulled the heavy wicker hamper across the linoleum until it was hard against the door. Then she stripped out of her clothes and added them to the laundry in the hamper. There were other rumpled articles that looked like they belonged to the other girl.
She waited until the tub was half full and stepped inside, easing down into the steaming embrace. She dipped a washcloth into the water and wrung it out to hold it against her face with both hands. Her shoulders shivered like the wings of a baby bird as she surrendered to the strangling lump in her throat. Her sobs echoed back to her off the tiles. Her tears mixed with the bathwater until the water got cold.
Gunny Leffertz said:
“No one holds a grudge like a Persian.”
18
The two guys switched to Persian. One of them turned the ignition on the HiLux and pocketed the keys. It died with a hiss and a wheeze. He tossed through the cab of the HiLux looking for swag. The other held his rifle steady on Hector. Hector didn’t know much Persian. Not even enough to order a meal. He knelt on the ground with his hands clasped at the back of his head as they commented over everything they found in the truck. They stuffed the cartons of Kools and Marlboros into their tunics.
Hector’s heart was pounding rabbit fast. The buzzing sound of his own rushing blood built in his ears to a deafening pulse. He raced through his options. Make a run into the dark. Make a play for one of their weapons. Every choice was bad. Doing nothing was worse.
The younger of the two Iranians poked him in the head with the barrel of an AK and asked a question.
“Yeah. I fucked your sister, motherfucker,” Hector said. In English.
The Iranian didn’t understand the words but caught the tone. He gave Hector a harder tap with the muzzle. It opened a scrape along Hector’s scalp. Warm blood oozed through his hair to run down his neck.
They had him up and walking with kicks and prods, directing him into the greater dark. They spoke to one another at Hector’s expense. They were snickering at each other’s remarks. He dared himself to run into the black night. Just take off and fuck what came next. In his mind, he was already a mile away, racing out of range of their hot rounds. His body wasn’t buying the fantasy. His legs wouldn’t obey.
A battered Safir, an Iranian knock-off of an American Jeep, sat on the floor of a shallow depression, down out of sight from the roadway. Trash from ration containers and empty water bottles were tossed all around. These guys had been camped here a while. They were out of the fight. Malingerers or even deserters. The vehicle had a tarp rigged from it as a makeshift tent. Two more figures sat in the gloom under the tarp, their backs to the side of the Safir. A coffee pot bubbled on a butane stove. The smell of Turkish tobacco hung in the air in a foul fug.
The older Iranian spoke to the two under the tarp. Neither man answered or moved. He kicked out at a boot. The wearer slumped sideways, into the other man’s lap. A thick coppery smell mingled with the odor of scorched coffee and cigarettes.
Hector threw himself to the ground and made himself as small as he could. Two barks came from the outer dark. A pair of bright white flashes. The young guy sagged to his knees, face gone. The older guy turned to meet a third round. It took him high in the chest. He tumbled against the camp stove, spilling coffee to the sand in a steaming pool.
Levon Cade stepped from the dark at a fast walk. Rifle up. He pumped a round each into the fallen men as he closed. Their bodies jerked, both stone dead, reanimated by the impacts. Hector was up on his feet in a stumble. He tripped over the tent line from the tarp, tearing it aside. Two more Iranians lay exposed, black blood from slit throats shiny in the starlight.
“Shit,” Hector said. He bent to catch his breath. He disguised the motion by picking up a discarded AK.
Levon walked to the Safir and did a search of the interior. He found a Russian-made handgun and handset radio. He put the pistol in his waistband and hung the radio from his belt.
“Motherfuck,” Hector said. He leaned against the fender of the Safir. He sucked air into his lungs in sips. A bellyful of dates came up to spill over one of his captors.
“Sack up. And don’t forget the cigarettes,” Levon said. He walked back toward the roadway.
Hector leaped up to follow. He gave his head a brisk shake.
“I thought you were combat experienced,” Levon said when Hector caught up.
“House to house, point and shoot firefights. Not ninja shit like that,” Hector said.
“A fight’s a fight.”
“You got ahead of us. Kakked those guys without a sound.”
“I had to know how many of them there were.”
“God damn. God damn.” Hector’s voice was hoarse with stomach acid. He hawked and spat.
They returned to the HiLux. Levon took charge of pouring the fuel into the tank. Hector gathered all the stuff the Iranians had pulled from the cab and put it back in place. The tank topped, Levon took the wheel and they headed west.
Neither spoke for a few miles.
“You left me with them. How’d you know they weren’t going to kill me right there?” Hector said.
“Because they were going to rape you first.”
Hector turned to him. Levon’s eyes were fixed on the road ahead.
“That’s what they were laughing about,” Hector said.
Levon nodded.
“Jesus,” Hector said.
“You can thank Him too.”
19
“You had to go that way?” Bill Marquez said.
“What do you mean?” Nancy Valdez said.
“The little girl. Did you have to take that angle?”
“On a major federal case? You want me to tiptoe? Baby steps?”
They were at her place in Alexandria. He offered to make dinner for them both. His specialty pasta puttanesca. All fresh ingredients he picked up at Whole Foods, along with the California red she liked. It was a silent understanding that Bill would be spending the night. A celebration of her making a major move on the case that started with him at the Bureau before her unit at Treasury took it on. A victory for both of them in a lot of ways, the investigation that brought them together in the first place.
As Bill heard more of the details from Alabama he was feeling less celebratory.
"You're punishing the girl for what her father did?" he said. His fork was down, the meal forgotten.
“You make it sound like she was an innocent. Meredith Cade has been with her father every step of the way on this,” she said. She sw
irled red in her glass, her meal untouched too.
“She was an accessory? You’re not serious.”
“Where’s any evidence to the contrary? This guy goes on a road trip over half the country leaving bodies everywhere he goes. You think she spent the whole time coloring with crayons?”
“There had to be another way.”
“What way? Tell me. I only have this case because the FBI fucked it up and let the trail go cold. It was my team tracked this guy home while you guys were waiting for him to walk in and hand himself over. And let’s look at what’s going on with this guy. Multiple murders. Grand theft. Interstate flight. And the key to a fortune in stolen cash possibly. I’m talking billions potentially.”
“And the little girl was in on it all. You seriously believe that?”
“Maybe she’s a victim here. Maybe that’s true. Her dad takes her along as an unwilling participant.” Nancy shrugged. “But you haven’t talked to her. She’s thirteen years old with the mind of a three-time loser. Kept trying to turn the Q&A back on me. She knows more than she’ll say. She knows where her father is. Maybe even where the money is.”
“What’s the strategy? You let foster care break her?”
“She has my card.”
“Christ, Nance. That’s rotten.”
“And what would you do? You think she was living in some model home? A sociopath for a dad? Some old coot of an uncle living in hillbilly paradise?”
“So you’re doing her favor turning her over to the system?”
“I looked for other family.”
“How hard?”
Nancy slammed her glass down hard enough to slosh wine across the table.
“I thought you wanted this fucker caught.” Her eyes narrowed to slits. Her head tilted, chin out.
“No one wants Cade nailed more than me. Shit, I was two steps behind him in Kansas City.” Bill reached over to blot spilled wine with his napkin.
“I want him too. I need to close the books on him, justify the faith the department put in me.”