The answer was cradled in his arm. Sanad had killed many daughters, and might do so again. Like the father in Baghdad, he was not the one who had soiled his fingers. Nizzar was the triggerman of fatal accidents and suicides, of that Ari was now certain. But like Saddam Hussein himself, who had hired out so much death, neither the father in Baghdad nor Sanad could escape guilt. Ari knew much about this, and the attendant culpability. And he understood too clearly that what he was about to do was a form of suicide.
But there were other lives to consider.
"Ssshhh…" he repeated gently, and closed Sanad's air of life.
As he struggled, Ari lowered his head and braced his foot on the mattress frame, like a doctor holding down a convulsive patient. Sanad gaped up at him and he turned his head slightly, suddenly unable to look.
"Ssshhh…"
With a heroic effort, Sanad forced out a single word:
"Mecca."
"If it be the will of Allah," said Ari. Then, deciding this was not very comforting, he added, "I'll see what I can do."
On second thought, that wasn't very comforting, either. But before Ari could amend his words again, Sanad went still. He waited a minute before letting go. Leaning down, he picked up Sanad's Ruger. Taking Sanad's phone from the nightstand, he rose from the bed. He did not look back.
Putting the gun and phone in the pocket of his jacket, he opened the bedroom door.
Sanad's new lieutenant was holding a gun on Yilmaz. The others were crouched by the windows, their attention absorbed by the gunfire coming from the woods. A man with an RPG was preparing to lean out the window.
Mostafa glanced in Ari's direction.
"Sanad is calling for more reinforcements," Ari told him.
He appeared doubtful, but he was aware of Yilmaz's reputation and dared not look away from her for more than a second. Seated on the coffee table, hands clasped, she had the calm serenity of a bride-to-be content with her betrothed. Ari had no doubt she could knock the Kalashnikov out of his hand with one quick sweep, but the moment was not opportune.
The firefight in the woods continued. Ari hoped his conscience-laden minutes with Sanad did not cost Karen and Fred their lives. The fact that the fight had lasted this long was a good sign. It meant they were still alive. But if it went on too long the men inside the house might lose hope and flick the light switch, reducing them all to scratch.
"Mostafa!" a man at a window called out.
"If she moves, shoot her," Mostafa told the men on the couch as he went to a front window.
"You mean…kill her?" asked one of them as Mostafa peered outside. He answered with a gruff backward motion of his hand. "I said if she moves, shoot her."
The dismissive gesture offended the two men. Had Mostafa pointed at them, or used his entire hand? If it was the first, it was a great insult. Rather than risk another such rebuke, one of them juggled his assault rifle in Yilmaz's direction—a rather ruder insult, to Ari's thinking. He was telling Ari that he would shoot the girl if he, Ari, got out of line…and then shoot Ari as icing. It was a measure of Yilmaz's menacing charisma: preoccupying two men while bullets were flying not thirty yards beyond the walls.
Raising his hands with impeccable innocence, Ari nodded in Singh's direction, then lowered one hand and twisted his finger on his temple. He only wanted to see how his friend was doing. The men on the couch could see Singh clearly from where they sat. One of them gave a cautious nod.
Going forward, Ari gave the man guarding Singh, the only one of Sanad's men within reach of the light switch, a friendly smile. The guard did not react. He did not blink. His Uzi remained on his lap, his hand draped over the sear mechanism. Turning to face Singh directly, he whispered, "Aren't you a sly one?"
A trace of a smile crossed Singh's lips.
"How did you manage to break his neck without anyone noticing? And with a hole in your head? Don't answer. I'm going to probe that hole with my finger. Don't be alarmed. If those men in front of Yilmaz are as queasy as the rest of us, they'll look away before they puke."
"Mmmm…" said Singh.
Ari didn't know if he was agreeing or moaning from his wound. Leaning closer, he inserted his finger. What a hole! Ari had dealt with shattered human remains before, but those bits and pieces had all belonged to dead men, which removed the onus of intrusion.
"I am not hurting you?"
"Mmmm…"
"I wish I knew if that meant 'yes' or 'no'." Leaning closer, using Singh's great body as a shield, he took out Sanad's phone and punched Lawson's number.
It was only natural that Lawson's phone would be busy at a moment like this, but didn't his line 'beep' when there was someone else on the line? Yet there must be many people trying to call him at this moment. And there was no way Lawson could distinguish the urgency of one beep from another.
The call went into voice mail. Ari waited for the short greeting to finish, then hissed into the phone:
"Ahmad. Are you monitoring Lawson's voice mail? I am calling from the house, on Sanad's phone, so you should be able to hear. Or are your electrical talents more feeble than those of that girl geek at Allah's Carpets—"
"Got you, Colonel," came Ahmad's voice. "Hurry. I don't know how long Lawson's voice mail messages are set for. I might lose you."
"Where is your uncle?"
"He did something to someone in the van up the road then took off into the woods. He really looked happy. Did you know he's drunk?"
"It is up to you, then. Dance across the killing zone and tell Lawson the bomb is under control. His men may attack. And do not call me back. It would be lethal."
"Dance across the kill zone—?"
Ahmad's querulous protest was cut short by a 'beep'.
Ari slipped the phone into his pocket and stood back, subjecting Singh to a long, analytical gaze. "You are truly fucked up, my friend. I doubt your wound will be content with a Band-Aid."
Singh chuckled.
"True, I see no oozing brain matter. It was this Uzi that got you. From the size of the entrance hole, I surmise the shooter was using .22 rimfire. Not very large. It is possible the surgeon will not need to remove the bullet from your temporal lobe. This might cause you some headaches. It might even lean against your button of ecstasy—"
Ari heard a peculiar 'ping' outside.
"Prepare to cry," he told Singh.
The mercs tossed several flash bangs through the windows, following them quickly with a herd of tear gas canisters. Sanad's men opened fire, but their volley was cut short by coughing and gasping.
"I only have one," Ari apologized to Singh as he put a silk handkerchief to his mouth. This didn't help his eyes, but it was better than nothing.
"Blow the house!" Mostafa shouted from the front room. He managed a few more rounds out the window. "Blow the house!" he screamed.
Singh fell out of his chair, coughing. Through the haze, Ari could see Yilmaz standing over two unconscious men. Though tormented by the gas, she whirled to face any more comers. But there weren't any. The only man moving with any sense of direction was Mostafa, who staggered into the hallway. As he reached for the light switch, he was confronted by Ari, aiming Sanad's gun at his forehead.
"I have had the benefit of CS gas chamber training. Can you sing 'Mickey Mouse'?"
Mostafa made a desperate lunge for the switch.
CHAPTER 21
Richmond, Virginia
August, 2008
Negotiations
One would not have guessed that only a week earlier Yilmaz's face was bruised and puffy from her slugfest at Nizzar's warehouse. The swelling had subsided, and the judicious use of Avon's Flawless True Color hid the contusions.
Yilmaz had put on a show of reluctance when Mrs. Sadiq insisted she did not want guests greeted by someone who looked too much like a victim. This was especially critical when the Sadiq mansion was considered by many (and was, in some instances) a shelter for battered women. As a rule, Yilmaz shunned makeup. She thought it betr
ayed weakness, as if the wearer had something embarrassing to hide. But her grumbling dissent was bogus, because now she too had something embarrassing to hide. That idiot in the warehouse had breached her zenkutsu. Her hubris had allowed him to slam her hard under the eye. Well, that would never happen again. Watch out, world!
But in the meantime, she gingerly allowed A'idah to give her a lesson in application.
"You look like a clown!" her mother barked as she looked on from the back of the powder room.
"Oh, Karida," said A'idah sweetly. "Neither you nor your daughter will be able to sell cosmetics if you believe that."
"Then we'll sell cast-iron cookware!"
"This is America. Cast-iron is unhealthy for microwave ovens."
Yilmaz surveyed her face in the mirror. She could scarcely approve of the result in front of her conservative mother. But she thought…not bad at all….
"Thank you, sister."
Ari and Elmore Lawson saw the result of A'idah's handiwork when they greeted Yilmaz at the end of the driveway.
"You look charming today," said Ari as Yilmaz swung open the gate.
"You know how to get on my nerves," Yilmaz growled.
"But it's true!" Lawson protested as he followed Ari inside. "You have a special glow. Have we missed the nuptials?"
Yilmaz whirled on Ari. "What have you been saying to him?"
"Only a chit for his chat. Must one beware for speaking of what is common knowledge?"
A couple of weeks earlier, Yilmaz would not have shied away from insulting Ari's parentage. And any barrage of insults would have included Lawson. A compliment from someone with half a face and not much more of a body could be construed as evidence of brain damage. That something had softened in her was a possibility Ari could not dismiss. But he thought it more likely Yilmaz saw plainly the need for civility. Lawson was here to negotiate with Mrs. Sadiq, and rudeness on her part might start things on the wrong foot. And Ari, as Lawson's lackey, deserved the same courtesy. Taking a deep breath, the girl said:
"Thank you for the compliment. I am pleased you think I look radioactive. I only wish my mother shared your opinion."
"She thinks you look like a whore?" Ari asked.
Yilmaz stiffened. Giving Ari a harsh nudge, Lawson said, "Lighten up, Ari. You're still on the CVG penny. Act civilized."
"I am not Nizzar," Ari sniffed.
"My mother did not go that far," said Yilmaz with extraordinary self-control. "Now, if you will follow me…Mrs. Sadiq is at the pool."
"You are not going to frisk us?" Ari taunted. "I am armed to the wicket. And I believe Mr. Lawson has a mortar round hidden in his false leg."
Without deigning to answer, Yilmaz led them past the garden to the pool. The scene that panned out before Ari was not identical to the vision of his first visit. The participants varied slightly, a notable addition being Tareq Sadiq, staring glumly at his wife from across the artificial lagoon. Seated in a plastic Adirondack chair, his baggy swim trunks allowed anyone who cared to look his way a full view of his intersecting fat and muscle, as well as the thick mat of dark body hair that cascaded from his chest to his stomach.
In the center of the pool, Karida Yilmaz was making slow progress with the assistance of an inflatable porpoise. 'Progress' might have been the wrong word, since it did not seem that she had any firm destination in mind. Dressed in a black burkini, she mimicked the spouting porpoise by shooting long jets of water from her mouth. When her daughter appeared at the poolside, she allowed herself a candid wave of glee, adding another gout of water for emphasis.
"I hope your pool is heavily chlorinated," Lawson observed. "We wouldn't want people making claims for cholera or something."
"My mother is not germy," Yilmaz muttered.
"I would have to ask my pool attendants," said Nabihah Sadiq in a languid tone that belied the bruises on her face and bared abdomen. Ari thought such a display, spread out like this on the chaise lounge, too theatrical. Nabihah wanted to show her female guests that she shared in their suffering, that there was nothing feigned about her concern for their well-being. Yet they had all seen what Nizzar had done to her. Why emphasize the torture? Not only that, but her suntan lotion gave a ghastly luster to the bruising.
It was hard to tell if this exhibition made any impact beyond the justifiable sympathy it aroused. Some of the women who had bared their skin to illicit eyes had returned to their customary attire: hijabs burqas, newfangled burkinis. But it seemed an equal number had flung prudence to the winds, stripping off the old ways in fits of daring swimwear. This could have been a reaction to their ordeal, not simply emulation of Nabihah's skimpy protest.
"Yilmaz, bring me another lemonade."
This command came from Singh, stretched out in beige shorts at the edge of the pool, looking like a bronze god who had grown weary of creation. No chaise lounge could accommodate his huge frame, so he had satisfied himself with three large towels laid side-by-side, with a beach bag for a pillow. He turned over and used a straw to tickle the ice in his otherwise-empty glass.
"You're not a cripple," Yilmaz snapped. "The lemonade pitcher is on the table five feet away from you."
"But Yilmaz…I have a hole in my head."
"You most certainly do if you think I'll be your maid."
"Abou el-Zahraa Yilmaz," cooed A'idah, sitting up from her chaise lounge on the other side of Singh. "If you don't know how to treat a man, I will gladly serve our wounded hero."
"The bullet's gone. His brain only took a little swim. He needs PT, and that includes getting his own drink."
A'idah tsked-tsked Yilmaz and stood. Yilmaz leapt between her and Singh and swept up the pitcher. "You're too soft!" she said, tossing more than pouring Singh's glass full. Singh gasped when small ice cubes dropped onto his chest.
"Would you like a drink, Mr. Lawson?" said Nabihah. "My bartender is excellent with cocktails."
"You mean something with a straw."
"I didn't mean to offend—"
"None taken," Lawson reassured her. "The only one who knows how to pluck my nerves is Ari. And with his bonus still in my pocket, he's been awfully polite. A highball will do me. I know drinking through a straw makes you drunk faster, but the doctors would be just as unhappy with me either way. Uh…Ari, what do you think you're doing?"
"I was merely taking a seat," Ari answered, pausing above a lawn chair.
"That's my seat. I'm about to enter some serious discussions with Mrs. Sadiq here. Why don't you wander around the pool and check out the ethnic talent."
"Speaking about taking offense—"
"With you? I could do worse. You might not be a philanderer, but I suspect you have larceny for a soul."
"I think the Americans say 'I know where I'm less wanted.'"
"Good enough. Now off with you."
With a voluble sniff of indignation, Ari offered Nabihah a courteous nod. He had to force his way into the bushes to avoid stepping on Singh, whose massive body was stretched between the edge of the pool and the end of the pavement.
"How is your knee?" Yilmaz asked as he emerged on the other side.
He had fallen into an ambush of insults. "My knee has never been better," he said. Hiding the pain only increased it, but it was worth the effort.
A warm hand coiled over his forearm.
"A'idah!" said Ari, unsuccessfully attempting to tug away.
"You don't like me?"
"I find you distressingly alluring. But my wife awaits her virginal husband."
"You are very unusual…" A'idah pouted. "And so is she, to let a man like you run loose like this."
Ari thought it best not to ruin the charm of the moment with the truth.
"Very well, I can see nothing I say or do will tempt you. But…what do you think of my waterproof Venus Mascara? I spent an hour in the pool, and as you can see, I am still immaculate."
"Indeed, you are." Ari would have thought 'immaculacy' involved a certain degree of clothing. A dress could be
immaculate. But a naked body? A'idah's bikini left so little to the imagination that imagination was redundant. "I await the removal of your bandage with infinite impatience.
A'idah winced as she touched the bandage on her broken nose. "It is this that puts you off of me? It is only a little stitch."
"Inchaabi! More like ten!" scoffed a woman from her beach towel. Ari wondered how she expected to get a tan wearing an abaya with a head scarf.
"The surgeon assured me there will be no scars," said A'idah in her unnaturally nasal but still alluring mid-tone.
"And surgeons never lie!" the recumbent woman laughed harshly. "Inta makhabal?"
"Am I crazy?" said A'idah as she detached her hand from Ari's arm. "I'll give you a rashdee. Excuse me, Mr. Ciminon,"
Skipping away quickly, he did not see the cause of the ensuing cries and curses. Since rashdee meant 'a slap', he wanted no part of the business. Nodding amiably to the other women sunning themselves, he made his way along the uneven-shaped pool.
"Why is no one else swimming?" he asked one of them. She cocked her head in the direction of Karida, still spouting water as she traced an aimless circle with her porpoise. "Ah," said Ari.
Coming to Tareq Sadiq, he offered Nabihah's husband a courteous smile. The man had watched Ari's approach with a jaundiced eye. Preparing to slip past without any ado, he was suddenly stopped.
"Pull up a chair, Mr. Ciminon."
Judging from Sadiq's scowl, a conversation seemed ill-advised. But Ari was curious. Sadiq might be ignorant of some things, but he had the inside track on many others. Ari would not be entirely averse if the man offered him a job smuggling…well, whatever. Nuclear material was out, though. As well as…possibly…drugs.
"Your nose has begun to peel very badly," Ari commented as he scooted up next to Sadiq. "Perhaps you should apply some of your wife's famous butter lotion."
"You mean that crap her women sell? No thanks. Take me or leave me as I am, I say."
"A suitable motto," Ari agreed. "I think it is inscribed in the American Constitution. But I should beware of alienating such a remarkable wife. She has more than simple charm. She has…"
The Shelter for Buttered Women Page 42