"Sarge is always on everyone's case."
"Not like this. He says I'm a porker."
"Oh shit…" said Hutton.
"It is a great crime to eat pork," Ghaith intoned. When they both popped their eyes in his direction, he added, "I didn't understand that injunction to apply to Americans."
"Haji," Hutton said, "Ropp is saying that Sergeant Mastin is saying he's fat."
"A little overweight," Ropp protested.
"Mastin is at war with..." Hutton glanced at Ropp. "…any form of plumpness. He's the queen of Weightwatchers."
"If he starts telling people I'm fat, I'm finished. You know what the E4's do to porkers here. Give them every shit job and then stick them on point for every mission. Being fat…being called fat…it's almost a death sentence."
"You don't look all that fat to me," Hutton said. "But all the same…maybe you ought to stow those rations back in the truck."
"Mastin kept staring at me in the chow line," Ropp complained. "I dropped my tray and bugged out. Maybe I should've taken a carrot stick…"
"War is hell."
"Haji, I know we're supposed to be polite to you and all…" Hutton began.
"But shut the fuck up," Ropp concluded. "This is military business. U.S. Army business."
"The U.S. Army-in-my-country business," Ghaith said.
"Aren't we snippy tonight?" said Hutton, no longer the frantic suitor but a Big Man.
"Don't tell anyone you saw me," Ropp pleaded.
"But you must've been planning this all day. When did you plant those MRE's? You're asking for trouble."
"You want me to pass out from hunger? I'm going to need my calories tonight."
"What's so big about tonight?" Hutton asked, concerned for his own secret mission to rescue Sarah. "I didn't see anything on the Board."
One of the slippery packages began to fall from Ropp's hands. He caught it before it fell, then gaped at Hutton. "Where have you been all day?"
"On base. Why?"
"And you haven't heard? The word's out…at least in some places. They snuffed al-Zarqawi."
"You mean…"
"Yeah, the Zarqawi."
"But I caught CNN this evening," Hutton protested. "There wasn't a word."
"It was an airstrike. They're waiting to confirm. I overheard…" Ropp looked Hutton up and down. "At least, you know now."
"Fuck…"
"Yeah, the Sunnis are going to be on the warpath tonight. You didn't notice the extra guards? You got fat in the brain?"
"Mastin's going to love crapping on you," Hutton snarled.
"Wait…I didn't mean—"
Ropp fell silent when the low, hollow moan again rose up.
"That's to the west."
"Are you sure? I can't tell."
Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. After pledging allegiance to bin Laden, he was made the Emir of Al Qaeda in the Country of the Two Rivers. Jordanian born, he became famous for beheading the American freelance reporter Nick Berg on camera. The video was released by Muntada al-Ansar and became must-see viewing for sickoes throughout the world. Ghaith had been raised as a Sunni, but in a household that leaned towards the secular. Yet plenty of true Sunnis were outraged by the atrocities al-Zarqawi committed. In his attempt to stir up a war between Sunnis and Shiites, he had blown up many of his co-religionists. Even though he helped Americans kill them, Ghaith admired the insurgents struggling to repel them from Iraq. Had it not been for his unfortunate circumstances—and the fact that he had a price on his head—he might have joined them. On the other hand, jihadists like al-Zarqawi left him cold. Murdering the godly in the name of God made no sense to the godless. Sunnis and Shia should team up to kick ass. They could even bring in the Kurds. Or maybe not….
The eerie sound that may or may not have been coming from the west faded away.
"Private Hutton? This news from Private Ropp sheds new light on darkness. I believe your mission will be impracticable tonight."
"Mission?" asked Ropp.
"Thanks, Haji," Hutton snarled. "You've got a big trap."
"I have often been trapped by my mouth, if that is your meaning."
"No, I mean you said it on purpose."
"Mission?" Ropp repeated.
"Listen up…" Hutton glanced around to see if anyone was within earshot. In the darkness, someone could have been twenty feet away and he would not have seen them. "It's Sarah…"
"Sarah?" Then Ropp's eyes widened. "Our female terp? What about her?"
"She—"
There was a swishing sound nearby. A man wearing blue overalls and a baseball cap came into view, shoving a broad pushbroom ahead of him. Men like him were all over the huge camp, stirring up dust clouds as they swept dirt over dirt. The lower ranks were annoyed by their omnipresence. None of them knew which subcontractor had hired them, or the land of their origin. They were just there. Sweeping and sweeping in a comical show of camp hygiene.
"Can't you go somewhere else?" Hutton complained, choking on dust.
The man looked up, surprised. He had not seen them. Ghaith thought he looked Indian. He smiled at the three men, nodded, then lowered his head and continued pushing his broom into the dirt, as though on a fixed trail from which no deviation was allowed. They waited until he disappeared behind an armored Caterpillar.
"What about Sarah?" said Ropp.
"She's been kidnapped."
"And you want to go out to save her?" said Ropp doubtfully. "Now? Tonight of all nights? You can't wait till daylight? What about the captain? OK, he'll nix it. But we could call up a QRF—"
"With all that noise? When the muj hears them coming, they'll kill her and run."
"May I offer the likely possibility that Sarah is already dead?" said Ghaith. "Wait…before you strike me, let me add…if she is not already dead, then there is only one…um…surmise?"
"Ambush is what he's saying," said Ropp. "How did you find out about it?"
"She…" Ghaith could almost see Hutton blushing in the dark. "She called me."
"Oh fuck. Well, there it is. We send a team out…" Ropp sucked in his breath. "But you're not talking about a team. You're talking about you and Haji…"
"Yeah. And if you squeal, I'll tell Mastin about your porking out."
"You'll be dead before sunup. No, not from me. The muj."
"Do I care?" said Hutton.
"Oh…it's that, then. There was a rumor going around about you two, but I was too busy starving to pay much attention."
"May I suggest some input?" said Ghaith.
"No."
"But may I suggest that I would like to live to see the next sunrise? It's a silly preference, I know."
"Shit," Hutton glowered. "I know I'm asking a lot…"
Ghaith planned to say no more. He was certain Hutton would never get past the guards at the wire. But then Ropp ran back to the truck, whipped open the door, and tossed the MRE's back inside. He came back and said:
"I like Sarah, too. I'm in."
Ghaith sniffed at the air. "Your plan will be stillborn."
"Why's that?"
"We are being observed."
They turned to see a small glow in the darkness.
"Hello, Yanks," came a voice. "You bring music to my ears."
Richmond, Virginia
July, 2008
A Dispute Over Ownership
"Oh, no. Oh, no. No, no, no."
"Why do you protest, Mr. Singh?" Ari protested in return. "My chariot is most capacious. Deceptive, yes, but once you are inside—"
"Once inside I would be entombed forever." Singh backed away from the little white Scion as though eluding a particularly sadistic foe. "You wait here. I will procure a reasonable vehicle. And I will drive."
Ari glowered at his despised xB as Singh strode back through the driveway gate. It had become for him an emblem of shame, of fiscal embarrassment, of unreasoning government frugality. Karen Sylvester had given him a moon-eye when he demanded that it be replaced with a Cadillac. Was
n't the Deputy Marshal's Service supposed to maintain him in the manner to which he was accustomed? Or was he confusing that with a Western-style divorce settlement?
After discussing her insurance claims for over an hour, Nabihah had offered to have Singh pick him up at his residence for a ride out to the O'Connor's depot. She wanted Ari to see first-hand that the business was on the up and up. Ari preferred not to give out his address—he was living in a safe house, after all. He would instead meet Singh at the mansion. Nabihah agreed to this, although she told Ari he would have to park his car on the street. This seemed odd to him. There was plenty of room in the circular driveway. That was, unless she felt Ari might be subverted by Tareq and leave a car bomb next to her house.
Ari's heart sank when he saw the eggshell-white Cadillac CT Sedan glide down the driveway in almost perfect mechanical silence. Singh lowered his window.
"Now this is a car!"
Ari could not deny it. He slid into the passenger seat and bowed his head abjectly.
"Look at this leg room!" Singh gave a deep sigh as he stretched his long legs forward. His powerful thighs trembled with delight on the leather seat, as though he was poised to deflower a virginal wife. Ari's eyes watered as he analyzed the center console, the numerous buttons ranked on either side promising endless delight. Singh touched a digital screen. "Sat-nav, 40-gig hard drive capable of recording 60 minutes of radio music…and here…" He tapped a button and another digital screen rose out of the dash. "The infotainment center!"
"The what?"
"And see this…" He touched the infotainment screen and a bumptious raga blared out of the speakers. He shouted something that Ari could not hear. With a joyous roar, he repeated: "Bose 5.1 audio system!"
Singh pulled out of the driveway, snorting contemptuously as they zipped past the lowly Scion.
"Bose! Nat Narayan! Basant! Happiness!"
"You're scaring the wildlife!" Ari shouted. And indeed, dogs and birds at the roadside took off in all directions, horrified by the racket.
"Bose! Maali Gaura! Bilaavil! Happiness!"
Singh had abandoned all prudent driving technique. The car shook as his massive body bounced up and down. The steering wheel looked as though it would snap in his hands. This was not the stoic Sikh warrior Ari had summoned up for the Ministry of Defense in his situation reports. He leaned forward, searching in vain for the volume control.
"It is still too small!" Ari shouted.
"What?"
"This heap is still too small!"
His cheerful expression slackened. "I cannot hear you!" He reached for a knob and the music subsided.
"I said—"
"I heard you. Why would you say that?"
"The head room. You are crushing your turban."
"General Motors cannot be expected to accommodate giants. But these seats—"
"You had to pull it all the way back," Ari observed. "A passenger behind you would have little leg room. None..."
"Sarang…" Singh murmured.
"Will we be meeting your employer at the truck dispensary?"
"'Depot'," said Singh. "Perhaps. She attends the office several times a week. Otherwise, she has a very efficient foreman in charge of operations. Badawi Bahrani."
"He is a Shiite?"
"I wouldn't know. Does that concern you, an Italian?"
"No…"
"Did I hear correctly? You are godless?"
"I have no faith in faith."
"Then why would it matter if Bahrani was Shia, or Methodist, or Shinto? I know him. He is an honest man. What more do you want?"
"Nothing, nothing…only I have heard Shiites cannot always be trusted."
"Can anyone always be trusted? Can you always be trusted? You don't have the look of someone who is…100%. What, no answer? Is that the most honesty one can expect from you?"
Ari's honesty was frequently called into question, and with good reason. Singh was right. Sometimes, silence was the most honest response Ari could offer. "We shall leave that realm," he said.
Singh grinned and reached for the volume control.
"Wait! I wanted to ask…"
"Yes?"
"This Namus Mrs. Sadiq mentioned. Does he have credence for you?"
Singh lowered his hand from the infotainment screen. Reaching Huguenot Road, he paused for a gap in traffic.
"There is a small park not far from here, close to Route 6. Two weeks ago there were some families playing with their children. There they were, rising up and down on the swingsets, when they smelled something odd. Like barbecue…"
"This is very theatrical," said Ari. "From your ominosity, I assume you are speaking of burning human flesh?"
"A woman had set fire to herself near the edge of the park. She was dead by the time the emergency crew arrived. Near her, they found a charred fragment bearing a quote from the Koran. 'Garments of fire have been prepared for the unbelievers. Whenever, in their anguish, they try to escape from Hell, back shall they be dragged, and will be told, 'Taste the torment of the Conflagration!'"
"Surah 22," Ari nodded. "Here…" He pointed at the road and Singh made a quick left turn.
"You're familiar with the Koran?" Singh asked.
"I like to read," said Ari blandly.
"You retain a lot."
"Not as much as I would like to," Ari confessed. "Is that so unusual? How many polymer formulas are gathered in your brain?"
"The number of polymer chains is unknown."
"This woman was Muslim? And you do not believe it was suicide born of guilt?"
"Was she seduced by Western ways? We don't know. Do you understand 'grapevine'?"
"The vernacular? You mean 'rumors'?"
"It is said on the grapevine that she refused to sleep with her husband anymore, and that she filed a grievance with the secular authorities when he forced himself on her."
"Yes?" Ari prodded.
"Such a thing can happen anywhere, in any culture. The husband in question is a prominent businessman. An art collector. He is well known, and is also known to be very compliant with the strictures of Islam."
"But he was far away when his wife burned to death?"
"In Vancouver, at a business conference. His two sons were also with him. There could be no implication."
"He was in Canada?" Ari said. "What kind of business is he in?"
"No, he isn't in the freight business, if that's where you're going. He negotiates imports for halal shops. Nothing like Peymayesh or Midimar. Just Central Virginia. He told the police that was why he was on the other side of the continent. He wants to break into the Maryland and DC markets. Yes, those are big markets, but…"
"Why go 4,000 kilometers when Washington is next door?"
"Exactly."
"The man and his sons got their passports stamped."
"Yes, the husband became a U.S. citizen a few years ago. And thanks to Bin Laden, Americans now need passports to get into Canada. Which worked out perfectly for him, since he can prove he was out of the country at the time."
"You don't think she immolated herself?" Ari asked.
"Right now, the authorities still say suicide. But the grapevine says it was the Namus."
"Grapevines can be notoriously imperfect."
"We're not talking about wine," Singh grunted. He turned south onto Chippenham Parkway. "I noticed Shrimati Sadiq only mentioned the suspicious deaths in Detroit and New Jersey. She said nothing about Arlington."
"This is next door to Washington?"
"Arlington? Yes. With a large Muslim community. So in a single week, not quite a month ago, four Muslim women died in questionable circumstances. Detroit, Jersey Heights, Arlington…and now Richmond. Three 'accidents', one 'suicide'."
"You think the Namus is working his way down the East Coast?"
"Detroit is not 'East Coast', but the theory still makes sense. He probably lined up his customers in advance, maybe from overseas. He could have arrived at La Guardia and begun working his way met
hodically down the seaboard, with a brief detour to Michigan. He must have purchased a car near the airport."
"Or an associate bought or loaned one for him," Ari conjectured.
"Yes," Singh said in a low voice. "There might be more than one of them. But why do you inquire? This has nothing to do with you. Ah, Yilmaz mentioned you have a wife…"
"If you are approaching a joke about me hiring the Namus to…"
"My deepest apologies," the Sikh grimaced, then sighed. "Humor does not translate for the Italians, either, I see."
"Not that kind of humor."
It was not just that Singh's near-joke would have been in bad taste. Ari's wife, Rana, was in San Diego. The Namus, if he or they existed, might strike out west when finished here. If her whereabouts was discovered by one of his numerous enemies, they would not hesitate to employ an assassin.
"It is unlikely Tareq would hire a creature like that," said Singh.
"So Mrs. Sadiq said. But we are speaking of great wealth. I gather Tareq is 'hands-on', as the Americans say. He must be struggling to regain his ownership of the company."
"There is a lawsuit," Singh told him.
"Then why would he risk wringing her neck when he could hire—"
"We have considered that," said Singh, his knuckles bulging on the steering wheel. "You may meet him, incidentally."
"The Namus?"
Singh's laughter boomed in the car. "Not that I'm aware of. I am speaking of Tareq. He still visits the depot. Nabihah has forbidden it, and the court has issued some kind of trespass warrant, but that doesn't stop him. The employees can't imagine Shrimati Sadiq will win her suit."
"And when the big boss comes back, he'll remember who turned him away."
"It is a very tricky situation."
"You don't seem worried," Ari observed.
"I could always go back to India and become a personal security guard in Pollywood. Or Lollywood or Bollywood, for that matter."
"Hollywood?"
"They would hire me. 'You dissed Brad Pitt! Pow, you stupid paparazzi!"
"Ah," said Ari. "Many lawsuits…"
"A very litigious country," Singh agreed.
"I'll bear that in mind." But Ari doubted Singh had any intention of going back home. Not if he couldn't take Yilmaz with him. That was just a guess, of course.
The Shelter for Buttered Women Page 7