The Shelter for Buttered Women

by J. Clayton Rogers

  Having eavesdropped on Ghaith, Hutton and Ropp for a couple of minutes, Gates came out from behind an MTVR 7-ton truck and showed them the glowing tip of his cigar. It was common for men and women in the camp to smoke cigars, cigarettes or anything else they could get their hands on to mask the disgusting pong from the incinerator down the road.

  "Ay up, Haji," Gates nodded at Ghaith. "Couldn't help overhear your friends chatting you up about a mission."

  "Why would that be music to your ears?" Ghaith asked while Hutton and Ropp turned wary eyes on the newcomer. Mercenaries were viewed with a mixture of scorn and awe by many infantrymen. A touch of envy, too. These were the cowboys so many of them imagined themselves to be.

  "Just so happens I'm scrounging around for a mission for me and my lads. They prefer being in the field to sitting around here waiting for the muj to lob 107mm rockets on their heads." A broad-chested man in a blue cotton shirt and denims, he looked both in and out of place in Camp Rusty. Most civilians went casual in camo pants and olive t-shirts. On the other hand, even bare-assed he would have been a suitable poster boy for the Ten Thousand, the Varangian Guard, the White Company or any other group of mercenaries who had cheerfully spread their infamy across the map of history. On one patrol, he had worn a shirt with the motto 'Fuck 'em Up and Leave 'em' stenciled across the chest. It was Ghaith who suggested he wear something less inflammatory.

  "Oi, none of these muj can read English."

  "I can read it," said Ghaith.

  And Gates took the hint. Headlines notwithstanding, most mercs had a good reputation among the local civilians. They weren't exactly out to win hearts and minds, but they understood the benefits of survival. These were not the ones blowing walls with satchel charges or playing .50 calibers across market squares. The mercs were not in possession of the major boy toys. And while the Blackwater crew might occasionally go off the rails, like at Nisour Square, the majority of mercs were veritable Miss Congenialities. A smile and convivial 'cheerio' saved on blood and bullets. 'Fuck 'em Up and Leave 'em' had been a temporary anomaly, never to be repeated.

  "This is private," Hutton told Gates.

  "Meaning you don't mind missing roll call when they blow the trumpet. Listen, shaveling, going over the hill is serious business. That's how I ended up being monkey-mama to a bunch of cutthroats." Gates turned to Ropp. "And you don't want to be a part of it."

  "Then if you think we should go back to barracks, that's the end of the mission," Hutton shrugged, hoping Gates would go away.

  "Ah…but we were talking about Sarah, weren't we…?" The infantrymen took a step away when Gates took another pull on his cigar. The camp walls were high, and there were no hills or high buildings from which a sniper could peer down on potential targets. All of the incoming had come in the form of mortars and rockets, more or less fired blindly. But there was an atavistic sense among many of the soldiers that you could light yourself up in more ways than one by striking a match.

  "You know her?" Hutton quavered.

  "She's been on a few missions with us, just like Haji here. A charming young miss. We never had to knock down doors with her. If we were looking for somebody, Sarah would stand in the street and exchange a few words with the châtelaine. And those doors always opened. A real little miracle worker, our Sarah. A true lady."

  "Yes…" Hutton breathed heavily. He looked up at Gates, who surpassed six-and-a-half feet. "But what could you do to help her? I mean…help me help her? This has to be done quietly. If the kidnappers hear us coming…"

  "No chance of that, mate. They're already expecting you, whether you come on tiptoe or crash through with a tank. Your chums here are right. This is the fox waiting for the hare. Noise…well, some noise…is unavoidable." With unexpected courtesy, Gates blew his smoke sideways out of his mouth before leaning down to Hutton. "But we can make it as quiet as humanly possible. Ever see a Gurkha work his blade? And these Fijians of mine…you should see them work their Falcons!"

  Gates was telling them they were first-rate snipers.

  "But why would you do this? Nobody will pay you."

  "Don't worry about that, mate. Company time."

  "And why?"

  "So you haven't heard what happened yesterday?" Gates sighed. "Unless we're getting slagged for blowing out a crowd, the mercs get the short end of the news cycle."

  "You mean al-Zarqawi?"

  "I mean the ambush in Seaidya. Someone around here must know. It just hasn't filtered down to the Board. We were with a couple squads of jundi. A mortarman had been hitting Rusty over the last week and the jundi lieutenant swore they knew where he lived. He tried to arrange something with your operations people and somehow we got the call. Maybe you Yanks were out gathering rosebuds. I agreed. We went out there and I spotted a bunch of ambulances around the corner. Nothing had happened, and they'd already called the hospital? Fuck that. I began to pull my men out when an IED went off and we started getting sniper fire. It calmed down quick, but a bunch of jundi and five of my men were wounded. The ambulances screamed in. I was busy yelling at the lieutenant and when I finished and turned around all the wounded were gone. We raced off to the local hospital, but it was already too late. Fucking Shia militia ran the place."

  "Aren't they our allies?" Hutton asked.

  "How long have you been here? There's nothing to choose between al Qaeda and the militia. They all want us dead, they want each other dead, and the rest of the time they're killing the people in their own brigades.

  "Your men?" Ropp asked.

  "They were taken straight through the emergency room to the back alley, where they were beheaded."

  There was a long silence.

  "I apologize for—"

  "Fuck your people, Haji. Seriously, fuck them." Bursts of light hit them as Gates worked furiously on his cigar. "Feral jundi, in the middle of the day. Usually they come out at night, like rats."

  The jundi were Iraqi soldiers who worked alongside the Coalition. The feral ones were those who switched allegiance when the sun went down.

  "I still hear no music," said Ghaith.

  "My corporate bosses are going to put my ass in a sling. They're going to have to answer to the Nepalese and Fijian governments, and they are as happy as clams on a roaster. In the meantime, my lads are ready for a fight."

  Ghaith eased back a little. "You are speaking of committing a massacre."

  "No!" Hutton cried out.

  "Listen, mate." Gates leaned closer to the young rifleman. "I want you to lead us into that ambush. That's the only way my lads can deal with what happened to their chums. Don't worry, we won't be killing everything that moves. We don't have enough ammo for that kind of business. I'll bet a single Bradley has more killing power than all the mercs in Iraq combined. But I overheard a few things out there in Seaidya. Those feral jundis come from a few kilometers north of here."

  "That tribe from Shula," said Ghaith.

  "You know them?" asked Gates.

  "They frequently pay visits to this area." Ghaith paused to listen to the distant, mysterious moaning before continuing. "This is not like their usual attacks. It required the kind of forethought and deception usually reserved for the Americans."

  "That's my thinking," Gates nodded. "People around here know us. Most the time they shake us off. We don't hand out candy, but we don't shoot them, either. Not often. The feral jundis wanted to hit a column from Rusty, not some guys in toy trucks. I saw plenty of RPG's aimed at us from the rooftops. After the first blast, someone called them off. They didn't want to waste rockets on Toyotas. None of which matters now. It's my lads who paid the price, and here's the perfect payback. Between Haji and myself, I bet we'll even recognize those assholes from up north."

  "But…" Hutton stuttered. "Can you control your men? They won't just…"

  "It is a worthy question," Ghaith added.

  "I know it is. Straight up? I don't always have complete control over my lads. But they know their business…really know it. An
d that makes them…well…honorable."

  Ghaith did not quite see the connection between excellence and honor. But he was concerned about Sarah, too. There was a very slight chance she was still alive. "I believe Mr. Gates is presenting you with the best option available. Also, as I understand it, mercs do not have to file contact reports."

  "Unless we kill a lot of civilians," Gates nodded. "Then people tend to ask questions."

  "It will be as if we never existed," Ghaith added.

  "Thank you, Haji," Gates smiled grimly. "That leaves us with the problem of the golden key."

  "Key?" said Hutton.

  "You say she called you from home."

  "How long were you listen—"

  "I don't know where she lives. Do you, Haji?"

  "I know only it's in Sindabad," Ghaith shook his head.

  "That leaves you, young private. You can either lead the way to her house, or give us her address."

  "I've never been inside. She lives with her family. Her father…"

  "Her father?" Ghaith said. "She told me he had been killed by the Shia militia."

  "Did she?" Hutton said, startled. "Maybe she…you know, around here, people hide the truth. Maybe she thought her father would be safer if people thought he was dead. Not that he deserves…"

  "To live?" Ghaith said. "Why do so many young people wish their parents in the grave? But you are probably right. She must have worried that I would spread stories of an irresponsible father who allows his daughter to mingle with the enemy."

  "History in a nutshell," said Gates. "While half the world muddies the water, the other half installs filters. But back to business: you know her address?"

  "There's no house number."

  "Understood. These Baghdad blighters have an aversion to house numbers. But you know the street, right? You know how many houses down from the corner?"

  Hutton looked at Ropp, then at Ghaith. He nodded.

  "Then let's get started. First stop is the armory. With this al-Zarqawi business, we'll be hitting a crowd if we don't hurry. Americans shooting Sunnis, the mercs shooting at the Mahdi Army."

  "But there's nothing on the Board," Ropp protested.

  "Nothing of real importance ever is," said Gates.

  Ghaith thought he was probably right.

  Richmond, Virginia

  July, 2008

  Ice Cream Rules

  "I know what you're thinking, that I can pull an army out of my hat." Former Marine captain Elmore Lawson stuck out his tongue and swept a dollop of vanilla custard into his mouth. The sight disturbed several children at the next table, who openly voiced their dismay at Lawson's disfigurement.

  "He looks like a robot frog!" a boy complained.

  The children were gently chided by their parents, who offered the insurance investigator apologetic smiles before shifting their chairs to block the children's view.

  "Never seen a robot frog," Lawson observed in a low voice. "Maybe I could pick up some extra change modeling a cartoon character. 'Killer Kermit and his Dubious Sidekick, the Dark Sheik of Arabia.'"

  "You would provide models for both of these heroes?" Ark asked. He was still trying to figure out the most refined way to eat his dessert. Frozen custard was too soft to bite into, but jutting out one's tongue and sliding it up the creamy slope seemed a bit too much like…well, a frog catching a fly.

  They were sitting on the outdoor patio of Ray's Italian Water Ice and Frozen Custard, a favorite haunt of the West End's aficionados of frozen sweets. The table umbrella offered only partial protection from the lunchtime sun, its carnival stripes filtering the light into discreet bars, appropriate camo for a geometric environment. The space was cramped and anyone walking past their table risked tripping on Lawson's impedimenta. If they skirted around one side they might stumble over his briefcase. Going the other way, they would encounter his cane, which was an improvement over the walker he had recently been using after his latest stay in the VA Hospital. Fortunately, the artificial arm and leg and undisguisable injuries to his face encouraged patrons to give Lawson a wide berth.

  "You killed my two birds with one stone," Lawson protested mildly. "I came here because frozen custard…especially this frozen custard…is one of the few heavenly things I can put into what's left of my mouth. I brought you here because you claim Italian heritage. I thought you would jump on the Water Ice like a starving wolf. Instead, you chose the custard. You're a grown adult, so I assumed you knew what you were doing. I see that I was mistaken."

  Pricked by the criticism, Ari jutted his tongue into the chocolate concoction and nearly choked.

  "Gently, gently," Lawson suggested. "Not to put too fine a point on it, think of it as…" He saw one of the children at the next table peeping around his father at his demonic neighbor. "I'll put the fine points aside. Now, about this request of yours for a dozen men and women to assist you in your researches…I would gladly volunteer, but as you can see, I'm a little out of joint at the moment."

  "You did well enough at Sung-Soo Rhee's and the farmhouse."

  "I hope you're not expecting more gunfights," Lawson scowled. "This is supposed to be a civilized investigation. Listen, my investigative unit might be independent of the Central Virginia Group, but the company still owns the bottom line. What happened when we were ambushed at the motel was unique, and it was also a case of me calling in a lot of favors, which are now redeemed. Besides, all of my people are busy. You wouldn't believe the amount of fraud that goes on in a land of the free."

  "And home of the brave?" Ari inquired.

  "The brave ones are overseas or in space."

  "You wanted to be an astronaut?"

  "Even before this happened to me, I would get vertigo climbing a ladder." Lawson took another tongue-swipe at his cone, leaving Ari in no doubt of the fine points. "So what I'm saying is—"

  "What would happen if I returned your money and backed out of this enterprise?" Ari asked.

  "We have a couple of vets who sort of know Arabic," Lawson answered. "I know a few words, myself. But after what they did to me in the VA…give me a year."

  Ari knew Lawson was not the type of man to willingly back out unless he knew for certain he could not pull his own weight.

  "And these other two men? Would you be willing to part with them for a little while?" Ari glanced down at the list of O'Connor's employees he had brought Lawson. "There are over thirty names here. There are numerous independent truckers. There are the nearly thirty women boarding in Nabihah's house. And then there is the—"

  "Namus." Lawson reached up from his chair and used his walker to stretch. Had his prosthetic hand not been hidden by a glove, he would have probably given the curious children an added thrill of horror. "You think he's real?"

  "I have heard of such assassins in the Middle East," said Ari.

  "You hear a lot in Syracuse, don't you? I thought that was a kind of backwater town."

  "Our grapevines extend across the Mediterranean."

  "I'll admit, I've handed you a full plate," said Lawson, lowering his arm.

  Ari stared at his cone, took a deep breath, and stuck out his tongue.

  "Jesus, you're not diving in the Great Barrier Reef. This Namus thingy…you think he could be involved in the hijackings?"

  "I don't see how," Ari lied. He did not want Lawson to think Ari was spending company time and money on something irrelevant. "He would have been busy sending women to their doom when those trucks were attacked."

  "Interesting way of putting it. So we drop the whole Namus approach, right? Focus on O'Connor's Freight Lines."

  "And those two men you spoke of? The veterans who speak Arabic?"

  "Do you know how Arabs feel when they are approached by a big-ass American who thinks he can speak their language?"

  "I can only imagine," Ari lied.

  "It scares the shit out of them. The people on your list here…they'll freak out the moment my men open their mouths."

  "Not if your men make i
t clear they work for the insurance company," Ari reasoned. "They will then expect a certain degree of…"

  "Stupidity?"

  "That is not the word I used."

  "You didn't use any word, which means that's probably the word you would have used."

  Ari sat back in his chair. "Be advised, an unfortunate cheapness can result in an unfortunate cheap result."

  "What's that, a proverb?"

  "It is the truth," Ari asserted.

  "Right. I'll look into it. If I can pull them out of their current assignments—"

  "Look at the number of people who are asking me to deal with," Ari insisted. "This is not worthy of a bonus. It is worthy of a fortune."

  "Finish your cone, Ari," Lawson said tersely. "And be sure to wipe your mouth off after you're done. You look like a mad cow. This list…I'll get some background checks done. I can afford that much, so long as we skimp the footwork and do it all by computer. Do you have another copy? I could Xerox it and slip it under your door…if I knew where that door was."

  "No need," said Ari, prowling his cone with his nose. "Mad cows never forget."

  "Oh…right…you're the elephant who never forgets. Just hope you don't end up in a china shop."

  "That's bull," said Ari.

  CHAPTER 5

  Camp Rustamiyah – Baghdad – Iraq

  June 7, 2006 - 2300 hours

  "And where is my favorite lance corporal tonight?" boomed Gates to the two guards outside the armory.

  They recognized Gates and Ghaith. They would have recognized Ropp and Hutton, but Gates told them to hang back out of sight. It was for their own sakes. It was bad enough going AWOL. If they were seen roaming around camp in the company of mercs, uncomfortable questions would be raised.

  The guards grinned. They were in full kit: helmets, M4's, body armor. That was standard. But they were also wearing their Alice packs, as if they expected to be called into the field at any moment.