"'Case'. That is a mystery?"
"It might even be interesting. The big check won't come from me. That would be the Central Virginia Group. I would be overseeing you, though."
"I would be working for your insurance company?"
Lawson headed a subcontracted insurance fraud investigation unit for the Group.
"I won't get into the technicalities of insourcing and outsourcing. Let's just say I'm in and you're out. Here's Mr. Persistence, again."
"So I see…"
Ari opened his door once more as the young man fondled his handlebars. This time, he waited until Ari stood before he flipped the bird and scooted off.
"Maybe you should invest in a lock for that bike," said Lawson as Ari reseated himself.
"I am sitting here, only a few feet away. I am the lock."
"Maybe so, but now he's had a good look at you. He knows you're old…okay, older…and that he can outrun you. Next time he'll come in low and fast."
"Thank you for the heads down," said Ari. "That gun in your glove compartment…it's different."
"You don't recognize it?"
"A Bersa .380. I can see why you would want something with a modest recoil…"
"Yeah, an old mangled vet can't deal with too much kickback."
"It also has…it is called a tactical rail, correct?"
"A Picatinny rail, straight from New Jersey. Your buddy Ben fixed it up for me so I don't drop the gun at an inconvenient moment."
Ari did not realized Ben Torson and Elmore Lawson had become friends. This could prove a dangerous nuisance. Because a couple of Ari's neighbors belonged to Christ Methodist Church, Ari's address had become known to some of the parishioners, as well as Pastor Grainger. Only Ben and Grainger were aware that Ari had worked for the Coalition in Iraq, but that was enough to pose a risk to his security. If Karen found out about this leak she would kick him out of the house on Beach Court Lane. For all its vulnerabilities, Ari had grown accustomed to his new home. Perhaps even fond of it. Had Ben told Lawson where he lived? It was unlikely. Ben might not be a fount of common sense (otherwise he would not be dealing with Ari), but he probably understood loose lips could put Ari at risk.
"I might be a broken up tin man, but I still go out in the field, occasionally."
"I am well aware of your feats," said Ari.
Lawson's laughter was genuine, a rarity.
"I am to be told of my mission? It is something that you are not qualified for? You also have many men under your command, including some excellent marksmen. I was surprised one needed that particular talent in the insurance compendium."
"In this business you never know who you have to shoot," said Lawson. "Mostly, though, we leave that to the SWAT teams. You want to know why I'm not doing this job myself?"
"You do not speak Arabic fluently," said Ari.
"Fuck!" Lawson slapped his prosthetic hand on his thigh. "Okay, Mr. You're-Thoroughly-Pissing-Me-Off. Tell me why that's important."
"Americans are always investigating Arabs. It is their delight. They are your boogabug."
"Bugaboo."
"In all of these investigations, it is only natural that one day insurance counterintelligence would become involved. Are we speaking of false claims, here? I'm sure you recall the Korean group we dealt with. They were actually quite charming. Did they ever deliver your leg?"
"It's hard to ship USPS from jail," said Lawson, adding an oath for good measure.
"We put them there."
"Don't remind me. You're right, we're talking about fraud. And since you're allegedly an Italian who speaks fluent Arabic—and since you're handy in a fight—your services would be greatly appreciated."
"I am all aglow with your flattery," said Ari.
"Are you interested? And before we go any further, I might as well tell you it could be dangerous. Not likely, but…"
"I have put you in a similar situation," said Ari with contrition that was only half-feigned.
"Ever hear of O'Connor's Freight Lines?"
"I believe I have seen mighty semi-trucks on the highway bearing that name."
"I'm a little surprised. They aren't that big a company and most of their business is hired out to third parties. Well, they've come into a bit of a problem. Several of their trucks have been hijacked. It would be bad enough for us if they had the standard Goods in Transit coverage. Unfortunately—for us—O'Connor's had bought into the Theft/Hijack Excess Reducer Policy, which put CVG on the hook for most of the cargo…and the fucking trucks, too."
"Truck hijackings are very common in Iraq…so I hear."
"They're not all that uncommon here, either…like we're in a goddamn war transit zone. Most of them are inside jobs, and we've gotten pretty good at tracking down the culprits."
"This is encouraging to hear," said Ari. "However, I do not speak Irish Gaelic."
"O'Connor's is 100% Arab owned and operated. They opened for business in 2006. I'm not sure how they got their license, considering the big stink with DPW around the same time."
Ari gave him an inquiring glance.
"You don't follow American business news in Sicily?" Lawson's face twisted in what might have been a smirk. "You don't know Dubai Ports World?"
"Yes, famous global traders. They are based in Dubai."
"There was a plan in motion for them to take charge of operations in 22 American ports. When word got out all hell broke loose. Congress had visions of Arab hordes swooping out of the cargo holds with all their weaponry in the heart of American commerce. The sale was blocked and DPW was forced to unload their assets on a more trustworthy company." Lawson's snort sounded painful. "AIG!"
"I detect irony in your observation," said Ari.
"AIG is like one of the biggest insurance honchos on the block, and it looks like they're going to go belly up unless the government bails them out."
"The shipping business does not agree with them?"
"Do you watch the news at all?" Lawson asked.
"I know that my neighbor's lawn mower was stolen."
"You caught that on BBC World News America?"
Ari shrugged contritely. "I have no television."
"Do you listen to your car radio?"
"Every time I turn the dial I hear horrible noise or Protestant preachers who sound…"
"Unhinged? Sounds like your radio is stuck on AM. Do you have a computer?"
"Ah, yes…" Which he used mainly to view the images sent to him from CENTCOM.
"Well, stop gaping at the porn sites and look at the news, sometimes. Do you know that the world is going through the worst financial crisis since the Great Depression?"
"I may have heard something about it…" Ari said doubtfully.
"It started when the housing market collapsed, and it's been all dominoes since then. Turns out the fiscal practices of a lot of big corporations are questionable at best."
"Like AIG?"
"Like all of them. They gamed the system and the system bit back. And now it's spreading downwards. The Central Virginia Group laid off thirty people last month, with more to come."
"Is your job secure?" Ari asked solicitously, wondering if he would be able to continue feeding Luckless.
"I'm all right, for now. One thing big crooks hate is little crooks nibbling at the edges. As long as they have a CEO and a secretary, they'll want investigators to keep from getting robbed."
"And O'Connor's Trucking is a little crook?"
"That's my guess, but I could be wrong," Lawson admitted. "Three hijacking claims in a month is an awful lot. Not in AIG's league, of course. But right now, on a scale of 1 to 10, even a 1 raises hackles."
"How were these crimes…please, one moment…"
"Jesus fuck!" Lawson yelled as Ari snapped open the glove compartment and whipped out Lawson's gun. He had already opened the passenger door and was leaping onto the pavement. He had spotted the young man crouched at the back of the building. Both men sprang forward at the same instant. The young ma
n gave a yelp as Ari slammed him against the wall. He fell to the sidewalk and Ari pressed the gun barrel into his forehead.
"Ari! No!" Lawson shouted.
The young man squirmed, crying.
"In my culture, to accost another man's wife brings certain death," Ari said calmly.
"It's a fucking bike!" the young man sobbed.
"To disparage a man's wife also carries a sentence of death. This elegant mountain bicycle is my wife. She lays beneath me in loving acceptance. She embraces me in her arms. She coddles my manhood…"
"Oh God, oh shit, I didn't know!"
"If ignorance was salvation the entire world would be saved." Ari sighed. "You have brought this upon yourself."
"Please…"
Ari sniffed and made a face of disgust. "You have soiled yourself."
The young man moaned.
"I cannot execute a man who is unclean. Race home and change your diapers immediately. And if you are an honorable man, you will return to meet your just reward."
The young man was already out of sight by the time Ari slipped back into the passenger seat and tucked the gun back into the compartment.
"A Picatinny rail. Very interesting."
"I'm sure you had no intention of shooting that boy," Lawson said a little breathlessly.
"He was very foolish," said Ari, rubbing his sore knee.
"I kept my eye out. So far as I could tell, no one else saw any of that. But if you had hurt that boy, I would have shot you, myself."
"You are immaculate of guilt," said Ari. "I had your gun. Very well, I had no intention of shooting him."
"It's not like I've never seen you shoot someone before."
"Alas, it is not my cup of tea, though you may think otherwise."
"I'll need something stronger than tea by the time I get home. I'd leave now, but I need this prescription."
"Your sick pack. You were about to tell me how the hijackings were accomplished. These were large trucks?"
"Semi-trailer tractors. The MO's were all the same. 'Modus operandi' sounds too snooty, so I just say 'mode of operation'."
"Far less snoot," Ari agreed.
"The hijackers knew the routes. They knew the truckers take small connector roads between the big highways. One of them was taken near Cumberland."
"'Taken'?"
"Stopped by a guy pretending to be a state trooper. Man, impersonating a cop is one thing, but a state trooper? These guys have balls—which will be forfeit if the troopers catch up to them."
"This happened with all the hijackings?"
"Yes, with two cars pulling up after the stop. They force the driver out at gunpoint, toss his phone in the bushes, take him to one of the cars and drop him off on a forest road. Those are state roads used by park rangers—"
"I am familiar with them," said Ari.
"Oh. All right. The first time they off-loaded the consignment onto another truck. We require that our commercial customers hide a GPS tracker in the cargo. The hijackers found it and drove it thirty miles south before dropping it in a ditch. Next couple of times they took off with both the consignments and the trucks—neither of which was a hire-out, but owned by O'Connor's. They must have had plates to swap out. They would have had to hide the O'Connor's logo on the cabs, but that could have been done with a bucket of paint and a brush. What makes me suspicious is that they found the trackers right off, as if someone had told them where they were hidden. The drivers are not supposed to know where the trackers are. In theory, at least."
"Perhaps they have a device that locates these trackers," said Ari.
"A digital RF detector, you mean. That's also a possibility."
"Which would eliminate the 'inside job' necessity."
"Either way, we're looking at international issues here."
"Pardon?"
"Nine times out of ten consignments like this end up in Canada. They tax the shit out of tobacco up there. I think that's how they fund their health care system."
"The cargo was tobacco?"
"Cigarettes, to the tune of 1.5 million dollars' worth in each shipment."
"Ah," said Ari, his mercenary mind shifting into gear. His friend Abu Jasim lived near Montreal. Perhaps….
"By the way, with that junk off your ankle, I suppose you can go wherever you want?"
"I am as free as your American eagle. However, it is more difficult to get into Canada these days."
"If it comes to that, we'll let the Mounties handle it. Christ, all this talk about smoking…" Lawson began worrying his pack of Marlboros out of his pocket. He winced when Ari assisted him. "All right, all right, but you know I can do this myself, right?"
"I am assisting you so that I can steal one of your cigarettes. I would have been terrorized by the other riders had I taken my pack on the bike trail."
"I guess so."
Ari used Lawson's Bic to light both of their Marlboros. The van quickly filled up with smoke and they opened their windows.
"On my regimen, smoking is strictly contraindicated," Lawson said with a small cough.
"It is increasingly frowned upon," Ari nodded.
"My health carrier would dock me if they knew," said Lawson. "Shit, I get blown half to hell and everything's hunky dory, but take a puff…"
"Every society has its ironies," Ari observed.
"I used to think 'irony' and 'laughter' went together. Now I don't think it's so funny."
"Give it time, and you will laugh."
"What are you, the old man of the mountain? I don't think laughter is always possible."
"You might be right," said Ari. "What is it you are hiring me for? Do you want me to drive one of these trucks and kill anyone who tries to hijack me?"
"No. Not yet, at least. I want you to meet the owner of O'Connor's, feel her out."
"'Her'?"
"The owner is Nabihah Sadiq. Her address is on the side of the envelope."
"You want me to feel her up?"
"Don't break any taboos. Just sound her out, see if you think she's on the up and up."
"An Arab woman?"
"Yes. Egyptian."
"And she owns the company?"
"Don't be so put out. It's not so unusual here, and it's probably not that unusual wherever the hell you come from. There are plenty of women who have a good head for business. This lady is sharp."
"You mean 'smart'?"
"Don't sound so disappointed. If you don't want to meet her, we can just drop all of this. All I really want is for you to talk to her in her own language. Her English is perfect, mind you. She has a university education. But sometimes what sounds like the truth in one language doesn't sound quite the same in another."
Ari pressed the envelope between his fingers. Although he had made much more in some of his covert endeavors, the $500 felt comforting. "One and a half million dollars per truck. Four and a half million. And you were speaking of a $50,000 bonus…"
"It's negotiable. And if you find those trucks, it's beaucoup negotiable. But I can't send you in totally blind. Nabihah Sadiq is posh, really posh. That address on the envelope? It's a mansion on the edge of Windsor Farms. She's done extremely well for herself, our little lady. And in a very short time. Another reason for suspicion. Trucking can be profitable, but her neighbors include a part owner of Tyson Metals and Reynolds—the chicken conglomerate. Amazing, how much money you can get out of a bird."
"I am eager to see an American mansion." Ari doubted this American mansion would stand comparison to those he had seen in Iraq, especially those owned by Saddam Hussein.
"But there's one other thing that might get under your skin," said Lawson. "Mrs. Sadiq sort of runs a charity out of her house. A shelter for battered women."
"A what?"
"A place for women to run to when their husbands beat the crap out of them."
Ari took a grip on himself. "I hope you do not believe the slander that Muslim men beat their women."
"No more than good American men beat the
irs. There's plenty of shelters for our homegrown victims. But in this case…it's a little different. You see, from what I can tell, Mrs. Sadiq stole O'Connor's Trucking from her husband. And he's none too happy about it. And he's Old World. And well-armed."
"Yes?"
"And mean as hell. Still want the job?"
CHAPTER 2
Camp Rustamiyah – Baghdad – Iraq
June 7, 2006 - 2100 hours
"Haji! Get up!" Private Ryan Hutton kicked the side of the bunk.
The rousting was unnecessary. Ghaith had stirred the instant the young soldier planted his foot on the small platform leading up to the rear door of the modular hut Captain Rodriguez had bunked him in as a reward for saving a squad from walking into an ambush.
"A wet CHU!" Rodriguez had pitched like a real estate salesman pushing a condo. He was referring to a Containerized Housing Unit. "No more sweltering two-man teepees for our star terp. You've got your air conditioning, your luxury bunk, complete privacy, an internet café just down the lane, fresh kebab and pizza next door…"
Had the reward fit the deed, Rodriguez would be offering Ghaith Ibrahim far more than a partitioned cube with a convenient toilet. Alerting the captain to the ambush in Sadr City had been only the latest in a long list of services Ghaith had provided to the Coalition of the Willing. But this half of a CHU could also be seen as a form of confinement. Rodriguez was chary of losing his valuable asset, yet Ghaith had ripped off his balaclava in the middle of Al Qods Street, after smashing up a couple of bombers, and dared all comers to try and take him out. A suicidal act in the first degree. And then there were the headhunters. HUMINT had caught wind of this precious human intelligence package and was making forays into having Ghaith transferred to one of their tactical units. Then there was the NTM-I unit being established in the camp. The largest contingent of the NATO Training Mission – Iraq was Italian, a language in which, as bad luck would have it, the polyglot Ghaith was fluent in. The worst threat came from the PTT's, U.S. military police squads sent out to assist and train the locals. They could easily lure Ghaith away from Rustamiyah. Compared to putting his ass on the line daily while on combat patrols, training Iraqi policemen might prove a cushy job. Rodriguez could not offer Ghaith a luxury suite in the Green Zone, but he was doing the best he could within the confines of a base in the crosshairs of insurgent lob-bomb attacks.
The Shelter for Buttered Women Page 3