"An excellent battle rifle," Ghaith reassured the young man. "Manufactured by Fabrique Nationale de Herstal."
"That sounds French," Hutton said with an icky face.
"Made in Belgium," said Gates, giving Ghaith a wary look. "You know your weapons, Haji."
"I am blessed with comprehension."
"It looks like a toy," Hutton complained, hefting the weapon. "Feels like one, too."
"We've got some NATO ammo in the trucks, too. I'll show you how to load it at the gate."
"I can figure it out," said Hutton, looking at Gates' weapon. "You've only got a carbine."
"I think we agreed there would be no mass slaughter tonight," Gates answered. "This is mission-suitable. Ropp…take this." He handed Ropp a pistol. "You know, for…" He again stuck his finger in his mouth, making a popping sound."
"Aw shit…"
"Ah…here's my command vehicle." Another Toyota pickup roared up next to them, spitting dust when the Fijian driving it braked suddenly. Ghaith leaned down to smile at him. Their complexions were similar.
"This is just like the other truck," said Hutton.
"Is that a problem? All your Bradley's look the same, to me."
"But…the doors…"
"They just get in the way. Don't annoy yourself, it's been up-armored." Gates slapped a jagged sheet of metal that had been welded to the side. "That'll stop…"
"Very little," said Ghaith.
"It's more than what those poor Blackwater bastards had." Gates turned to watch as nine trucks drew up behind his own. Some of the drivers impatiently revved their engines. "Eager to go and no idea where they're going," said Gates with some remorse.
"I believe they know," Ghaith said.
"Yeah?"
"They're going into battle."
"You think?" said Ropp. He was looking at Hutton's driver, who was holding a bottle of beer at his hip.
This bothered Ghaith, too. "If your men are inebriated, fewer will come back. And your Gurkhas…" Ghaith tilted an invisible bottle to his lips.
"I would take that into consideration if the clock wasn't whacking off the minutes. Anway, it's good whiskey. They're not squiffy. Climb in."
As they jumped onto the truck bed, Ropp complained about some crates limiting their space.
"Beer," Gates answered over the roar of the engines. "I don't dare leave it behind for you Yanks to rob. Guard those crates with your lives. Just drape your bodies over…yes, that will do nicely."
They squeezed inside. Standing next to his command vehicle, Gates raised his fist. A chorus of horns from the trucks announced their readiness.
Hutton swore at the noise. Ghaith touched his knee.
"A convoy of American fighting vehicles makes more noise shifting gears. Be comforted. There is no secrecy."
The Fijian driver was already in Forward when Gates leapt into the passenger seat.
"I'm just the 'A' driver," said Gates. "Ratu here is the pilot."
They sped through the camp, heedless of the 25 mph speed limit, soldiers and the occasional dog. Calling a halt at the gate, Gates took out his ICOM.
"IA drill! Comm check, sat-nav, bomb jammer…" Gates leaned over the improvised armor of his comm truck and pointed at a large metal box sitting next to the beer crates. "Would one of you blokes mind checking the jammer? Just make sure it's full of juice. If we switch it on now our radios and phones won't work. Mind all those antennas…" He again lifted his radio. "Lock and load!"
As the various units of Gates' little army checked in, Ghaith and the others in the back of the truck scrounged around for the ammo that suited their weapons. The Gurkhas in the truck behind them slapped their magazines home.
"Those beer crates could slide out," Ropp said.
"If they do, the insurgents will be the least of our concerns," said Ghaith, watching Gates stroll up to one of Peruvian guards contracted to protect the camp. He handed a large clear plastic bag to the guard, who grinned broadly and waved the bag at the other guards. Gates returned to the truck and loaded his carbine.
"Haji's OK with the rifle," he said.
"What's in the bag?" Hutton asked nervously. "It was…white."
"What, you think I gave them Bolivian marching powder? Even I couldn't afford a snort that big. Maná confitado, popcorn infused with sugar. They're wild about the stuff but can't get any around here. Hope they don't OD on it. Now hop in and hold on."
He slid onto the passenger seat and turned to look at them through the large gap cut through the back of the cab. "I said, hold on," he barked at Hutton and Ropp, then slapped the driver on the shoulder. "Hit it, Ratu!"
The Peruvians, aware of Fijian driving habits, were well out of the way when Ratu rocketed forward. Hutton and Ropp nearly fell out the back. This was nothing like the slow, majestically monstrous exit of an armored column. Swerving sharply around the concrete bollards protecting the gate, he turned sharply right, in the direction of the Diyala.
"This isn't the way to Sindabad!" Hutton shouted.
"There's fewer ambushes along the river," Gates shouted back over the engine noise. "That's the theory, at least. We'll turn south of Rusty and scoot past Rasheed. I recced this route for you Yanks a couple of days ago. Just keep your noggins down."
There was a loud bang on the side of the truck. Hutton lurched forward and again almost fell out.
"What was that?"
Ropp leaned sideways and pressed his index finger against a new bullet dent in the Hilux's improvised armor. "Greeting card."
"They couldn't wait to say 'hello'!" Gates laughed from the front seat.
Hutton scrunched down as low as he could go and hugged a beer crate. Thinking this inadvisable, but saying nothing, Ghaith positioned himself to catch the boy if he began to slide out again.
Richmond, Virginia
July, 2008
Women in an Industrial Trailer
Ari called Ben Torson, but all he got was his landline answering machine. Nor did he respond to a text message. The last time they spoke, Ben had mentioned something about Pastor Grainger holding an impromptu criterium race. How long did such an event last? Ari had no idea.
Lawson's final words made Ari doubtful for any help from that direction, whether on short notice or otherwise. It was clear his primary concern lay in the direction of the hijackings.
Karen and Fred would have gladly accompanied him, once they had properly shod themselves with all the legal boots and waders. It was true that, in his mind (and Lawson notwithstanding), the hijackings had become secondary to finding the Namus. But did Ari want the deputy marshals to discover his original interest in O'Connor's? Neither of them had ever heard of Nabihah Sadiq. A woman of great character. If she was somehow involved in the hijackings, it would not go well for her if the Feds found out. Ari did not want to be responsible for her downfall.
Was Nabihah a potential target? Trucks were always going in and out of the O'Connor's depot. There was nothing special about Truck Twenty-one. And could the link between the locations and dates of the alleged murders be a statistical phantasm? How many more companies matched O'Connor's pickup and delivery addresses? Yilmaz needed to be more specific. As it now stood, there was too much opportunity for coincidence. Fred could probably discover similar links between Global Trucking, Swift Transportation and J.B. Hunt, names familiar to all drivers who had ever swerved out of their path on the interstate.
With or without the truck-driver connection, the Namus still existed only in theory. But when Ari played back the memory of his earlier visit to O'Connor's, something Tareq Sadiq had said began to haunt him. In the middle of his tirade against the foreman, Badawi Bahrani, Tareq had exclaimed:
"I see some new hires here. I'll bet they've already figured out you couldn't crack an eggshell if your life depended on it!"
Takeem was one of those new hires. The man known to Ari as Nouri Salim, convicted of highway robbery, who had somehow cheated the hangman and now found himself with gainful employment in
Virginia. How had he gotten here? Who had sponsored him? Had he claimed refugee status? Then there were those other small-time Iraqi hoods he had seen on the dock: Baqir al-Rubaie and Khaled al-Khufaji. Were they also newly employed at O'Connor's? Someone intent on forming a gang could purchase rogues by the bushel from the harsh streets of Baghdad. Bringing them to the States could be expensive, with all the logistical support that a human pipeline usually entailed. One way to cut costs would be to go via Canada. All one really needed to do was shed tears in front of a Canuck to get him to open his arms. From there, it was only a short step. On any number of occasions Abu Jasim, Ari's friend and frequent collaborator, had shown how porous the Canadian-U.S. border was. But who would go to such effort?
The Namus?
Ari could call the mansion and advise Nabihah Sadiq that he was suspicious of the new workers at O'Connor's. Singh and Yilmaz could become extra-vigilant, if such a thing was possible. But would she pass his advice on to Badawi Bahrani? The foreman might be a long-term employee, but that was no reason to trust him. Not to Ari's mind, at least. Besides, telling Nabihah that her most recent hires were Iraqi hoods would lead to the next question: how could Ari Ciminon, an Italian, know such a thing?
No, he was now off Lawson's clock. This was strictly self-employment. And he had to rush things along, in case Karen took it into her head to stir the pot at O'Connor's, putting everyone there on notice that the Feds were watching.
It was dark when he took the Coach Road exit off I-95. His stomach grumbled as he passed a large Waffle House. Less than two hours ago he had eaten a huge bacon cheeseburger and fries. American-style fast food was not like Chinese, where you were hungry again within the hour. Was he ill? Or simply a glutton? He had not checked his weight lately, but his belt felt a bit tighter. Not a good sign. There was not enough time for a quick bite, in any event. Turning up his nose at the prospect of honey-soaked waffles, he forged ahead, dodging several huge semis before passing the UPS terminal.
The tall galvanized steel gate at O'Connor's stood open. As he pulled in, a man sitting on a fold-out chair looked up from his phone, squinting at Ari's headlights. Ari lowered his window.
"As-salāmu ʿalaykum."
"Waʿalaykumu s-salām," said the guard uncertainly. He did not allow his hand to drift down to his holster. In fact, the gun looked like a useless, unwanted ornament at his side. "Can I help…don't I know you?"
"I was here earlier today," said Ari. "I don't recall seeing you, though."
Which did not mean Ari didn't recognize him. Another Iraqi.
"I thought I had recognized you…but I was wrong…"
"You earn a few extra dinars working as a guard at night?" Ari asked, his arm resting easily on the sill.
"Dollars, sir."
"America!" Ari slapped his forehead. "Of course! Anyway, I'm authorized to enter the premises. I'm investigating the hijackings."
"I…"
"That's what insurance companies do, in this country. They find ways to avoid paying claims."
"I didn't know…"
"Ah, you are already a slave to Madison Avenue."
"That's in…New York?"
"That's where the corporate propagandists maintain their headquarters. I thank you for letting me pass inside."
"Wait!" The guard held up his phone. "I need to call Mrs. Sadiq and let her know."
"There's no need to bother her at this hour," Ari reassured him. "She's probably watching her favorite musalsalat."
Ari was referring to Arab soap operas.
"Perhaps," said the guard uneasily. "But I must…"
"Let me explain," said Ari, opening his door and stepping out. He discovered he was over a head taller than the young man, who exposed his Adam's apple as he stared up at Ari. He seemed to have entirely forgotten he was wearing a firearm. Ari continued: "In the interest of my investigation, I would like to leave the owner unapprised of my visit. You can understand that, can't you?"
"I understand, but she is my employer."
"And what if she is involved in this nefarious business? What if she arranged the hijackings and is making false claims? By not allowing me to proceed you become an accomplice."
"Yes," said the man with feeble determination. He seemed to be trying to decide who was the greater threat: this big thug, or the woman back at the mansion. And Ari was found wanting.
"I think she is an honest woman. I must call before I can let you inside."
"A most commendable employee," Ari nodded. "But what if you are wrong? You could find yourself back in al-Muqdadiyah jail."
The guard had been thumbing at his phone, but suddenly drew back from its tiny glow. "What?"
"American insurance companies are very thorough," Ari asserted, almost sadly. "They will spend millions to avoid handing a penny to a just compliant…uhm, premium payer."
"I cannot see how…"
"You are Muhammed Jabouri, arrested for cockfighting in Diyala Province."
"It was perfectly legal!" the man protested. "And my name is Hamal!"
"You were running numbers," said Ari, who recalled only the skimpiest of details from the man's police record, but enough to terrorize him. "What happened? Did a cop lose a bundle and lock you up to punish your boss? Get control of yourself. You weren't singled out. The Central Virginia Group knows everything about everyone here."
"Even…Mrs. Sadiq?"
"Not as much as we would like to, which is why I'm here."
"You want to go into her office?" Hamal's back stiffened. That would be going too far.
"I'm more interested in the trucks."
"Why?"
"Let's say the shipment of cigarettes that was hijacked somehow ended up back at your loading dock? That would cause some speculation in my department."
"Ah," the guard smiled. "There are only three trucks here tonight. They need maintenance and will be sent to the garage tomorrow morning."
"They're empty?"
"So far as I know."
"You don't mind if I look?" Ari felt the man's muscles relax. No big deal, after all. He dismissed the need for violent alternatives.
"I'll have to call Mr. Bahrani," Hamal advised him, raising his phone like a miniature cosh.
"A most agreeable individual," Ari said, nodding. "I am sure he won't have any objection."
As he began to work his way back into the Scion, Hamal leaned forward. "Mr…"
"Ciminon."
"Your company can't possibly know so much about me."
Ari shrugged, his sly grin amounting to a sideways thrust. "How else could I know?"
Hamal gave him a long look, and for a moment seemed to remember his gun. Finally, he nodded him through. "Park next to the main entrance. And don't go into Mrs. Sadiq's office."
"I'll restrain myself," Ari said. As he drove across the lot, he wondered if Hamal had seen the portrait of Ghaith Ibrahim that had circulated within various neighbors while he, Hamal, was running numbers under the name of Muhammed Jabouri. The insurgents had fingered Ghaith (now Ari) as a traitor and were searching for him. Quite possibly, that picture had found its way to cities and towns outside of Baghdad.
As Ari got out of his car the customer service door opened and Badawi Bahrani stepped out, a phone to his ear.
"It's too late, now," Ari thought he said before closing the flap. It looked like Hamal was going to catch hell for allowing Ari past the gate.
"Mr. Ciminon, how may I help you?" he asked, coming down the three short steps to intercept him on the sidewalk.
"As I explained to the sentry, I would greatly appreciate a glance inside your freight trucks."
"I don't see how that would be helpful to your investigation." There was a prim efficiency to Bahrani's behavior that Ari found most annoying. Being something of a bully, Ari found it hard to appreciate people who used rules—and rules, alone—to stop you in your tracks. If Bahrani had been a thug and tried to block his way, a nice little tussle would have settled the matter. But rules? You
couldn't hit them. You couldn't lift them and cast them aside. You might try explaining that the rules did not apply in a particular case, or that they were utterly meaningless in all circumstances. But that took time, and there was no guarantee of success. Gauging his implacable calmness, Ari decided Bahrani was a real rule boy, with no nonsense beyond the designated parameters. He had already come to the conclusion that the manager was Shiite. Encumbered by the prejudices of the class he had been raised in, Ari believed there was something shady going on behind that businesslike mask.
Should he tell Bahrani that he thought the Namus could be on the premises? Had Nabihah even told him about the suspected killer?
"Central Virginia Group is unsettled by the possibility that—"
"The hijacked freight…yes, Hamal told me. I can assure you, the stolen cargo was truly stolen."
"Personally, I am relieved by your words, but my employer—"
"Yes, yes." Bahrani finally betrayed annoyance. Just a trace, but enough to trigger a pout. This pleased Ari, who had an aversion to all poker faces but his own. "Are you telling me you will deny our claims if I don't let you onto the loading dock?"
"It would be an impediment," Ari acknowledged.
Bahrani lowered his head and impaled his hand with his fist. "Curse Abu Bakr, curse Umar and curse Uthman."
That settled it. Badawi Bahrani was Shia, probably a Twelver. Ari had heard a lot of swearing in his life, much of it vile and much of it returned with regards. But he had never heard anyone swear against the Rightly Guided Caliphs—of which there were four, but Bahrani had, tellingly, left out Ali ibn Abi Talib. Ali had been Muhammed's son-in-law, and those raised as Sunnis, like Ari, considered him a great man. But the Shia had taken it a step further, declaring Ali to be the first Imam and the rightful successor to the Caliphate. After Ali was assassinated all hell broke loose, resulting in the Shia-Sunni split, the consequences of which could be traced all the way to this inconsequential depot in Richmond, Virginia, with even the Godless One regarding the manager with barely-hidden disdain. Bahrani's oath was offensive in the extreme. Even the Shiite Imams issued fatwas against them. You simply did not curse the names of Muhammed's companions, no matter what had happened in the meantime. But the very issuance of those fatwas suggested the existence of the offence. Ari had never heard it spoken within his hearing. Though enfeebled by being committed in English, the curse made him uneasy. But he was supposed to be Italian, probably a Catholic, so he kept his dismay tucked away in his back pocket.
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