"All right, Ari. It's because of you that we looked at the container companies and found the hacks. So I think I can arrange to add them to the payroll."
Ari hid his elation. A penny stolen was a penny well-earned, but one did not gloat about it.
"As long as you remember…"
"I will focus my complete attention on the hijackings," Ari nodded solemnly.
"And stay within the law," Lawson added. "Are your…um…'retainers' familiar with the laws of this country?"
"I can comfort your nerves on that matter," said Ari. "Neither one of them will slaughter the innocent civilians of this great land."
Having seen a drunken Abu Jasim waving a machine gun in the faces of a score of civilians, Lawson did not look reassured.
The next hour was spent on Lawson's investigative itinerary, very little of which had to do with what Ari had in mind. With most of the money being thrown at the port, the hijackings had become small change. Still, he was willing to toss some Ari's way.
"I've got three Arabic-speaking agents," he said midway through his recital. He nodded at the two men and the woman seated against the file cabinets. "Ask me what you want them to do. If it sounds reasonable, I'll tell them to do it. We also have a squirmy little IT guy on stand-by. I think CVG violated the Child Labor Act when they hired him, but he's supposed to be a real guru."
"By IT, you mean computers?" Ari asked.
"Information Technology, yes," said Lawson.
"Is he capable of…hacking?"
"Hacking what?" asked Lawson warily.
"Well…for example…business accounts…email accounts…"
"You would have to justify a warrant."
"Are you telling me that without this warrant device the hacking would be illegal?"
"There's something called the Federal Wiretap Act. If we did something like that, it would constitute fraud and we would be liable to penalties…as in jail time." Aware that Ahmad was Ari's own squirmy little IT guy, he directed a sharp one-eyed glance at the young man.
"I would never do anything…" Ahmad began, then gulped.
"Yes, he is a very lazy boy," Ari said casually. "But he is a first-rate gofer."
"Keep it at that," Lawson snapped.
"Understood." Ari had expected nothing else. "Would it be possible for your speakers of immaculate Arabic to study the backgrounds of the people on the list I gave you?"
"The O'Connor's employees? As I said, we've already run background checks, but some face-to-face can't hurt. Yes…and I'm glad that's what you're aiming at. I'll put them on it today."
Happy not to be condemned to anything too unconventional, or to find themselves in the middle of a nuclear shoot-out, the three investigators nodded eagerly.
"That will save us much time," Ari said pleasantly.
"And you intend to…?" Lawson posed a propositional artificial finger in the air.
"I am returning to the Sadiq residence."
"And your retainers?"
"They will bow before the inevitable."
That did not sound plausible to either Lawson or the retainers.
CHAPTER 13
Sindabad – Baghdad – Iraq
June 8, 2006 - 0245 hours
"A bloody spud barge," was Gates' assessment of Godzilla. Nothing more nor less than a construction barge tied up to a stanchion sticking out at the end of a dilapidated pier. One of its tow lines had snapped or been cut. When the barge drifted a short distance on the sluggish current, it was brought up short by the remaining line. It then describe a short arc towards the center of the Tigris before rubbing up against a nearby jetty. Old tires were draped over the side as fenders, but half had broken loose, leaving frayed halyards trailing in the water. Near the bow sat a crane's steering platform, the rest of the barge being taken up by the gib and lattice boom.
And a naked girl.
Sarah was tied to the recumbent lattice boom, her arms spread out on the frame, her head drooping to her chest.
"And I've never even seen her hair," said Hutton, pressing against the wall. "She's not moving."
"Oh, she's alive," said Gates.
"Yes," Ghaith agreed.
"How can you tell?" Rostmeyer asked, squinting towards the dark waters. Then he pulled back. "Oh…"
"Yeah. Because this is sodding bloody Shakespeare."
"But Hutton's right, she's not moving, so far as I can see," said Ropp. "What about Shakespeare?"
"They tried him out in Kathmandu," said Gurung. "Something about a girl getting her eyes gouged out, then her tongue, then her—"
"Oh fuck," Hutton moaned.
"Doesn't sound like any Shakespeare I've seen, which I admit is precious little," said Gates. "Did you like it?"
"I didn't go. Not many did. Too gruesome. Too English."
"Yeah, we're addled that way. 'Off with their heads!' and all. What I was beginning to say is that this is all theater. The playwrights want to draw in the audience, which is us. No one's interested in watching something that doesn't move. Lights! Action! You notice those lights across the river give us just enough to see by. These lads aren't numpties."
"And all I see is a dead girl covered in blood," said Ropp. "Sorry, Hutton."
Gates lowered his goggles and stared long and hard. "She's breathing," he announced.
"Let me see!"
Gates turned the night vision goggles over to Hutton, who braced his elbows on the wall and peered at the barge.
"Hello, Buffett," said Gates as his second in command came out on the balcony. "Where's Simmy?"
"Back in the dining room spreading out his knives and clamps. He saw the girl from between the buildings. He expects a bloody mess."
"Older and wiser, he is." Gates winked at Ghaith. "I don't suppose he could brew up some cardamom tea while he's in the kitchen? Tell him to serve it on a tray. And to wear a shemag—"
"I'll leave it to the muj to kill me, thank you very much."
Hutton slowly pulled his eyes away from the goggles. Seeing his tears, Ropp patted him on the back.
"So Buffett, what do you think?" said Gates.
"We pile onto the barge, the barge blows up, the mujahedeen mop of those left over on the shore."
"Haji? Rostmeyer? Sergeant?"
Ghaith, Rostmeyer and Gurung nodded in agreement.
"Pure theater," Gates repeated, nodding in admiration. "Anyone care to discuss options?"
"Find the clacker," said Buffett. He was referring to the remote trigger of a Claymore mine, but they all knew what he was talking about.
"Problem here is a muj with a cell phone can call the bomb and set it off from Land's End." Gates risked leaning out to look at the other buildings ranging the shoreline.
"Not recommended," said Buffett.
"Anyone who shoots me at this point will get his head whacked off," Gates answered. "They don't want to set off the trap too soon."
"And how many times have I heard you yammer on about wild cards?"
Gates drew back, sighing.
"They must have seen you," said Ghaith.
"All they saw was a merc scoping out the terrain."
"And now they're drooling," said Buffett. "Maybe you'd better call Ratu and have him turn on the bomb jammer. He'll need it anyway once he starts the convoy."
"Not yet…I want to communicate with my men, and the jammer jams everything. Besides, you know it doesn't always work. And at this range—"
"Those bulrushes—" Ghaith began.
"Yes. A little too breezy." Gates thought for a moment. "Right. I don't think we have enough Gurks to cover both flanks."
"No?" said Gurung.
"All right, in your professional opinion as leader of some of the world's deadliest killers, can your lot clear out the buildings on either side of us? Keep in mind that to our right are luxury flats. A lot of rooms to cover, with plenty of civilians cowering in their dens. You have around twenty windows facing the river—all of those rooms have to be checked."
&
nbsp; Gurung compressed his lips. "It would take time."
"On the other side is a miniature villa…"
"Five minutes."
"And all this time, the muj's are probably bringing in all the men that were spread out to cover the river front. Could be a dozen. Or a lot more."
Ghaith had searched the two dead insurgents. He held up the two phones he had discovered in their pockets. "Either of these could be the clacker."
"If they're using a phone to trigger the bomb, all they need is the number. There might be a dozen muj around here who know it."
"I understand…" Ghaith sat at one of the outdoor tables, using it to block out the light from the LED screen as he scrolled through the numbers programmed into the phone. One in particular caught his attention. He snapped the phone shut and studied the second one. "You are correct. Both of these have the bomb's phone number pre-programmed in them."
"What, they listed it as 'bomb'?" Buffett said incredulously, leaning down to look at the display.
"In fact…" Ghaith tilted the phone to give him a better view. "Sitta…ithnaan…sitta—"
"No need to read out the number," said Gates. "That's it, then…we could kill dozens of the blighters, but if there's one left with a phone, we're brayed."
"And I was so fond of the 'one clacker' theory," Buffett groused, leaning closer as Ghaith resumed scrolling through the listings. "What about the rest of these? Just normal names?"
"Muhammed, Rashad, Nadhmi…nothing to draw conclusions."
"Hold on to those phones," said Gates. "The Americans will want to pick them apart."
"Yes, of course." Ghaith grinned and drew Buffett's attention back to the screen.
"What does it say?"
"'Captain Chadirchi'…perhaps the man who ordered his snipers to hold their fire and stop using their radios."
"The leader?"
"Al-Istikhbarat keeps files on anyone in the Army who has had training overseas," said Ghaith. "There was a Jaber Chadirchi who took courses in counterinsurgency at Camp Lejeune only last year."
"The Directorate of General Military Intelligence doesn't exist anymore," said Gates, giving Ghaith a narrow glance. "And how would you know about this bloke one way or another?"
"The files were transferred to another department. As to your question: it's just something I picked up on my path to destruction."
"And now you belong to the Yanks. If I don't get you back in one piece, I'll be picking peanuts in Malawi. They won't just be losing a translator, will they?"
"I am a pearl beyond price."
Gates and Buffett snorted.
"I'm sure the Yanks have a price tag on you."
"I'm sure we do," said Rostmeyer, who was using the table next to Ghaith's to shade his own phone. "You want a hand here? I have access to OPNET. I could get a helo to fumigate this shoreline, at least."
"A thought worthy of retaining," said Ghaith. "However, I want to offer another option."
"You want to call this Chadirchi chap," Gates nodded, grinning. Seeing everyone bunched up exposed on the balcony had alarmed him. Any decent sergeant would have chewed out his ass. And in fact, Gurung had shot him a glance of disapproval. Crouching behind the balcony wall, he forcefully suggested the others follow his example. Ropp had to drag Hutton down, transfixed as he was by the sight of Sarah on the barge. Ghaith, further back from the edge, remained seated at the table.
"Your mindreading skill is a marvel," said Ghaith. "I think a conversation with him might be profitable. He might even be willing to negotiate."
"What do we have to offer in return for the girl?"
"His life and the lives of his men."
"I think you're giving him too much credit, mate. Besides, even if you use your phone, or mine, he'll figure out where you're calling from and zero out this balcony. These fellows must check in every so often. When these two Ali Baba's don't call or answer their phones, he'll have us for dinner. Or rather, you, because we won't be sticking around. And when you're a goner, Rodriguez will have me for lunch. Nix, nada, no."
Buffett's phone vibrated. He answered.
"The Fijians have their crosshairs on three men down by the river. Take them out?"
Gates looked at him, then at Ghaith, then back at Buffett. "One sec. Haji…make your call. And don't be a barmpot. Keep his feathers nice and smooth."
Ghaith smiled, leaned back in his chair and pressed the speed dial on a dead insurgent's phone. Seeing this, Buffett shook his head.
"Your funeral…"
Richmond, Virginia
July, 2008
Avon Ladies
Showing up unannounced came naturally to a former sniper. The only difference was that, instead of saying 'hello' with a bullet, you granted your target the courtesy of a response. Abou el-Zahraa Yilmaz came out to greet Ari at the Sadiq mansion gate. She was joined by Sirdar Singh, who emerged from the coach house and trotted up behind Yilmaz as she was pressing the access button. His enormous muscles thrust out at all points, lifting what should have been an XXX Large t-shirt above his flat stomach.
"Pumping lead?" Ari asked, noting the sweat that jounced off his skin with each thunderous step.
"The phrase is 'pumping iron'," Yilmaz corrected, allowing herself a small laugh. "Pumping lead is what you do with a gun."
"I always welcome enlightenment," Ari squirmed. He began reading the multitude of quotations on Singh's shirt, stretched as broad as a billboard:
I AM A SIKH.
Selfless Service.
See God in All.
Fearless.
Respects all Paths.
No Discrimination.
One God.
Don't Smoke.
Humble.
Ari saw nothing humble about someone wearing such announcements, but thought it wise not to say so.
"Seeing that shirt makes me want to light up."
"Not inside the house," said Yilmaz. "There's an outdoor ashtray next to the garage door. You can wait there and suck smoke into your lungs while I announce you."
"Mrs. Sadiq is inside on a wonderful evening like this?" Ari asked as he followed her up the driveway. Singh followed behind them. Ari did not think it was because he was slow.
"She is holding a training session."
"Oh? What—"
"How is the leg?" Yilmaz asked smugly, seeing his trace of a limp.
Ari made a scoffing sound. "Ingrown toenails are terrible pests."
"Uh-huh," she responded in a very American way.
"With you two escorting me, who is watching the perimeter?"
"We brought in some extra guards," said Yilmaz. "They came highly recommended. They are all trained in the major forms of combat. However, American security companies fire them when they refuse to shave off their beards."
"Such a contingent must be costly."
"I wouldn't know," said Yilmaz. "Here. Light up and enjoy yourself."
Ari stopped next to a cement urn filled with fine black gravel. There was no sign that anyone had ever used it as an ashtray. He took out a cigarette as Yilmaz entered through the side door. There was a cough as he took his first puff. He turned to see Singh taking a step backwards.
"Sorry." Ari turned sideways and drew in on the cigarette, blowing his smoke away from the house. To his dismay, a breeze took it up and the smoke floated into Singh's face. The Sikh coughed and took another step back. Not wanting to offend the giant, Ari stepped a couple of yards away from the urn. When the ashes began to waver at the end of the cigarette, he stretched his arm out to tap them into the urn. A perverse jet of smoke shot out at Singh, who winced but refused to turn away. Twisting behind the corner of the garage, Ari found his next puff less than pleasurable. With a sigh of resignation, he stubbed out the rest of the cigarette in the urn.
"You consider tobacco a sin?" he asked.
Singh rolled his brow against his sweat-stained dastar.
"Some sins are of great benefit," Ari insisted.
"It will kil
l you," Singh answered.
"As will breathing in all those polymers that you work with, I imagine. Death is not a sin, unless we're all sinners."
"I'll put it to the True Guru the next time I see him," said Singh.
Yilmaz appeared at the door and signaled for Ari to enter. She gave Singh a glance that settled him in his tracks. If their friend Ari decided to misbehave, for whatever reason, she could handle him. Ari kept a safe distance from her as he went up the stairs and down the narrow hallway. He stopped when he turned into the music room. From the dining hall came shrieks of laughter, followed by clapping and abbreviated ululations.
"Have a seat," said Yilmaz, pointing at a lush sofa that seemed to promise burps of contentment. "I'll get you when it's time."
"What is this?" said Ari, nodding at a large painting on the wall behind the sofa. A young woman in a striped robe was standing behind bars, which bore a suggestive round ornament at the top of the woman's legs.
"Ah…" Yilmaz's expression softened and her face transformed into knowledge. "That is a self-portrait of Inji Aflatoun during one of her periods of incarceration. Her dates are 1924 to 1989. A true pioneer of modern Egyptian art, she attended the Lycée Français du Caire and graduated from Fuad I University. As a young woman she learned about life in the countryside. The peasantry provided the subjects of her early paintings. As a writer, scholar and teacher, she championed the cause of oppressed women. Her surrealist style evolved after she became familiar with the art of Luxor and Nubia. Her later work was influenced by the social realist style of the Mexican artist David Alfaro Siqueiros…" Yilmaz stopped when she caught Ari staring at her. "Is there something wrong?"
"You are an avid fan of the finer arts?"
"I know a few odds and ends." Yilmaz gave a little cough of embarrassment.
Another round of shrieks erupted from the dining hall.
"Is there no way I can join in the entertainment next door?" Ari asked in response to this new wave of jollity.
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