Gates halted the column before reaching the next intersection. "She lives on the next block. Let's do it on foot."
"After a slight pause…" Ghaith raised his AK in the direction of a shadow breaking free of a nearby building. A tall man. Not a Gurkha.
"How did they miss him?" Gates complained. "My Gurks swept here."
As he drew closer, they saw he was wearing a dishdasha and baggy trousers, topped off with a keffiyeh. He was not carrying a rifle, which did not mean he was unarmed. He stopped.
"I have to pee, or something to that effect," he whispered loudly.
"I don't give a damn, or something to that effect," Gates answered. "Is that Rostmeyer?"
"No, it's Mohammed Mohammed Mohammed," Rostmeyer griped. "Jesus, don't throw my name around like that. Not here."
"If you fear for your life, it would be wise not to invoke the Christian prophet in these precincts," Ghaith advised as Rostmeyer closed the distance.
"Haji?"
"No, I am Smith Smith Smith."
"Gotcha," Rostmeyer nodded.
Ropp and Hutton joined them.
"Can I tell these lads who you work for?" Gates asked. "You bloody well look like a muj."
"I'm OGA."
"Meaning 'Other Government Agency'."
Meaning CIA.
"Since we're both about to ask each other what the hell we're doing out here, I'll tell you we're on company business."
"The Company?"
"No, not yours. And you?"
"I was going to try and find out what that godawful noise is," he said as Godzilla again spoke from the river. "It's been driving us nuts."
"'Us'?"
"In the safe house."
Rostmeyer found himself in the center of incredulous stares.
"It's no big secret. Well, it is, but that hasn't stopped everyone in the neighborhood learning about it. That's why I changed direction. I heard your big asshole convoy coming up the street. The muj don't often travel in big packs, and it wasn't as loud as a QRF, so I figured mercenaries. I wanted to warn you. The safe house is under observation 24/7. We use a tunnel to go in and out, but it's only a matter of time before they suss it. Any Americans…or Brits…driving by the front door risk getting popped."
"A load of tab hangers in the middle of Sindabad!" Gates swore. "And where exactly is this bomb magnet?"
"Two blocks straight ahead."
"What the fuck!" Hutton moaned. "Afaf lives one block from a fucking safe house?"
"'Afaf'?" Rostmeyer asked.
"The interpreter we call 'Sarah'."
"Oh shit. Yeah, we know her and where she lives. She doesn't translate for us…too close, too risky. What about her?"
"She's been kidnapped."
Rostmeyer found this difficult to take in. "From right under our noses? Are you sure?"
"I present myself as proof," said Gates.
"But…this isn't company business, is it? You're going to her house. Why? If she's been kidnapped, she's long gone."
"We believe her father can tell us where she's been taken. If not voluntarily, then…"
"Gotcha. Well, once you finish, you'd better back out and circle around the next block. The muj have set up some hard sites in the area for the day they decide to shuck us out of our shell."
"'Shuck'?" said Ghaith, always alert for new words.
"I'll explain later," Gates told him. "Listen, Mohammed, my Gurkhas have cleared out these last blocks. They could go one more without too much problem. They are very efficient."
"Tell me," Rostmeyer said. "It's a good thing I've got this dishdasha, or you'd see the big wet splotch on my trousers. I never heard them coming. When that knife came up to my throat—"
"A very sad experience," Ghaith acknowledged.
"We can't waste time wiping out the whole insurgency," Hutton murmured.
"I thought I was finished," Rostmeyer continued. "Then I remembered the password: I have to piss, or something like that. Good thing my brain didn't fart at the wrong moment."
"I neglected to tell my men the sign and countersign," Gates admitted with a small cough. "Most of them don't speak English…"
"One of them does, at least," said Rostmeyer. "He lifted the front of my dishdasha, saw the splotch, and said something in Hindi to his partner. They didn't exactly laugh…that would have been too loud."
"Saved by a bursting bladder," said Gates blandly. "Now that you're here, you're welcome to join us."
"To save Sarah? The station chief will shit a fit, but fuck him." Rostmeyer paused. "Your boys confiscated my Glock." He pressed a finger-barrel into his mouth and pulled the imaginary trigger. Ropp and Hutton winced.
"I think I can convince them to give it back."
"You think?" Rostmeyer thought for a moment. "Your crew includes Fijians, too, if I'm not mistaken?"
"Yes."
"I'll ride with them."
"They're famous cannibals, you know."
"That's all right. Anything's better than the Gurkhas."
Richmond, Virginia
July, 2008
Another Bloody Hangover
"Is everyone in the Middle East named 'Mohammed'?"
"Is everyone in America named 'Joe'?" Ari moaned, trying to sit up on his mattress. He took some care, forgetting for a moment that there was no cat sharing his primitive sleeping arrangement with him. He had been up all night and most of the morning studying images from the backlog of thumb drives Karen had left on his kitchen table over the last month. Maimed, tortured victims, their killers standing over them, mocking the dead…it took a lot of whisky to survive sights like that, and Ari had emptied two bottles. He would need at least six more hours to sleep it off, and Lawson had chosen to call him at…8! Not out of line, but when anyone felt like this, any hour was ungodly.
"I put a few of my people on that list you gave me of O'Connor employees. Not one has been in the States more than five years, but they were all vetted by Immigration…for what that's worth. There's really nothing to work with."
"I appreciate your efforts."
"Are you all right? You sound like a truck ran over your tongue."
"You are exactly right," Ari said, falling back on his pillow. "I was taking a nap by the road, and—"
"Forget that. Have you got anything for me? The hijackings, remember?"
Ari swept a cerebral whisk broom through his brain, looking for any sober corner that might contain a few hard scraps. "I have come to the belief that the stolen cargoes are merely targets of opportunity."
"You mean they're just hitting any O'Connor truck that comes their way?" Lawson asked. "They don't know what's inside? I find that hard to believe. And they need to know in advance where they're hauling the freight."
"The last haulers were stolen along with the trailers." Ari looked down and was surprised to see a large bulge in his pajamas. How was that possible, in his condition? What had been on his mind to stimulate him this way?
Female cargo.
"Yes?" Lawson prodded at the other end of the connection. "I'm well aware that the last rigs were stolen."
"I believe they were taken because the contents of the trailers could not be removed without harm."
"Are you talking about eggs or nuclear waste?" Lawson snapped. "I've seen the manifests. Cigarettes, disposable diapers…mostly homogeneous FTL, semi- and some intermodal from the Port of Richmond. There's a bit of LTL mixed in, but no express, nothing that would increase the insurance rates. Are the O'Connor people lying about their cargoes? I can arrange on-site inspections. It's more expensive, but we just pass the cost on to the customer."
Dodging around what he found incomprehensible, Ari asked, "Richmond has a port?"
"Not for long. They're about to lose their biggest carrier, ICL. But for now, they move a lot of tobacco, plus some wastepaper, phosphates, machinery…other stuff. You don't think O'Connor's is smuggling stuff through there, do you? It's managed by Federal Marine Terminals. They're pretty good at sniff
ing out contraband."
For all Ari knew, Nabihah Sadiq could be smuggling radium-tainted cocaine through the port, but it would not be within the scope of his unwritten contract with the Central Virginia Group. Still, he wanted Lawson to think he was busily snooping in the shadows.
"You still might want to see if O'Connor's has any shipments out of there. You would want to also check the independent rigs they employ."
"I can look through their ICA's—Independent Contractor Agreements."
"Thank you for spelling that out for me."
"Are you saying there's an insider at the port spotting for the hijackers?"
"It is a possibility," Ari responded to the unlikely possibility.
"So you want me to check out the port, check out a hundred independent drivers, check out the homegrown O'Connor drivers, and every immigrant who has ever crossed our shores?"
"Am I stretching your resources?" Ari asked.
"You're stretching me!" Lawson's bellow was modified into a painful slur by his mangled lips. "You're supposed to be working for me, not the other way around."
"I will try to remember. Has my check been deposited in the postal receptacle?"
"No, your check is not in the mail, and it won't be until you can give me something more definite. Now get out of bed and get to work!"
"How did you know I was in—"
"Gotcha! So far as I'm concerned, the day is half gone and you've accomplished nada."
There was a loud click that Ari interpreted as a phone slammed in its cradle.
He went back to sleep.
Five hours later he was seated unsteadily in a branch of the Chesterfield County Library. Convinced that the authorities were watching everything he did on his desktop at home, he made it a habit of using free public terminals. Well-used were the Richmond and Henrico County branches, where the librarians now greeted him by name—especially the one who had fallen in love with him. It was time now to change locales. Fortunately, all three counties had an agreement on interlibrary usage, so the librarian barely gave his Henrico card a glance before giving him the password to one of the terminals. He went through what he considered a great deal of effort to send a simple email. He had to set up a completely new Gmail account, which entailed creating a plethora of false information. His limited creative forebrain was hard-pressed when he had to come up with a cryptic password, but once done, he would never forget it. Using a memorized book about birds as his template, he typed out the number to one of his disposable cell phones, sent the message, and signed off.
"That was quick," said the young man at the desk when Ari returned for his library card.
"I only needed to access an email," Ari sighed in despondence. "I have learned that the great love of my life despises me. In fact, she says I remind her of a donkey."
"Bummer…" said the librarian, looking aghast. "I'm sorry to hear that."
Ari waited next to his car as waves of heat cooked his whiskey-soaked brain. In a moment of self-reflection, he dwelled on the fact that he had never drunken so much before coming to America. One reason, of course, was the ready availability of good liquor. But in Iraq, even after it became a hellhole instead of a home, his thirst for alcohol had been limited. And long ago, when arranging an assassination in a foreign country or hunting down smugglers in the mountains, he had had to keep his wits about him. And when he was at home near Aqba Bin Nafi Square, a simple glance from Rana was enough to knock a full glass out of his hand. They were in silent agreement that he should not demean himself…unless it was for purposes of State. And survival.
America was an unhappy land. Iraq on a grand scale, without the suicide bombs. Ari could not put his finger on why this was so. Outside of the usual petty annoyances that plagued every society, Americans should have been content with their lot. Yet there was an underlying, desperate urgency among so many of them. It was as if, having fulfilled all their physical needs, they could not be satisfied until they reached the next level of prosperity. They lusted for a perfection that did not exist because, after all, everyone died in the end. Was that it? Americans could not believe they were not immortal? Or was it something else? Whatever it was, it seemed to have infected Ari. He doubted his troubled soul was due entirely to the absence of Rana and his assigned task of viewing Iraq's misery from a distance. The drugs, the alcohol and the skin-deep faith of those around him spoke of a permanent addiction to a shallow norm. There was no sense of duty to profounder forces, or even to one's neighbor. And here he was, doing duty for a country he had no faith in for another country that he had lost faith in. Ari did not take the next mental step, because he did not realize he was an essentially jolly individual, just like his father. It was an enormous stroke of psychological luck, because otherwise, he would have become demented.
He took out a cigarette and lit up. His phone rang. He opened it and listened to five minutes' worth of complaints from Abu Jasim. His friend in Montreal finally stopped for a moment.
"Hello? Colonel? Are you there? It's very silent at your end."
"Ah, there you are," said Ari. "Up to now all I've heard is gibberish. We must have a bad signal."
"I hear you perfectly well," Abu Jasim said suspiciously.
"Do you? The problem must be here. American cell phone service is notoriously inept."
"Before you start, I need to know: do you have money?"
Ari pulled the phone away from his ear for a moment and stared at it in disgust. "Why do you ask?" he said at length.
"These many dangerous diversions of yours are costly. If you want me to trim your disgusting toenails, that would cost $5,000 American."
"But that wouldn't be dangerous."
"You weren't listening to me. I have enemies dogging my footsteps…"
"Wives and girlfriends," Ari yawned.
"Someone has looked at my immigration application."
"The lawyers of wives and girlfriends."
"I think one of my phones has been tapped."
"Your creditors, of whom you can deal with promptly if you come down to Richmond."
Ari could hear Abu Jasim's mind ka-chinging at the other end. "How so?"
"I have a wealthy paymaster." He was sure he could renegotiate the $50,000 bonus Lawson had dangled before his eyes. "And with luck, before long I'll have an even wealthier one adding to the pot. In any event, I believe you are far less poor than myself and would not begrudge helping an old Army friend who just happened to be your superior at one time."
"Yes…"
"I treated you well."
"I saved your life."
Ari grimaced. Abu Jasim had no tact. Didn't he realize that people did not like to be reminded of such things?
"May I bring to the forefront of your mind the memory of Saddam's Palace and the identity of the man who helped you to escape from it?"
Abu Jasim was silent. He did not like to be reminded of such things.
"Let us not balance tits and tats," Ari continued. "You are familiar with Lady Justice? You will make her acquaintance if you end up in a Canadian court."
"You mean the blind girl?" said Abu Jasim. "I met her, but she didn't get her claws in me."
"I am gratified to hear so."
"You use a scale against me," Abu Jasim sniffed. "Whatever you have in mind, it will now cost you double."
"I might also need the services of your idiot nephew. I need him to crack a computer website."
"I think you mean 'hacking'," said Abu Jasim. "I hate driving in Chicago…"
This was where Ahmad, the idiot nephew in question, attended university.
"Also have him look into something called the Hamdard Center, in Addison. Not very far from Chicago. They are a non-profit organization."
"What's that, a company?"
"I'm not sure."
"What is a non-profit company?"
"What it says, I suppose."
"What's the point of such a thing?"
"All that needs to concern you is that my e
mployer is an insurance company that makes a great deal of money on the sufferings of others," said Ari. "You know, a company you can relate to. Could I interest you and Ahmad in a policy?"
"You are trying to sell me life insurance!" Ab Jasim exclaimed. "What kind of project do you have in mind this time?"
"Minimal risk," Ari assured him. Of course, he did not know if that was true.
CHAPTER 11
Sindabad – Baghdad – Iraq
June 8, 2006 - 0200 hours
"What is it, Sergeant Gurung?" Gates asked the leader of the Gurkha team as they stealthily approached Sarah's house. It was just past a series of drab three- and four-story apartment buildings that looked more suitable to a military base than a civilian suburb. Sarah's neighborhood of two-story and single-story houses seemed like underground bomb shelters that had been excavated by a major flood. They suggested strongly to Ghaith that many Sunnis had not made out as well as his own family under Saddam. But at least it had been enough to allow Sarah to cross the entrance of the Technical School, however briefly.
Gates, Ghaith, Hutton and Ropp had taken the last block on foot. Surrounded by the ghost-like shadows of Gurkhas on the hunt for more victims, the trip had been uneventful. There had been plenty of suspicious shapes on the roadside. But if any of them had been bombs, the guy with the clacker was no longer clacking.
"How many did you…?" Gates began, not really wanting the details.
"But three," Gurung said.
"There will probably be more."
Gurung, who could have been thirty or sixty years of age, accepted this with a small nod. There was no smell of beer on him. He had survived many battlefields, and not just because he spoke English.
"Sahib—"
"I told you to stop calling me that," Gates said.
"But isn't that your rank?" Gurung allowed himself a small grin. A very private joke. "When we got to Sarah's house, the door was open."
"Shit."
"No, it isn't a trap," Gurung continued. "We went inside. The owner is home. We searched it for explosives. No guns, either, in the house or on the owner."
"Speaking of guns, can you give Rostmeyer his Glock back?"
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