"Totalfreeloads.com," said the man in the next booth. "You have to register, but you can make something up."
Both of the truckers eyed Ari, as though he must have concocted the most cockeyed story imaginable in order to enter the country.
"I take it you do not intend to alleviate your presence from my two companions?" Ari said.
"We'd like to stick around, find out what's going on."
"That is understandable," Ari nodded sagely, looking through the plate glass window at the wide parking lot crammed with semi-trucks. "Foolhardy and courageous…the two often work in combination."
"And why's that?" said the trucker with eyeballs floating on a red shoreline.
"Oh, it's not definite…"
"What's not definite?"
"Ari…" Karen cautioned.
"I can't be specific, but I am put in mind of a tanker that was exploded in a gas station in Masoul. The fuel in the tanker ignited the fuel in the underground storage tanks. There was an immense fireball. It was a horrible sight, with victims flinging themselves this way and that like human torches. There were over three hundred souls snuffed out in an instant, and they were the lucky ones."
"You're a fucking Iraqi?" one of the truckers said.
"I am Iraqi, and I occasionally fuck," Ari shrugged.
The truckers exchanged glances.
"I heard them tell the waffle bunny that he was a witness…and I don't think they meant Jehovah's."
"You mean someone's planning to blow a rolling refinery at the Flying J?"
"Stick around," said the man at the next booth, slapping his laptop shut. When he rose out of his seat both of the deputies dropped two inches, thumping hard on the wood frame. "You're the suicide jockey. Enjoy the show."
"You know how many fuel pumps they have here?" said the man from the table. "This is the fucking Flying J! You know how many underground tanks they have?"
"Hiroshima!" Ari grinned broadly.
Without bothering to return his chair to the center table, the second trucker retrieved his laptop and raced out.
"That was pretty cool," said Fred.
"That was pretty awful," Karen groaned. "You wait a few minutes, and those two will call all their trucking buddies. This place will clear out in two seconds."
"Then we can use the internet kiosk," said Fred, who then turned his attention to the load website.
"How are you going to register?" Karen asked. "You can't just make something up. You have to have a valid email address."
"That's why I used yours," said Fred, punching his Enter button.
"You what?"
"You might get some junk emails," Fred smirked. "Just tell them you aren't interested in hauling."
Karen gave him a stiff punch in the shoulder.
Leaning down, clutching his arm, Fred gasped, "You swore you'd never do that again!"
"I'll give you my lawyer's business card as soon as I can dig it up," Karen said. "What have you got? What's that on the screen?"
"The goddamn website, okay?" Fred answered, his voice strained. "You know you punched me where I was shot, don't you?"
"It was the only shoulder I could reach. That looks like an Excel spreadsheet."
"Yeah, some sort of proprietary knockoff." Turning the laptop so that Ari could read the screen, Fred asked, "What are we looking for?"
Among the tabs at the top of the screen were UNASSIGNED LOADS, WAITING FOR PICKUP, LOADS ENROUTE. Beneath that, the columns were labeled: PRO NUMBER, PU DATE, PU #, FROM, ST, DEL DATE, EQUIPMENT, F/P, REFERENCE NUMBER, TRUCK MATCHES, LANE MATCHES.
Before leaving O'Connor's, Ari had asked Yilmaz if she could provide him with a list of the suspicious deaths they were attributing to the Namus. She knew all of the locations. The dates were rough guesses. Ari had not had the chance to check their obituaries on the internet.
"Can you find a correlation between the middle of March and Peekskill, New York?"
"Is that when one of the women was killed?" Karen asked tensely.
"She died in an automobile accident," Ari said.
"Wanna give me a name?"
"Khanim Latif," said Ari reluctantly.
Fred flitted his index finger across the mousepad. "The earliest date on the spreadsheet is from April. They must delete the jobs when they're done."
"No problem," said Karen. "We just subpoena a truck company's manifests and match the time and locations."
"This would involve other government agencies?" Ari asked.
"We'd have to get a federal judge or magistrate to issue it. Even a Clerk of the Court would do."
"And who would deliver this document?"
"We would. That's one of our jobs, delivering subpoenas. I know you don't trust our system very much."
"With good reason."
"Conceded," Karen answered sheepishly. At least one agency had tried to have him assassinated. "But there would be minimum involvement from the outside."
"And if you needed to subpoena hundreds of truck companies?" Ari continued.
"Well…" Karen blushed. "On that kind of scale, we'd probably need to bring in the big guns."
"I want no more to do with America's 'big guns'," said Ari, irked. "They hit too much for too little. I realize what I am doing here is shooting long, but I think it is speediest. Fred, see if you can find something for early April at Totowa, New Jersey."
"Name?" said Karen.
"I don't recall."
"You don't recall? I know how you hate handing out clues, Ari, but cm'on…we're working with you. You work with us."
"Selwa Khatib," Ari sighed.
"Nada," said Fred after a minute's scrolling.
"Is that near Paterson?" Karen asked. "I used to date a guy who worked for Mcjeric. He said there's a ton of trucking companies there."
"You dated a guy from McJerk?" Fred quipped, for which he earned another well-deserved punch.
"Pull up another screen and take a look at Totowa."
Going to Map view, Fred pulled up Paterson and scanned the area around it. "Yup, Totowa's right there. Could even be a neighborhood of Paterson. But now we've got too many results. One…two…three…twelve. Actually…there's another page. If you're talking about a week, you're looking at hundreds of trucks."
"Good counting," Karen frowned, turning to Ari. "Can you be more specific about the date?"
Ari was nonplussed. He was using the search for the Namus as a way to pique Karen's interest. She would flip out if she learned Ari was using her to research the hijackings, all of which had taken place in Virginia. Still, there was a possibility that the hijackings and suspicious deaths were linked. He decided to start his search in the north and work his way back to Virginia. That way, he might prevent Karen from zeroing in on O'Connor's.
"Even if you narrowed it down to a day, you wouldn't get much that was useful," said Fred. "We need another parameter."
Turning the laptop sideways, Ari tapped a French fry against his teeth as he scanned the spreadsheet. "What about this one here…"
"Hey, don't touch the screen with that fry! Which one…the O'Connor's truck on April 5th?"
"What was his delivery destination?" he asked.
"Perth Amboy."
"Is there a town called 'Ford' near there?"
"Uh…yeah…just north of it. That's New Jersey, too. Not a long haul."
"Another killing?" Karen asked.
"Nada Said killed herself in Ford a few days after the suspicious car accident in Paterson," said Ari. "Let us skip to the chaser. Where did this truck go after it made the delivery?"
"Don't know," said Fred. "This site follows the loads. Where the trucker goes after dropping it off is anyone's guess. Do you know anything about the carrier?"
The hair on the back of his neck would have betrayed his inner reaction, had either deputy been looking closely enough. But the way Karen's eyes narrowed made him wonder if his well-practiced poker face had cracked a bit.
"You've got something, Ari. I ca
n tell. If you know the carrier, we can nail this asshole pronto."
"You make too many assumptions," Ari sniffed. "I am a fount of insouciance."
But his confusion was mounting. What exactly had he seen at O'Connor's? A dozen or so skids piled with shrink-wrapped cardboard boxes, but no mountain of merchandise. So far as he could tell, the depot served mainly as a waystation, where Nabihah Sadiq parked her trucks between jobs. There was a customer pickup, but that had to be for small items. The O'Connor's depot was not a delivery address that would show up frequently on the load site. And indeed, the spreadsheet Fred was showing him confirmed that conclusion. But there was something else missing.
He decided to drop the subject, but Karen had decided not to let go.
"Was there any particular reason why you picked an O'Connor's truck on that spreadsheet? Did you really choose at random? Do you have any more dates and locations that you would like to try?"
Ari pointed at his mouth."
"Can't talk with your mouth full? That never stopped you before. Say…Fred…see if O'Connor's has any recent deliveries to Richmond."
Fred glanced from Ari to Karen. "All right." He scrolled down. "Just one. But don't forget, this is only one load site. There could be others."
"What's the delivery date?"
Fred studied the screen, then began chewing at his fingernail.
"Stop that!" Karen commanded. "What's the problem?"
"Hold on…" Fred opened a new screen and did a quick search through the directory. "Yeah…O'Connor's is based just a few miles south of Richmond…somewhere called Coach Road."
"Did you know that?" Karen asked Ari with a skeptical moue.
"It means beans to me," Ari shrugged.
"Yeah, you're full of gas. Just out of curiosity…Fred, any deliveries today?"
"Uhm...." Fred glanced at his watch. "Truck Twenty-one was scheduled to arrive two hours ago."
"What do you think, Ari?" said Karen, shooting him a sharp glance. "Is the connection real? Is the Namus real? Is he driving an O'Connor's truck to the kill sites? What would happen if we visited O'Connor's and opened up Truck Twenty-one? Would we find a mobile slaughterhouse?"
"Not at all…" Ari had nothing left on his plate with which to muffle his answer. "These deaths, if they were truly unnatural, were made to look like accidents."
"Or suicides…"
There was a sudden roar from the parking lot as dozens of diesel engines came to life. They glanced around and saw that the Flying J was emptying out, quickly.
"Mass food poisoning?" Ari wondered out loud.
"Like you can't guess," Karen snarled.
"Why's everyone leaving?" Fred asked a trucker as he hustled past their booth.
"Bomb," said the man without breaking stride.
Ari, thinking about the Namus, did not grin.
CHAPTER 6
Camp Rustamiyah – Baghdad – Iraq
June 8, 2006 - 0000 hours
Gates had not called ahead to Warren Buffett, his second in command. He half expected Hutton to back out of the planned rescue attempt at any moment. A flash of common sense might enlighten the young soldier as to the impracticability of the venture. Except for the weird, repetitive scrape and howl in the distance, the streets beyond Camp Rustamiyah had been preternaturally silent since dusk fell. That could (and probably would) change at any moment. A column of mercenaries would not only contribute to but might even trigger an eruption. Not being particularly well-equipped for heavy action, especially at night, they would be at an almost suicidal disadvantage. Gates was, in fact, expecting an ambush as they rushed to save the kidnapped Sarah, which made the idea all the more…well, stupid. It was easy to draw comparisons with the Blackwater fiasco in Fallujah. They would be entering a district stirred up by current events. No routine pre-operation assessment was being made of the high-risk terrain. They would not be telling the Americans what they were up to. Two things made the prospect all the riskier: it was night. And while Fallujah had been an impromptu affair (on both sides), Gates would be leading his men against an expectant enemy, with ambush sites pre-set and manned. On the other hand, there had been only four Blackwater contractors, whereas Gates' men numbered around four dozen—if they all volunteered. And after what had happened in Seaidya, excluding any of them from the mission would mean inciting a mutiny. The Blackwater men had been driving SUV's (unarmored), which everyone knew were bullet magnets. And then there was simple motivation. To the horror of all mercs, the Blackwater team had been sacrificed while delivering cutlery to the Regency Hotel. Dying for the sake of silverware was the ultimate in human wastage. Eat with your fucking fingers, like the locals, for Chrissakes! Gates had thought at the time.
Sarah was no doubt dead, if Hutton's story was straight. But even a belated attempt at rescue held more meaning and honor than forks and spoons. And then there was that extra bit: revenge. He just hoped his men, especially the Gurkhas, didn't start beheading people. They'd already gotten some bad press over stuff like that. Eighteen-inch-long kukris really drew attention.
"Here's our coach station," Gates announced as the Gurkha driver pulled into a small camp across the wall from the Diyala. Gates and his passengers got out and approached a small crowd of Gurkhas gathered around a bonfire. They were stripped down to their shorts, drinking beer and singing or humming or doing a bit of both. Several goats were tied to posts near the fire.
"High tea," Gates observed.
One of the younger men stood and approached the goats with his khukuri.
"Oh shit," said Hutton.
"I've seen this before," said Ropp. "This ain't no place for animal lovers."
Warren Buffett appeared out of the dark.
"Go see if the Fijians are up for a little excursion."
Buffett made a face.
"You don't have to come," Gates told him.
"It's not that. I'd just like to know…tonight in particular…what's the objective?"
"We're going to rescue a damsel in distress."
"Yeah?"
"Sarah, the translator."
Buffett frowned, then grinned, then nodded. "Good enough," he said, then hustled away.
Gates made a kind of high-pitched cluck. One of the Gurkhas stood and told the young man walking to the goats to stop. Then he ran over to Gates. They spoke out of earshot. The man, who seemed to be the equivalent of a platoon sergeant, listened with impassive comprehension. When Gates was finished, he turned and strode back to the bonfire on short, powerful legs. He said something in Hindi and the young mercenary went to the first goat.
"They're not coming?" Hutton asked.
"Of course they're coming. It's just that their meat tea has become their battle sacrifice."
"But we don't have time—"
After giving the goat a gentle pat, the Gurkha severed its head with a single swipe of his long knife. While blood spurted into the flames, the mercenary marched the head around the pole, holding it up for all to see. The eyes rolled in their sockets.
"Fucking savages," Hutton gasped.
"You think this is savage?" Gates chuckled. "You should visit the Chicago stockyards. You'll never eat a Big Mac again. Not with a pure heart."
In quick succession the young merc finished off the other two goats, repeating his grisly ceremonial march with each one. Then some of the men sprang up and unsheathed their kukris. In less than a minute the carcasses were gutted and skinned.
"I'm impressed," said Ghaith.
"I'm de-pressed," said Ropp. "I know these guys have our backs, but do I really want them behind me?"
"They're not going to waste good meat," said Gates has they carried the goats away. "My guess is they'll hide them in the camp reefer. KBR won't want those bloody carcasses sodding up their freezers."
"You mean they'll store them where they keep the bodies?"
"Including the five poor bastards beheaded in Seaidya. Mortuary Affairs doesn't mind about the goats. They get fresh goat curry in retur
n. Our dead Gurkhas and Fijians are being stored courtesy of the U.S. Government—big fucking favor." Gates turned to look at them. "You boys look stark naked. Let's arrange your kit."
The Gurkhas had already broken away from the bonfire. Gates, Ghaith, Hutton and Ropp followed them to a dual line of nomad tents parked near the mortuary. The general purpose Army tents next to them looked frail and uncultured.
"Wait here," said Gates before ducking under the GP vinyl.
"Having second thoughts?" Ghaith asked Hutton, who fidgeted as he held his hand against his sore jaw.
"None."
"You are a valiant warrior. I myself am a chicken warrior. I am so brave I will be served up as Cordon Bleu."
"You don't have to come," said Hutton, his age dictating his self-righteousness. "I've got a whole army, now."
"I wouldn't miss it for two worlds."
"Yeah, Haji loves being shot at from rooftops and alleys," Ropp added. "Ever seen a man charge a position with an empty magazine? I have." He nodded at Ghaith.
"It was the heaven of fruitlessness."
Gates emerged from the tent with an M-16 in one hand and an AK-47 in the other.
"Any preferences? The ammos already loaded in the trucks."
Ghaith jumped for the Russian rifle. Ropp raised a finger.
"Is there a problem?" Gates asked. "I have another AK, if that's what you want."
"No…it's just that terps aren't supposed to have weapons."
"Well bless our Short John Silver," Gates frowned, thrusting the automatic rifle into Ghaith's hands. "No man under my command ever leaves unarmed."
"They'll stop him at the gate."
"We'll see about that," said Gates, handing Ropp the M-16. "You know how to unjam these things, I presume. Don't forget the forward assist. Just slap it with your palm."
"Hey, it's American," Ropp answered sourly. They couldn't tell if this was an affirmative or a protest.
Gates went back inside and came out with two more rifles.
"What's this?" Hutton protested when Gates handed one to him.
"You don't know the Right Arm of the Free World?" Gates said, disappointed by Hutton's ignorance. "An FN FAL. Known in my homeland as the L1A1 and in your homeland as…but you Yanks don't use it. Think it's too sissy."
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