Levon Cade Omnibus

by Chuck Dixon

  “I’m Canadian,” Levon lied. “I was born with the name Jonathan. But I am Rohan Haddad now.”

  “You come to be Daesh?” Yasin said.

  “Yes. I believe in the caliphate. I believe it is God’s will that this land returns to Sharia.”

  Yasin turned to blink into the sun. His brother sat on the gravel in the shade of the curtain wall, watching birds fluttering down to roost on the forest of satellite dishes. He threw a piece of gravel that clanged off a dish. It sent the birds flying.

  “Daesh killed my parents.” Yasin said it as plain fact. There was no rancor or remorse in his voice.

  “It was God’s will,” Levon said.

  Yasin wrinkled his nose at that.

  “You have good food,” the boy said.

  “It is yours to share,” Levon said.

  “And what must we do for it?”

  The price. Everything came down to a price.

  “I need you to tell me where something is.”

  “What?”

  “A machine. A generator. It’s somewhere out of sight where I can’t see it.”

  “Behind the building you watch.”

  “Yes. Behind the Hotel Azur.”

  Yasin looked to Levon’s pack. He ran a tongue over his teeth.

  “All you want,” Levon said.

  “Why does Daesh watch Daesh?”

  “Do you care?”

  Yasin studied Levon’s face a moment.

  “No,” the boy said.

  He stepped over to his brother and took the younger boy’s hand. He lifted Zamir to his feet. Together they walked to the shed where the stairwell exited. They entered to start the long descent down to the street.

  “And what makes you believe those two will not turn us in at the first opportunity?” Bazît said.

  “We fed them,” Levon said.

  “The Sunnis might feed them too.” Bazît shook his head and kicked at the gravel.

  “You see those kids? Living worse than stray dogs. All they can think of is filling their bellies.”

  “Dogs bite their masters too.” Bazît turned to walk to the corner of the rooftop. He leaned over the curtain wall and watched the two brothers pick their way over the broken concrete that lay in the alley below. They navigated between tangles of rusting rebar toward the tower of the French hotel.

  “Hejar. You better follow them,” Levon said.

  Hejar rolled from under the awning and picked up his rifle to trot to the stairwell.

  Levon walked down to street level while Bazît kept watch from the hide. He climbed over rubble and down narrow alleys to a broader avenue that intersected Nineveh Street. He walked along a few blocks south along with people heading back and forth to the local market. The women were covered head to toe in dark cloth, eyes cast to the road as they carried bags loaded with goods. The men walked casually, talking with companions. An imam led a gaggle of silent schoolboys toward a mosque. The voices of clerics murmured from radios all along the roadway.

  He bought a bottle of water from a street vendor. He turned the cap, listening to the crack of plastic, before paying. It was a new bottle. The vendor nodded and grinned. Water purification in Mosul was as spotty as the electric service. The water coming from the taps was loaded with bacteria and rust.

  Traffic on the street was confined to up-armored pickup trucks packed with glowering men armed to the teeth. ISIS was rich in oil but poor in fuel. There were no refineries in the regions they controlled. While they found ready buyers for their crude on the world spot market, actual gasoline and diesel were hard to come by. Rationing was strict about keeping the jihadi vehicles active and the power plant running.

  He needed a ride. One that would provide natural camouflage. Any pickups, Toyotas and Hyundais he saw parked were all set at intersections and fully manned. Young men lounged around them, smoking and bullshitting. A mile along the avenue brought him to a pocket park. It was empty of all but a few old men talking quietly around a bone-dry fountain at the center of the open lot.

  In the corner of the lot a young man worked under the hood of a pickup pulled up in the shade of some cedars. An Isuzu pickup painted in a dappled improvised camouflage pattern. It sagged under the weight of an anti-aircraft gun bolted down in the bed. A limp black ISIS Flag swayed on a pole behind the cab. The young man was squatting over an open toolbox and cursing under his breath when Levon walked up to him.

  “That model is temperamental,” Levon said.

  The young man glanced up at the tall stranger. His eyes narrowed and his mouth turned down.

  “Your Arabic is good. Where does a white man learn to speak like this?”

  “I married an Egyptian girl.”

  The young man shrugged.

  Levon leaned his rifle against a fender and bent to look under the hood of the truck. The engine block was coated with the gummy residue of old grease from a bad seal.

  “It won’t start?”

  “It is a bitch!” The young man tossed a wrench that bounced off the grill.

  “My brother had one of these back in Derry.”

  “Derry?”

  “In Ireland. I’d never miss a chance to kill Englishmen.”

  The young man’s suspicion melted into a grin.

  “I heard that the Irish like to fight,” he said.

  “You heard right, my friend. Especially when the fight is a righteous one.”

  “Allahu akbar,” the young man said, ducking his head.

  “Allahu akbar,” Levon said. “Now what’s the trouble with this bitch?”

  “It will not start.”

  “Give it a try.”

  The young man got in the cab and turned the key. An anemic clicking and tapping died away to a sputter then silence. The battery was good. Levon went to the toolbox for a crescent wrench to loosen the belts and pull the alternator. The young man watched as the stranger took the alternator apart with expert ease and laid the pieces on a greasy towel on the ground.

  "Diode looks okay. A lot of carbon. You're not getting much of a spark," Levon said. He pointed to the disassembled barrel shape — rings, bearings, fan and plates. The young man nodded in mute agreement.

  Levon cleaned the brushes and slip ring and reassembled the alternator. With the young man’s help he replaced it under the Isuzu’s hood and adjusted the belt tension. Leads in place, he stepped back and told the young man to give it another go. After a rattle, the truck roared to life. The young man’s face split into a grin.

  “You’re going to need to replace the unit. But you’re good for a while. As long as it’s running, anyway,” Levon said. He replaced the tools in the box and wiped his hands on the towel.

  “My brothers will be pleased. They did not believe I could get it working again,” the young man called over the rumbling engine. He cut the power and stepped from the cab to stand before the truck.

  “Where are your brothers?” Levon asked.

  The old men shuffled away from the fountain. The park was empty.

  “They went to the market, left me here to work on the truck. I am good with motors.” The young man shut the hood and stepped back toward Levon.

  “Do you have a car you dream of owning one day?” Levon said from behind him.

  The boy was picturing a silver Mercedes when his new friend’s arm snaked around his neck. With his free hand Levon gripped his fist and pressed it toward him. The boy’s throat was trapped in the crook of Levon’s arm. He bucked against the pressure, kicking at the ground and clawing at Levon’s sleeve. His hands fell away, his legs trembled. A stream of piss spilled over his feet making a puddle in the dust. Levon kept the pressure on even after the body went slack.

  He dropped the young man to the ground. His windpipe crushed and his brain starved of blood. The boy’s eyes were crimson from broken vessels. His mouth was bloody where he’d bitten through his tongue.

  Levon dumped the body into the bed of the Isuzu by the base of the AAA gun. He covered it over with
the ISIS flag torn from the pole. Behind the wheel, he cranked the engine to life once more. He dropped it into gear and pulled from under the trees and onto the street. He drove away from the market for a few blocks. After two right turns he pointed the truck back toward the apartment block where Bazît waited.

  46

  He found Yasin and Zamir asleep in the shade at the top of the stairs. The litter of three MREs lay torn open and licked clean by them. Their mouths were greasy rings. Levon stepped over them onto the rooftop. A sack bulging with more goodies was hugged in the arms of the older brother. The drawstring looped around Yasin’s reed-thin wrist.

  “They did as you asked them,” Hejar said.

  Bazît showed Levon a crude drawing made in marker on a piece of cardboard torn from a carton. It showed the rectangle of the Azur and lines representing a privacy fence that surrounded a courtyard behind the hotel. The pool was shown as an oval.

  "What's this?" Levon said. He pointed at some squiggles in the corner of the courtyard.

  “The generator. They said it is under an awning against the rear of the building,” Bazît said.

  “The boys said there were many Daesh around the pool. They were roasting a sheep. I could smell it,” Hejar said.

  “They should be gone by night,” Levon said.

  “Unless they sleep outside,” Bazît said.

  “Not with the nights getting colder,” Hejar said.

  “Did they see any women? Girls?” Levon said.

  Hejar shook his head.

  “We go tonight?” Bazît said.

  “Tonight,” Levon said.

  “Those boys are gone.” Bazît was touching his arm. “They have left.”

  Levon came awake. It was late afternoon when he’d closed his eyes for a moment. The sky was gray now.

  “When?”

  “I did not see them leave. I was watching the hotel.”

  “Hejar?”

  “He was down getting the truck ready.”

  Levon stood to look out over the city. Lights were coming on. A spray of tracers flew upward from somewhere. The boom of a passing jet invisible in the gloom above.

  “Did they take anything?” Levon lifted a rucksack to spill its contents onto the roof. His backpack, with the bundle of cash, lay under him while he was sleeping.

  “Maybe.” Bazît shrugged.

  “There’s not as much as there was earlier. They took all the MREs and cigarettes.”

  “They will betray us.”

  “More likely? They saw us running low on stuff and decided to grab what they could and run. Just hungry kids.”

  “I would feel better if they were dead. You would not listen.”

  “Those boys are just a little bit younger than your daughters.”

  “They are Sunni. They will be Daesh. They will serve whoever feeds them. From cubs come wolves.”

  “I’m not saying you’re wrong.”

  “Have you had to kill a child, Levon Cade?”

  “Someone told me that I’m a kind man but not a good man.”

  Bazît’s eyes narrowed.

  A low whistle from the stairwell. Hejar was returning.

  “It will be full dark in two hours. That’s when we move. A little over four hours until the rolling blackout hits.” Levon picked up his rifle and moved to the tarp-covered hide.

  47

  “Hello. Fern here.”

  “Uncle Fern?”

  “That you, Merry girl?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Damn, it’s good to hear your voice. I’ve been missing having you around here.”

  “I miss you too. And the farm.”

  “Don’t worry yourself about the farm. I’m taking good care of your pony. Dr. Jessie’s been by to check on him. Says he’s healthy as a horse. Well, that just makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  “And the goat?”

  “The goat’s just fine. Goats are tough as leather.”

  “That’s good.”

  “They going to let you come home soon, Merry?”

  “I don’t know. A nice lady here says I’ll be going with family somewhere. Either with you or in Tennessee.”

  “Wendell and Alma. But you’ve never even met them, have you?”

  “Nope. I never even heard of them before I met you. And I thought you were somebody my daddy made up for the stories he told me.”

  “They treating you okay, honey?”

  “They are now. What about you? You still in trouble?”

  “Well, they tore the place up pretty good looking for something. Had cops from all over stomping through here, ripping up the barn floor. They even dug a few holes and found nothing. But they’ve been leaving me alone the last few days.”

  “I’m so sorry, Uncle Fern.”

  “No need for that. I’ve always been in trouble of one kind or another.”

  “They’re telling me my time is up. I have to go.”

  “You take care, honey.”

  “See you soon, Uncle Fern.”

  Nancy Valdez tore headphones from her head and threw them to the console. Chad Bengstrom snatched up a canned soda before it spilled onto his keyboard.

  “Not one goddamned word about her father!” she said. She shoved away from the desk.

  “And nothing about her location,” Laura Strand said.

  “That bitch social worker has her hidden away in the system down there. I’m having to deal with county judges and getting nowhere. They think the Civil War is still going on.” Nancy paced the quad like a caged animal.

  “Anything else on the hillbilly’s phone?” Tony Marcoon said around a wad of nicotine gum.

  “The guy never talks to anyone,” Chad said.

  “This is the first call he’s had all week,” Laura said.

  "Ed Bowden called it ‘mountain pride,'" Tony said.

  “Just another way of saying criminal conspiracy,” Nancy said. “They’re waiting us out. Hoping the investigation ends so Cade can resurface and cash in.”

  “Or they really don’t know where he is or anything about this pile of cash we’re theorizing about,” Laura said.

  “We stay up on the tap. See where the daughter lands. Work another angle then,” Nancy said.

  Gunny Leffertz said:

  “When you’re fucked, you’re fucked. No use crying. All you can do is get yourself un-fucked.”

  48

  The temperatures dropped to near freezing. The air was damp, making for a bone-chilling cold. The miserable weather enforced the curfew with more authority than the truckloads of gunmen cruising the streets watching for offenders.

  Somewhere along the river a series of explosions created a sudden and brief corona along the horizon that threw the skyline to the east into a stark eclipse. Responding AAA fire lanced into the sky, seeking targets in a reverse meteor shower. Small arms erupted in accompaniment, red streaks arcing into the dark in impotent fury.

  The sentries before the Hotel Azur were down to a skeleton crew. All of the idle loafers who were out on the street all afternoon were warm inside now. The power was still up on this block, slits of yellow glow in the gaps of blackout curtains. The shimmering aquatic light of television screens.

  Levon and Bazît crouched in the dark of a shuttered shop across the boulevard from the hotel front. They'd entered the store from the alley in the rear an hour before. The place was a bakery of some kind and showed signs of looting. Smashed display cases left a carpet of broken glass on the floor that crunched underfoot. Between the slats of wood covering the windows, Levon watched the hotel front. Three men bundled in hooded coats were standing in the shelter of the canopy above the doors to the main lobby. They were armed but not watchful. Two of them were engaged in conversation. The third appeared to be engrossed in texting on a smartphone.

  Twenty minutes until the scheduled blackout.

  The alley behind the hotel was choked with rubbish, making quiet passage difficult.

  Hejar placed his feet carefully bet
ween cartons, cans, bottles and discarded pool furniture to move around to the rear of the building. The wall running about the pool courtyard was a screen of decorative cement block with perforations in a diamond pattern. The opposite side of the alley was a high concrete wall topped with strings of razor wire. A multi-storied car park beyond it.

  He was able to see through the design of the wall surrounding the pool to the fully lit courtyard area. He was well concealed in the shadows of the narrow alleyway and could watch unseen. Flickering fluorescents lit the back of the hotel like a stage.

  The remains of the sheep roast were still in evidence. The two boys had not lied about that. A stripped rib cage still hung from a spit over a steel tub scorched black. Some café tables and chairs were arranged in a corner piled with paper trash.

  The water level in the pool was several feet lower than the tiled rim. Even in the cold air the stink from the dark water was stomach-turning. Hejar pinched his nostrils closed. He moved along the wall, peering through the holes in the blocks in search of something that looked like a generator. A sort of painted metal cabinet was against a latticework wall. It looked to be ten feet long and three feet high. There were vents and hatches in the steel casing. At the far end was a vertical pipe of PVC with a cap of some sort atop it. He could see cables and pipes running from it and back through the lattice wall. It sat under an awning as the two boys had described.

  He crouched in the trash to wait for the lights to die. He slung his rifle across his back. He wiped sweating hands on his pants. From the pocket of his coat he removed a plastic bag of sand Levon had given him. The American instructed him to find the fuel intake on the generator and pour the sand inside. The generator would fail to start in a way that could be blamed on mechanical problems. It would buy Levon and Bazît a few minutes more time to work their way inside.

  No one was out in the courtyard. Shadows moved now and again across the glass of the entrance but no one came outside. There were no guards in sight. Why would there be? Daesh owned the city. There was no one left to raise a fist to them.