"Here!" Yilmaz repeated. She was pointing at the auxiliary engine bolted to the trailer. "Look at what that bastard did! We added the engine to run the power in the trailer."
"The lights and air conditioning," Bahrani explained, staring down.
A hose had been run from the engine to the A/C intake.
"He was gassing them to death!" Yilmaz cried, shaking her gun in a very unsafe manner.
"This is diesel," said Bahrani, shaking his head. "It would have taken a long time."
"Maybe he knew I would be late." Yilmaz stalked a circle. "As soon as I left the house I was stopped by a moving van blocking the road. You know how narrow those roads are at the back of Windsor Farms. He was trying to turn and got stuck. I went up to the driver and tried to guide him…" Her eyes narrowed. "For a moment I thought it was you! The resemblance…"
Ari fumed. Really, how many people looked like him? Half the population, the way people talked. Which meant a horde of Gamal Abdel Nasser lookalikes, since Ari looked so much like the former Egyptian president. And that included a serial bomber Ari had put out of everyone's misery.
"Everyone in Italy looks like me. Even Sophia Loren looks like me."
"But you don't look like her," Yilmaz observed, reversing the formula.
"You believe that truck blocked the road on purpose, to delay you?"
"No one with sense would try taking a freighter on those roads. They use the alleys or they bring smaller trucks. I wouldn't be here now if I hadn't convinced him to drive through someone's yard."
"How did you do that?" Ari asked.
"I told him I had an appointment I couldn't miss."
"You showed him your gun," Ari nodded approvingly.
"And now we see how important that appointment was," Bahrani grimaced. "I would never have imagined…"
"And you know better than to open the trailer." Yilmaz began to slap herself in the head but stopped before hitting herself with the gun.
"Allah yoster aleaki," Bahrani nodded.
"That's not what I meant and I can't believe you said it," said Yilmaz, menacing him with a glare.
'God protect me from desperate widows,' a commonplace in the Middle East, especially where it concerned single women over 30. Now that Ari thought about it, the women in the trailer must be that age, or older.
There was a moan from the cab.
"Yilmaz, I presume you were taking these women to Mrs. Sadiq's mansion? Then take them to the van, now. I have great sympathy for men who have been battered about the head, and I'm concerned about the driver."
Bahrani made a scoffing sound.
"Mr. Bahrani, leave off being an asshole and call for an ambulance." He paused, then added, "There is no plural for 'Namus'."
Yilmaz and Bahrani shared a curious look in his direction. Ari continued:
"That man who assaulted your driver. How long was he in the cab? Was he a hitchhiker? And did he come prepared with a hose to misdirect the gas fumes? Do you keep truck parts here?"
Bahrani's stutter amounted to a 'no'.
"Then he came prepared to do this evil thing. Then there was the accomplice in the car who helped him escape, and the moving van driver who postponed Yilmaz's arrival."
"Three," Yilmaz murmured.
"Unless the hijackings are intertwined with this nefariousness, in which case there might be many more…'namuses'. It is for you to tell me…is there an association? Are the hijackings and this attempt at murder part of the same scheme?"
There was another moan from the cab and Ari threw up his hands.
"A medical emergency summons us to haste. Yilmaz, I will follow you to the mansion. These people know their plan has failed, and they might try to improvise."
"'Improvise'?"
"It's the unofficial motto of the United States Marine Corps. When things snafu, you try something else. In this case—"
Yilmaz ran back to the dock to gather the women. Bahrani stared at Ari.
"What do you know about the Marine Corps?"
"What everyone knows. They are an army of one that is always faithful to the amber waves of grain."
With a crimped trot, he took off for the parking lot.
CHAPTER 7
South of Al Rasheed Air Base – Baghdad – Iraq
June 8, 2006 - 0030 hours
Several fighters roared overhead as they passed south of Rasheed Air Base.
"Fucking F18's!" Ropp moaned. "What if they mistake us for muj?"
"This area is secure," Gates yelled back. "See those buildings? Packed with Special Forces. They don't want the flyboys hit by RPG's before they even get started. The pilots know this. They won't shoot at us."
"And what if Delta Force mistakes us for muj?"
"All these Toyotas with their headlights on? Even the mujahedeen aren't that stupid."
"But we are?" Hutton tossed in.
"Of course, but we aren't here to be anything but stupid."
"You think that's my fault?"
"I'm not saying it isn't, but you're doing me a favor. My lads—"
"Watch it!" Hutton cried out.
A piercing howl filled the air.
"What is it?" Gates shouted, pointing his carbine through the vacant cavity where his door had been.
"Your driver ran over a dog!"
"Fuck's sake," Gates murmured. "Ratu, I know there's wolfpacks all over the road, but try to avoid hitting any of the mutts. Our boy here has a sensitive heart."
"No heart attacks," Ratu answered and jerked the wheel to avoid another stray. Ghaith caught Hutton as he slid backwards in the truckbed.
There was another howl as the truck behind them hit the next dog.
"Can't you radio back and tell them not to—"
"Fuck's sake," Gates repeated. "If you care as much for Sarah as you do for these hounds, I've never seen such true love."
Hutton began to respond. Ghaith made a kissing sound at him and shook his head.
They swooped under power lines and telephone wires, the new hanging gardens of Babylon that gave high-profile vehicles so much trouble, snagging turrets and electrocuting soldiers manning 50 cals. As they raced through a dozen blocks of houses bombed into rubble, Ghaith once again reflected on the inherent desolation of the Mesopotamian heartland. This part of the country was so fucking flat. In ancient times, when barbarians (like Ghaith's ancestors) descended from the mountains to raid the centers of civilization, the poor soldiers sent to fight them off must have gagged from air sickness on encountering their first foothill. Rocks, broken brickwork, candy wrappers—these were the major landmarks in the natural and human desolation. Whenever Saddam Hussein wanted to who prove to his people that the capitalist system was no better, he would instigate the broadcasting of documentaries showing blighted American cities. There wasn't much to choose between them.
"How did you find time to romance Sarah?" Ghaith shouted over the din. There was no point in keeping his voice low. Hutton would not have been able to hear him, and the convoy could be heard blocks away. He was forced to use earphones in order to hear the portable scanner, but he inserted only one of the buds, the other one dangling at his neck. "You would have not found much time to yourselves. I saw very little evidence of your adoration when she accompanied us on patrol."
"We didn't want anyone to know," Hutton said reluctantly. "You know what a hard-ass Mastin is."
"You got that right," Ropp said, furtively pinching his midriff.
"We talked a lot on the phone," Hutton added.
"You what?" Ghaith and Ropp exchanged pained glances. For how long had the insurgents been eavesdropping on that? There seemed no sense in pointing that out to Hutton. Not now.
"It was a secure line!" the young lover protested, reading their thoughts.
"Yes, every young Iraqi woman has a secure phone!" Gates growled from up front. "If you have a head left after tonight, you should have it—"
Ghaith held up his hand and inserted the loose earbud. After listening for a mome
nt, he smiled grimly. "The non-feral jundi are staying home tonight," he advised everyone. "They are huddled by their doors, guns in hand."
"No way to run an army," Gates said with a shake of his head. "Their commander lives in a luxury hut back in Rusty. I'm sure he'll stay put, too."
"You guys drive awful close to each other." Ropp shifted uncomfortably, the constant jarring sifting him towards the back opening. If any of them fell out, they would be hit by the tailgater behind them. "And this is a lot of light."
"We'll spread out once we've left Rasheed behind," Gates informed him. "You don't get many IED's this time of night, but in this case…"
"Perhaps they won't attack until we've reached Sarah's house," Ghaith offered. "They don't want us to turn back."
"Sarah's kidnappers are not the only wolves on the prowl tonight," said Gates. "My guess is that we'll have to run the killers to meet the killers."
"I concede your point," Ghaith nodded.
"She's still alive," said Hutton.
"Of course, my young friend, or why else would we—"
Ghaith stopped when a high-pitched alarm sounded in the distance behind them.
"That's the Q-36 siren!" shouted Ropp. There was a whiffling in the air, like crushed ice being scooped out of a bin. It was followed by an explosion. "They're shelling Rusty!"
"Where do you think it came from?" Gates asked.
"Nearby," Ghaith answered.
"Fuck, that's it. The Yanks'll be out here in no time. Now we've got to worry about getting blown away by a QRF."
A distinct possibility. Quick Reaction Forces were always on standby, ready to respond to any emergency within ten minutes. In this case, they would be following the Q-36 radar track back to its source.
"You aren't turning back!" yelled Hutton.
"Am I right in believing you Yanks never leave home without your ROE's?" Gates asked.
Both Hutton and Ropp slapped their shirt pockets, where they kept their copies of the Rules of Engagement.
"Then let's hope those lads in the QRF have their copies, too, and can read in the dark."
"American schools are notoriously inefficient," said Ghaith. Seeing the two riflemen giving him dark looks, he tweaked his observation. "According to the previous regime, that is."
The haunting, fearful moan that had mystified them all evening started up again, adding its sound of doom to the wailing sirens in Rusty and Rasheed. A moment later, another rocket was swooshing through the atmosphere.
"Definitely nearby." Gates pulled a radio out of his pocket. "What do you think, Ratu? Should I call Ops and let them know we're dicking around out here?"
The driver glanced at Gates. Like the other Fijian mercenaries, he wore casual civilian clothes, jeans and shirt. Only his dark iTaukei complexion gave away his Melanesian origins. Unlike the Gurkhas, they did not bring with them any of the ceremonial weapons favored by their warriors, such as the Gata—a brutal slicing and dicing war club once favored by Fijian cannibals.
"I don't know, Boss," Ratu grinned. "I'm not paid to think. You want to put me in for a raise?" He finished off his beer and threw the can out the door.
"How many of those you think he's had?" Ropp said to Ghaith.
Ratu overheard and raised two fingers. Then he brought up a third. Then he opened and closed his hand several times.
"Addled as usual," Gates shook his head. "This is all a big party to these wankers."
"Vinaka vaka levu!" Ratu laughed.
"He's thanking me very much," Gates translated. "I suppose he's being sarcastic. All the real Fijian swear words are English…so far as I know."
As he spoke, Gates fiddled with the radio in his hand, trying to decide if to call the base. But he knew if he did so, the Americans would ask him what the hell he was up to. And if he told them that, the Yanks would come charging out to help, exponentially increasing the noise factor and making Sarah's rescue less likely.
"She's still alive!" Hutton persisted.
"Right-O," said Gates, pocketing the radio. "Might not be able to break through on the net, anyway."
Ghaith's Motorola picked up a signal. He quickly planted the second bud into his ear.
"Are you sure?" came a voice in Arabic.
"Yes, I told you it's ready."
"Can you see them?"
"With all those headlights? Of course—"
Ghaith ripped out the earbuds and stretched out over a crate to slap Ratu on the back. "Stop! Now!"
Lucky for them the other drivers in the convoy had quick reflexes. No one was rear-ended as Ratu slammed on the brakes.
"IED," said Ghaith in response to Gates' glance of inquiry.
"Already?" Gates fumed. "We don't have time to sweep the road. In the dark. With the muj sighting down on us."
"Guests of honor should not be delayed," Ghaith agreed. "May I suggest we turn off at the intersection and work our way around the next few blocks."
"Yes, you may bloody well suggest it. Ratu?"
"Not that I'm paid to think, but they might anticipate such a move."
"I know that." Gates took out a third radio…not a Motorola or ICOM, but a NATO-issued MBITR. It looked like he was a bit of a comm fashionista. "Attention, mates. The dance has become formal. Roadside bomb ahead. Turn left here. Spread out when you follow. If I'm blown to smithereens…Buffett is in command. And Sarah's house is the third one down at the left turn after Ma'un Restaurant, which you'll recognize by all the English pizza, chicken and burger signs."
"You knew all along!" Hutton shouted, leaping up.
"Sit back down and hold on," Gates ordered. "Mercs have their sources, too."
"But how—"
"She told me, all right? She's a little charmer, is our Sarah. Don't spew froth. There was nothing between us, or anyone else that I know of. You're the only one on a first-name phone basis with her. Did we flirt? Of course. She's a silly chatterer, that's all. PFC Ropp, would you power up the bomb jammer for a bit? Not for long. We want Haji to eavesdrop on the enemy. Good…Ratu! Haul ass! And don't mind the dogs!"
Ratu turned the wheel hard and hit the gas. Ghaith grabbed Hutton just in time to keep him from flying out of the truck.
Richmond, Virginia
July, 2008
Culinary Interlude
Ari thought Sirdar Singh's dastar would explode when he heard what had happened. Yilmaz nearly disappeared in his wrath. But he was not angry at her.
"I should have been there! The Namus might have attacked you!"
"I can handle myself," Yilmaz asserted, returning his scowl in kind.
"He might have had a gun!"
"I have a gun."
"He had henchmen assisting him!"
"I had a henchman assisting me."
Ari did not feel he deserved the look she gave him, as if he was a rotten pomegranate that had fallen out of the trash bin. 'Payback is hellish' he thought, hoping she could read his mind.
"Bahrani was there, too. And the guard."
"Both useless," Singh snarled, which was fairly accurate, as far as it went, in Ari's estimation.
"Were you followed back here?" Singh demanded.
"I'm sure the Namus knows where we are…" Yilmaz had not yet told him about the truck blocking the road.
"How?"
"I'll tell you later. But we have to be alert."
"I'm always alert."
"Which explains your neurosis."
Singh shot Ari a look, and for an instant Ari thought they were bonding. Women. Then he realized Singh was appalled at being told this in front of a stranger and was wondering if he should kill the witness. Ari focused on the coach house and said, "That is a lovely appendage."
They were standing in the mansion driveway. Nabihah Sadiq had run out wearing a hijab, perhaps to make the newcomers feel welcome. The six women from the truck greeted her with a kind of friendly wariness. Ari mentally played out the possibility that they had placed themselves in this woman's hands, and were uncertain of the
outcome. Yilmaz must have called ahead, because Nabihah was billowing with remorse.
"This is so awful! I never guessed…. How can you forgive me?"
Five of the women forgave her on the spot. The sixth, a sour maiden of forty or so, said in Arabic:
"If you wanted to put us out of our misery, you could have done it faster."
Nabihah folded the woman's hands in her own. "That was never my intention. I want to help you!"
"I've heard about these things," the sour woman continued. "They bring a truckload of immigrants across the border and when the Americans open the doors, a bunch of corpses! You know the Americans pay the smugglers to gas them. They don't want to see any more veils in their country."
"I believe you are thinking of Hispanic immigrants," said Ari.
"Sombreros, hijabs, it's all the same to them. If you're not wearing jeans, you're finished."
"But you paid nothing!" Nabihah protested. "These people you speak about—they were robbed!"
"And murdered."
The other newcomers crowded in upon the sour woman.
"Show some respect!"
"And gratitude!"
"You didn't have to come, you old jerboa," said another newcomer.
"None of that," said Nabihah. "We are here for a good cause. Let's not ruin it with abuse. Haven't we had enough of that? Now…you must come inside. You have had a long and difficult journey. Do you know, I have no idea what it is like to ride in a tractor trailer!"
She led the women up the driveway to a door next to the garage entrance, one flight below the mansion. Ari followed.
"I'll stay at the gate," said Sirdar Singh.
"I'll patrol the fence," said Yilmaz.
"And what will you do when it comes time to sleep?" Ari asked.
"There is a very elaborate security system," Singh assured him.
Ari's lack of conviction was written on his face.
"So?" Yilmaz said. "We won't sleep."
"Very well," Ari sighed as he went through the door. A flight of carpeted steps took him to the mansion's first floor. His nerves tingled in the presence of wealth—an unfortunate inclination that had caused him some trouble at Saddam Hussein's Imperial Palace. But this failing was overwhelmed by the delicious scents that came from the interior of the house. At the top of the steps he encountered a hallway lit by calligraphic wall sconces shaped in the Koranic 'Ali'. A small but ornately-framed mirror allowed visitors to address their hair and clothing before passing out of this fashionable garage exit. Ari paused to straighten his silk tie from Saks Fifth Avenue. Even in this hot weather, he believed in dressing nattily. It might have had something to do with seeing too many James Bond movies as a boy. 007 could be chasing criminals in the tropics and still not ooze sweat on his starched shirts. A distinction Ari could not emulate, a fault reinforced when his leg (and ribs and wrist) cried out to him to restrict his movements. If Yilmaz wasn't shot while patrolling the grounds, he would make her pay for her sin. Yet he had to acknowledge that cracking open the girl's skull might be beneath his dignity.
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