"Badawi Bahrani I trust completely."
"And why is that?"
"He is a good man, completely honest."
"A rarity, indeed," Ari nodded. "But are you sure? As your husband said, he is the only one—besides yourself, presumably—in possession of your trucks' transponder codes."
"I will say no more than that I would trust him with my life."
"A golden reference, to be sure," said Ari. "And the other employees?"
Lowering her eyes, Nabihah studied the scratches she had made in the blotter. "They are all afraid of my husband."
"You trust none of them?" Ari reached up and broke the nearest spiky frond. Now he could see Nabihah clearly. "This resembles the American corporate structure."
"Perhaps, but your own office did not advise you that our driver was beaten almost to death last night."
"Ah, you overheard," Ari sighed. "An unfortunate lapse on the part of my office when they called me. I will reprimand them severely."
Meaning Lawson.
"You mean what you say?" Nabihah asked, leaning forward. "You will seek out the Namus?"
"Nothing would give me greater pleasure," said Ari. "If he exists, his behavior is unacceptable."
He was chagrined when she laughed. She did not realize what this meant to him, and not only as it concerned Rana, his wife.
"If that's so, you couldn't ask for two more willing helpers than Yilmaz and Singh."
Ari leaned forward so that he could see Yilmaz on the other side of the potted palm. The karate champion grinned at him.
"I would not want to deprive you of your protection," said Ari. "The assassin specializes in making his crimes look like accidents and self-destruction. For such a thing he would have to know your routine, when you would be most vulnerable. Either he would be watching you from a distance, or he would have the services of an informant."
"Or he could just cut to the chase," said Nabihah.
"Pardon?"
"Why do you say that with a French inflection? I'm not Lebanese. Or French, for that matter. 'Cut to the chase'…it means getting to the point without wasting time. In this case, the Namus might just blow my brains out without bothering with preliminaries."
"That is also a possibility," Ari admitted. "But I suspect this killer, if he exists, is proud of the fact that we don't know if he exists. We could be spinning our brains to no purpose. In which case, we must focus on the matter at hand."
"The hijackings. You want to run up to Harrisonburg and interview the driver when and if he wakes up?"
Up to a short while ago, this would not have been an option for him. His movements were tracked by GPS monitors and his range was limited to the Richmond metro area. But all such devices had been removed. So far as he knew. It would have given him great pleasure to visit the mountains of Virginia, which he had heard were very scenic.
"Alas, I do not think that would be productive. The police will interview him closely if he is fortunate enough to survive. I think I should begin my research here."
"At the company," Nabihah sighed. "I agree, someone here could have a hand in the robberies."
"How many people do you employ?"
"Including office staff, dockworkers and drivers? That's a little awkward. We have 33 people working here, but most of our drivers are independents. There are sites online where we can contact them when they are available, but mostly they contact us and we match up our schedules."
"But the trucks here have your company name on them."
"Those are just the ones we own directly, and there's only a dozen of those. These were the heart of the operation a few years ago, when we first opened."
"When your husband began the business?"
"I was his accountant," Nabihah said defensively. "I knew the nuts and bolts when I took over."
"Of course," said Ari.
"We made a fairly decent name for ourselves. More important, we learned the territory. We were shipping over state lines, so we had already filed the $10,000 surety bond. I was sure we could make more as freight brokers. Naturally, Tareq was against it. He didn't want to give up his trucks. Like a boy with his toys! I finally talked him into a compromise. He kept the trucks and the depot and all the expensive overhead and he would let me set up a communication center to dispatch drivers across the country. I have three people manning computers in an office behind the reception area. I could have operated it all out of the house, but he wanted everything to be centralized."
"Under his control," said Ari. "You are saying that, under your system, this depot would be shut down and the employees dispersed? That would not please them, I think."
"I would do my best to find other jobs for them," said Nabihah.
"Yes," said Ari doubtfully, thinking of the empty promises the Coalition had made after firing the entire Iraqi Army. Those forgotten soldiers had found new employment, all right: blowing up Americans. Could the Namus be a former member of the Iraqi Armed Forces? What he was hearing from Nabihah seriously complicated the dilemma. If she won out against her husband's appeal, the dockworkers would be thrown onto the street. Tareq might be an asshole, but he was their asshole.
"You're not thinking one of my employees is the Namus, are you?" Nabihah laughed uncertainly. "I already thought of that. When that woman in Richmond died suspiciously, we were in the middle of a rush period. Everyone was at work. I checked the time clock."
"And the other alleged victims?"
"I can't account for what my people do on their vacations. Detroit is a twenty-hour round trip. But I find it hard to imagine…"
"But your imagination is in fine working order," Ari protested. "From a series of mishaps you have conjured the Namus. And twenty hours? That is a trip that can be accomplished over a weekend, with time to spare."
"Then of course...it's possible one of my employees…"
"Are they all American citizens?"
Nabihah barked at the notion. "Ten of them are. Most are like me, legal resident aliens—which, by the way, qualifies me to run a business in this country. The rest are I-9s. With this court thing, I've had to be very scrupulous about making sure their paperwork is in order. It's a real headache, all these forms. I-9s, I-94s, EADS…"
Ari visibly huffed his annoyance.
"I-9s are their Employment Eligibility Verification. EADS, their Employment Authorization Document. They're given a card that they have to present to us to work here."
"And I-94s?"
"That's the Arrival-Departure record required by USCIS."
"You mean you employee refugees?"
"Is there a problem with that?"
"How many? Where are they from?"
"A bunch from Iraq. Some Syrian. A few from Somalia." Nabihah looked at him closely. "You don't look happy."
"Ah. It is a matter of background checks, in case CVG feels the need to—"
"I understand. There's not much documentation on some of them. They get vetted when they come to the States, but how many are going to admit to having a criminal record back home?"
"Would it be possible for me to look at your employment records?"
Nabihah drew back and stared at him. "Are you sure you work for the insurance company? You know that's illegal. Those records include their Social Security numbers."
Ari slapped his head. "Silly me! Well…then…would it be possible for your secretary to give me the names and addresses of all the employees that work on the premises?"
"I don't know…that sounds questionable, too. You plan to interrogate all of them? At their homes?"
"I have a great many associates," said Ari in a confident tone, wondering how many operatives Lawson could commit to this task…if any.
"I'll see what I can do," said Nabihah. "Anything else?"
"A great deal, if we are to include your safety in this investigation."
"Such as…?
"These independent drivers hover like a swarm of flies over my head. How do they know when you have a shipment re
ady?"
"Most of them never show up here, Mr. Ciminon. They ship from Point A to Point B directly."
"These trucks that have been hijacked. Did they bear your logo, or were they operated by 'Joe Blows'?"
"The first two we own directly. The other two…"
"Do these Joe Blows not have their own insurance?"
"For their vehicles, not for their cargoes. We pay out on those. It's a service we provide to make certain we can get the drivers when we need them."
"An encouragement…"
"Yes. It's not unusual. It's in our policy with CVG. You might want to read it."
"Of course."
"You were asking when the drivers know we have a shipment ready? Sometimes the truckers just call us to see what is available, but usually they connect with us through online load boards. Most truckstops have internet kiosks. I would like to have our own online board one day, but right now we post through Truckstop, LoadBoard, Superboard…there are plenty of others. The truckers have to pay a fee, naturally. But with a board they can find out the available loads, the opportunity amount and the rate per mile, as well as any special needs: flatbed, heavy haul, LTL, reefer—"
"Reefer?"
"Did you arrive in America in the Fifties?" asked Nabihah. "We're not shipping marijuana. A 'reefer' is a refrigerated container truck."
"I'm sorry, I suffered a flashback," Ari said. Actually, now that he thought about it, he realized he had seen the Americans ship their dead out of their FOB's in reefers.
"You worry me," said Nabihah.
"I worry myself," Ari responded. "So these independent truckers contact you through these kiosks?"
"Unless they use their computer at home. One day soon they'll be using Wi-Fi to hookup with the boards, but that isn't an option in the Richmond area, yet."
"These truck stops…there are many of them?"
"You see this?" Nabihah opened her mouth wide, then closed it. "That was my jaw dropping. Did Mr. Lawson only send you to speak Arabic with me? You don't seem to know much about anything else."
"My ignorance is profound," Ari admitted.
"If you go out on the highway, you'll notice a ton of semis. You drive on the interstate sometimes, don't you? Well, all those trucks need a lot of logistical support. There's Doswell, Love's, a lot of Pilots. They all have restaurants…I think the word is 'greasepits'. The food is unspeakable and very heavy. I am surprised these truckers can stay awake after eating such meals. They all have internet kiosks."
"Very well," said Ari. "This is useful."
"You think?"
"And now, about your offer of Yilmaz's services…"
Even after leaning forward, Ari could not see Yilmaz until she stuck her head beyond the potted palm fronds. For a clearer view, they both swatted at the plant, receiving numerous jabs from the pointed edges. They shared a glance that amounted to a mutual agreement to destroy the beast. But it wasn't their property. Instead, they both scooted their chairs forward until they were pressed against Nabihah's desk.
"Yilmaz, how much do you know about these buttered women at the mansion?"
"'Battered'," Nabihah corrected for the second time.
"I know what's on your mind, and it has also crossed mine," Yilmaz told him. "I have spoken to all of Mrs. Sadiq's guests. All of them seem honest, and…uhm…beaten."
"Honestly beaten," said Ari with a nod.
"Oh really, Yilmaz," Nabihah complained. "You should know better than to exaggerate. Not all of these women were physically abused. In fact, most of them were just…cut out."
"Cut out?"
"Of life." Nabihah shifted uncomfortably in the large executive chair. It was a man's chair, after all. Or rather, purchased with a man in mind. "What do you know about female circumcision, Mr. Ciminon?"
Ari fell silent, embarrassed. Hearing the unique details of female anatomy, and its maintenance, always left him out of sorts.
"At least half of the women in my house suffered the procedure when they were children. Not myself, Allah be praised. I came from a family that was enlightened in such things…up to a point, at least. When these women came to America they heard endless stories of conjugal bliss, the bliss of sex overall…with men and women…and they learned they had been robbed of one of life's greatest treasures. Orgasms, Mr. Ciminon. They are essential truck stops on the highway of life…or are you equally ignorant of those, as well?"
"I am aware of their existence," said Ari with a small cough.
"When these women…some of them…learned of the true extent of the crime against them, they lost all compulsion to remain with their husbands."
"Certainly, they have families," Ari protested.
"The ones in my house are childless," Nabihah told him. "Their husbands forced themselves upon them, as was their legal right. Yet they experienced only pain…indifference, at best. They learned of love, and were trapped in lovelessness."
"And living with you is an improvement?" Ari asked skeptically.
"It is an option. And before, there were none."
"Well…" said Ari, conjuring up the pomposity of his Baghdad University English, "be that as it may, even an 'honestly beaten' or 'honestly disfigured' woman could be an agent of the Namus."
"I agree," said Yilmaz. "But I have spoken at length to them."
"You sound doubtful."
"There were some…I wasn't sure…"
"Who?" Nabihah demanded.
"I spoke of them to you, Mrs. Sadiq. You pushed off my doubts."
"Yes," said Nabihah, falling back—far back—in the chair. "I remember…"
"Would you give Yilmaz permission to speak to them again?" Ari asked. "I would suggest Singh, but he might…overawe them."
"And it would be in bad taste," Nabihah snapped.
"Yes," Ari said, turning to Yilmaz. "When you question them again, see if you can find out…which ones are still enamored with their husbands."
"This is important?" Nabihah snapped for a second time.
"It would be wise to determine which ones are still fond of the old ways," said Ari. "Americans have many faults, but fondness for 'old ways' is far down on the list."
"What has that to do with anything?"
"We are in America," Ari shrugged.
"I understand," said Yilmaz, giving Nabihah a glance as uncertain as a moth in an aviary. "Do you mind? I'll be discreet. But I fear for you. Mr. Ciminon is right. What if one of your guests is in contact with the Namus?"
"You shouldn't encourage him, Yilmaz. You know he's on the wrong track." Nabihah closed her eyes. Finally, she said, "Talk all you want to them. What has happened to our agenda, Mr. Ciminon? We were discussing the hijackings."
"I fear they are intertwined," said Ari. "And now, I have two questions. They are sequential, but I will ask the second one first."
"Why?"
"Because you might dismiss me when you hear the first one."
"Oh? You are here to insult me?"
Ari said nothing.
"Very well, Mr. Ciminon, what is your second question?"
"Can you give me the names and addresses of the O'Connor's employees ready for me today?"
Nabihah roused herself, lifted herself forward, and slammed her index finger on an intercom button. "Talah?"
"Yes, Mrs. Sadiq?"
"Is it possible for you to print out a list of all our employees and their addresses? Phone numbers would also be appreciated."
"Yes, Mrs. Sadiq, I already have a list—"
"I need one that does not include Social Security numbers or other personal information."
"That is no problem, Mrs. Sadiq," said the voice. "I can create a merge file that excludes—"
"Then do it, will you? How quickly can it be done?"
"In five minutes. I can—"
"Then do it. A man from the insurance company, a Mr. Ciminon, will be back there to collect it."
"Yes, Mrs. Sadiq, I will—"
Nabihah lifted her finger off the butto
n, shutting off the voice.
"And your first question, Mr. Ciminon?" she asked, piercing Ari with her dark eyes, as though foreseeing what he was about to say.
"Why do you still love the man who raped you?"
CHAPTER 4
Camp Rustamiyah – Baghdad – Iraq
June 7, 2006 - 2225 hours
Bill Gates was the self-styled wrangler for a company of mercenaries who had been hired by a company other than Blackwater. The corporate anonymity was due to the numerous Gurkhas under his command. Their home government in Nepal had blocked their use in Iraq after a group of them had been killed in an ambush. This meant that Gurkhas seeking military employment in Iraq had to fly to Paris instead of Saudi Arabia. There, they met a connector to Saudi Arabia, where they piled into a Herc with insect-eyed American riflemen already wearing their Wiley-X wraparounds for the hop to Baghdad Airport. The unknown company that had hired the Gurkhas did not desire to get into a legal tussle with Nepal, hence the arduous workaround.
Gates' deputy was Warren Buffet. His corpsman, who seconded as an all-round mechanic and killer, was Carlos Slim. Whenever asked if the three of them really shared the same names as the richest men in the world, Gates would smirk and answer:
"We're in it for the dosh and we have great aspirations."
Ghaith had gone out on several recon missions with Gates and he learned as much about Gates as Gates cared to tell him. He had been in the Sandbox for several years, and had a scar for each year to show for it. Upon arriving, he had been part of a PSD group escorting VIP's from Baghdad Airport to the Green Zone or other relatively secure locations. Finding this work dull, he had branched out. As the war in Iraq dragged on, his group found added employment with the Coalition forces, to the point where he often provided a covering force for army convoys. The U.S. Army could protect itself, thank you very much, but only at the cost of incurring casualties. Except for certain specialists from England and North America, mercs came cheap. Along with the Gurkhas, Gates had about thirty Fijians under his direct control. They made $1,700 a month, sans benefits. It was a coalition of a few super-rich and plenty of super-poor.
It was not unusual to see them setting up a mini-camp in any of the FOB's. They were like killer gypsies, scrounging weapons off the Army and mooching from the mess halls, but disappearing soon enough to avoid becoming a nuisance. In fact, Ghaith had not known Gates and his crew were in Rustamiyah.
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