The Godless One

by J. Clayton Rogers

  "Are you saying that Karen is in trouble at work?" Ari said, taking a brief detour away from the more important question.

  "I arrived soon after you left." Fred swallowed and shot down a mouthful of Coke. "She looked like she was doing okay to me. I mean, I took a look inside and...what you saw. That would cause anyone to choke."

  "Does she know you're speaking to me?" Ari said.

  "She'd kill me if she knew, so please don't mention this to her. Listen, Mr. Ciminon, I'm just doing this for myself. They've asked me my opinion of Karen's mental status. She's on the edge right now, with Henrico saying she's incompetent and the boss doing his best to stand up for her. What I want is to make sure for myself. Was she all right while you were there? Did she cry and scream and upchuck her breakfast?"

  "Was this her first headless victim?" Ari asked.

  "It was her first body, ever."

  Ari produced a heartening smile. "Rest assured, Deputy Sylvester behaved in the best tradition of your service. She neither wept nor wailed. I was very impressed."

  "Man, I'm so glad to hear that." Fred sat back, sighing with relief. "Something like that, it's like out of Nightmare on Elm Street. I mean, we've been told you were a cop in the Middle East, but I guess even something like this gets to you, right?"

  Ari's shrug miffed the young agent.

  "Aw, cm'on, like how many headless bodies have you investigated?"

  "Three hundred and twenty-seven in Anbar Province."

  Fred gaped. "Jesus..."

  "Over a three month period."

  "And then you couldn't take it anymore? You burned out?"

  "Not at all. I was sent by your armed forces to Baghdad, where there were more headless corpses."

  Ari allowed Fred to mull this over for a moment, then leaned forward, hands clasped under his chin. "So tell me, why did your supervisory deputy so readily accept the fact that Deputy Karen was at Mustafa's for no rhyme or reason?"

  Fred noticed that his sandwich was not even half finished and began scarfing it down.

  Ari decided to ease off again, for the moment. "How many forts are there in this area?"

  Puzzled, Fred slowed his chewing. "Like from the Civil War? Fort Drewry and that kind of thing?" Then he blushed and laughed at himself. "Sorry, but you made it sound like castles and palisades. Are you talking about military bases?"

  Ari nodded.

  "Why? I mean..." Fred shrugged and thought for a moment. "Fort A. P. Hill, Fort Eustis, Fort Lee, Fort Pickett…but that’s National Guard. Fort Belvoir is big, but that’s partly National Guard, too. I think. I don’t know. There are the Marines at Quantico, of course. And I’m not even beginning with the flight commands and naval bases out on the coast. Those are huge."

  "Is the 101st Airborne stationed at any of them?"

  "Oh, hell no. 'The Screaming Eagles?' They're famous. Everyone knows they're at Fort Campbell, Kentucky."

  Ari sighed and momentarily surrendered a theory. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out his copy of the Brown and Stern prospectus. When he unfolded it on the table, Fred stiffened. "What’s that?" he asked.

  "Something I picked up at Mustafa’s place of work. I found what I believe…I think you call them ‘typos’. And a rather glaring typo, at that. One which might cause undue embarrassment."

  "So?" said Fred, compacting himself behind his Coke cup.

  "Well, see for yourself…" He turned the prospectus around so that Fred could read it. "Here, under ‘Our Team’."

  Fred's show of indifference might have convinced someone his age.

  "I see you aren't reading. You aren't speaking. Are you in distress? Have you gotten a fish bone stuck in your throat? But I forgot, American fish don't have bones. Let me read it out loud for you: Mustafa Zewail, AIA, CID. Oh, and here, much closer to the top: 'Ari Ciminon, AIA, IIDA.' I assume these hideous acronyms indicate something to do with architecture. Beyond that…how could such a mistake be made?" When Fred declined to answer, Ari slapped his hand flat on the table. The deputy jumped. So did a mother, passing them with her two girls in tow. Seeing their frightened glances, Ari turned on them and bugged out his eyes. "Transparency..."

  The woman took her girls further down the aisle.

  "I don't need to look at it," said Fred, shading his eyes. "I've seen it."

  "And this is why Super Agent Karen Sylvester did not need to explain to her supervisor why she was at Mustafa's house," Ari said heatedly. "Could it also be the reason why he was killed?"

  "No, it couldn't be," said Fred, pleading with his eyes for Ari to lay off him. "There's no way anyone could make the connection."

  "Ah! The 'connection'! I'm filled with wild surmise. Mustafa was Iraqi, was he not? Is it possible 'Mustafa Zewail' is concocted out of thin air? That Mustafa gave the killers his real name as he begged them not to remove his head?" A young couple stood frozen with their orange trays next to the table. "Shall I put up a sign? 'Transparency at work!'"

  "Listen..."

  Ari theatrically cocked his ear. "Yes?"

  "Having both of your names in there was just a bureaucratic screw up. It's because FAST had the same list—"

  Ari held up his hand, palm out. "Are you subjecting me to another American acronym? I am unappeased by American acronyms."

  "Foreign-deployed Advisory and Support Teams. They’re sort of the overseas action unit for the DEA. They got guys from Special Forces, the Rangers…you know, the close quarters combat type of guys."

  "In fact, I met some of your FAST people in Anbar. They were very fit, but they had a poor sense of direction. I told them Afghanistan was that way..." Ari pointed at a promotion poster for Happy Meals.

  "Then you knew already?" Fred glowered. "Well, FAST must have decided Mustafa was pretty special, because they exfiltrated him to the States. But it was all done too quickly and there was a mix up. The DEA was trying to—"

  "Acronym," said Ari threateningly.

  "That's the Drug Enforcement Agency, as I’m sure you know already. They're part of Justice, just like us. So there's this list of companies who allow the government to post phony employees. In this case, they found Mustafa a job, too. But they forgot to tell our division about it. We posted your name at Brown and Stern and got a royal scorching when someone asked if Ari Ciminon wasn't one of our guys, too, and why had we posted both of you at the same company? But when we bounced it upstairs, the Chief Deputy thought we could keep running with it without any risk. I agree. Besides, it's too late."

  "Too late?" Ari said. "Just remove the magazines."

  "It's not that simple. We were establishing your bona fides, you see. If someone asked you who you were and what you did for a living, they could google you and figure you were legitimate."

  "I'm on the internet?"

  "The Web, yes. Facebook and all. Not your picture, though. We're not that stupid."

  "No, just transparently stupid," Ari said, glaring lethally.

  "We're the same organization, overall," said a despondent Fred. "FAST and us, we're supposed to fit hand in glove..."

  "Only the glove doesn't fit."

  Fred began to slide out of his chair.

  "You can't possibly imagine that I'm finished with you, can you?" Ari snarled. "You have much to answer for, my young friend, and I will get answers."

  Fred slid back.

  "So Mustafa was one of your 'assets'?" Ari said. "I saw the thumb drive in his computer, an encrypted Aegis. Did he have the same arrangement that I have?"

  "You're CENTCOM. He was..." Fred took a breath. "United States Central Command. Mustafa was the Drug Enforcement Agency. But the arrangement with the U.S. Marshals Service was pretty much the same." Fred gave Ari a scornful look. "Except Mustafa went to work every day."

  Ari was in the mood to be offended. The young agent's tone sounded critical to him, as though Ari was a loafer who did not pull his weight.

  "I have saved more American idiots than a puny penis like you can imagine."

&nb
sp; "Hey, I—"

  "Shut! Did any of you muttonheads...Deputy Karen taught me that word, incidentally...stop to think that if one of us was discovered, the killers would be able to link us?"

  "But that can't happen—"

  "Shut! You're right, and you can thank the heavens that it was through a rigged accident that the killers found Mustafa, and not by looking up Brown and Stern. Otherwise, I would slit your throat here and now."

  "Jesus..."

  "You do well to honor your faith, since that seems to be all that you have going for you." Ari eased back a little. "However, because I also volunteered to translate for the Virginia Department of Corrections, I might very well be decapitated."

  "We can move you to a new—"

  "With you nincompoops protecting me? I would be dead within the week. It is better to let the enemy come to me, if he locates me. I like that word, by the way. 'Nincompoops'. I think I learned it reading Charles Dickens. I hear it's very offensive."

  Fred shrugged this off, then managed to look at Ari directly. "Enemy?"

  "You don't even know the forces of history that are crushing down on you! Which brings me to my next question: how many others are there like me in this area?"

  "Oh wow, no, now you're asking too much." Fred began to get up.

  "You think I won't kill you?" Ari lifted his coat. Fred saw the gun.

  "What are you doing with that! You're not supposed to—"

  "Go fuck a bunny," said Ari with a smile. "I learned that phrase in America, not too long ago."

  "You wouldn't shoot me. They would crucify you."

  "Be not so sure," Ari said smugly. "I'm one of your national treasures."

  "Go fuck yourself," said Fred. "That's pure Abraham Lincoln." Then the cold kick of logic struck him. "Why do you want to know about military bases?"

  "If you don't assist me, I'll go to your supervisory deputy and tell him I was at Mustafa’s house, and that when Deputy Karen saw what they had done to him she wept like a baby and bubbled in her Fruit of the Looms."

  "You wouldn't do that."

  "I have a cell phone and the number to your office."

  Fred crumpled like a crushed cup. "So what else do you want?" He looked up when he heard a sound of pleasure. "What?"

  "Nothing, for now," said Ari, wearing his broadest smile. "I am just so happy to see the tribal instinct so strong and healthy."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" Fred asked, frowning.

  "You will not tell your supervisory deputy about my little toy, here." He tapped the coat over his gun.

  "Jesus..."

  "And all praise to Allah." He gauged Fred with a long look. "Be careful, Young Turk. I think your death would cause me to skip a meal."

  "I'm not in danger."

  "That's why you are in danger. And pass my warning on to Karen, who I have no intention of betraying with negativity." Ari was exhausted. He felt his English slipping away from him. "She was...how do you say it? A state trooper."

  "Close enough," said Fred, giving him a curious look.

  Ari began to rise, then stopped. "Do you study history, Mr. Agent Deputy?"

  "Uh...I know the Pledge of Allegiance."

  "I said 'history', not 'propaganda'. I recommend that you read about the Crusades, which occurred a few years before you were born. When the Europeans invaded the Muslim countries of the Middle East, the former Byzantium territories, they slaughtered thousands and brought back apricots, exquisite perfumes, dyes, spices, glass mirrors and an appreciation for beauty. When the Americans implemented their Operation Iraqi Freedom, they killed thousands…and brought back shit. Be sure not to besmirch yourself with it."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Were nightmares better than no dreams at all? When Ari awoke at four, he blearily calculated that he had managed to sleep six hours. They were toss-about hours, true, roiling with ghastly mental reportage and fantastical images, mingled with frozen still-lifes, numbing landscapes, lurid tableaux. Weird sounds complemented the phantasmagoria, and while Ari had not been present when the bomb went off in his walled garden, he could clearly hear Rana crying out to Jarir the instant before the explosion. The medics had urged him not to look at his boy, but he had done so. And then he had turned to look at his wife. The medic insisted that he not remove the rude bandages from her face, that he not embrace her, that he not so much as kiss the top of her head, swathed in the thick, bloody rags that would have to serve until they got her to Saddam Medical City. He caught a whisper between two medics: did the hospital still exist? The bombing had been pretty thorough. One of the medics wept as he slid Rana's severed arm into a plastic bag. But he was not weeping for the colonel's wife. He had heard only minutes earlier that his own home in Ghazaliya had been hit. There was no word yet on survivors.

  Ari sat up and stared about the room. The aching emptiness was not healthy. He knew he should invest in some furniture to give his home a semblance of normality. But without Rana, there seemed no point.

  He heard something at the window. Standing slowly, he went to look. A tree stood near the bedroom. Could Sphinx climb to the window?

  But it was snow, skittering across the pane with brisk nonchalance. It was a petulant winter spat that bore no comparison to the frigid Kurdish mountains that he had roamed like a snow leopard, hunting down the rebels with whom he shared the magnificent isolation.

  He booted up the computer and proceeded where he had left off the day before: Image No. 49. Then Image 50. Then Image 51. Fifty-two, 53, 54, 55…

  Image No. 56.

  The human intelligence technician from the United States Forces – Iraq had posted a helpful label. Six men lay slaughtered like beeves in front of a garage. The technician indicated that the picture was old, from the summer before. It had been taken in the north end of Amarah, the capital of Maysan Province, by somebody in one of the battlefield surveillance brigades. It had been passed along to G-2, which sent it back to USF-I in Iraq, which forwarded it to CENTCOM (of which USF-I was a part) in Tampa, where it was jiggered into shape for the delight and amazement of Ari Ciminon. This was but one of the typical routes through which pictures arrived at Beach Court Lane. Ari suspected that many invisible hands were secretly involved. U.S. bureaucracy vs. Babylonian antiquities, modern mass psychosis vs. a medieval lunatic.

  Something about the image puzzled Ari. First off, was it really six men? It was hard to tell. The butchery had been so intense and complete it might have been three men in parts or the parts of twelve men jumbled together. Why did Intel send him such incomprehensible messes? It was as if some bloody-minded human intelligence technocrat was assembling the most gruesome collages to test Ari’s proficiency. OK, you figured out that last puzzle. Now try this….

  Another problem was the location. One pile of rubble pretty much looked like another pile of rubble in post-invasion Iraq, but something told Ari the intel technician was either mistaken, or intentionally misleading him. Ari had had some experience in Amarah during the 1991 uprising. It was one of the hottest places in the country—in every way. The average summer temperature was 114 F. The picture on his computer screen was taken far enough away from the bodies to include the entire murder scene. One of the consequences of this was that the cameraman caught some of the locals in the background. Their faces were blurred, but they were definitely not dressed for warm weather. Yet they were indeed surrounded by Amarah-like ruins. The Shia city had been knocked around badly during the war with Iran, caught a stiff uppercut during the uprising, and was on the ropes against a vengeful Iraqi army just prior to being rescued by the British in 2003. So yes, this could be Amarah. And yet there was something familiar about one of the ruins. He was sure he had been to this spot not many years ago, yet he had not been in Amarah for over a decade.

  Ari had been practicing with some of the graphics editing programs that had been allowed into his computer. He opened Photoshop and imported the picture. He zoomed, toyed and tilted. He filtered out colors, changed colors an
d to a certain degree managed to clarify the corpses. Yes...six men. And one of them looked familiar....

  He shifted to the area beyond the garage. A pile of white rubble lay neatly along a sidewalk…but there weren't all that many sidewalks in Amahar. He studied how the side of the building sloped like a half-eaten bread loaf into the street, ending in pulverized crumbs.

  He then imagined a Warthog hovering overhead.

  This wasn't Maysan. This was Nineveh Province. And the city was Mosul.

  According to Deputy Karen, alopecia was one of the symptoms of capture myopathy in deer. He tugged on his hair. Several strands came out, some streaked with gray. But he did not think this was what was causing his scalp to tingle. It was the house in the picture, and its previous occupants, which was triggering his dread.

  It has to be a coincidence...

  He shifted back to the dead men.

  Yes...yes. Almost hidden behind a hand curled in terror was the face of a man he was sure he had met. Yes...yes. In Baghdad. Ari had accompanied a Special Op unit during a night raid. The Americans had received a tip that a man in the Zafaraniya neighborhood was responsible for several mortar attacks against the Green Zone. When the soldiers broke down his door there had been no gunfire, just the usual shouts and screams. Ari was brought in—he was still wearing his stifling ski mask in those days—and a man sitting on the floor wailed on seeing the anonymous translator.

  "No! Don't shoot me!" he had screamed. "I'm a friend of the Americans! Tell them! Tell them that..." And he hesitated. Because, after all, he did not know who Ari was. The man lowered his voice. "Tell them I am related to Nawaf az-Zeidan. Surely, they know him!"

  Surely, they didn't. Ari had to explain to the American captain that this man was a relative of Nawaf az-Zedain, a distant relative of Saddam Hussein. The captain would have been pleased to ventilate the cringing man then and there. Ari quickly added that Nawaf was the owner of the house where Uday and Qusay Hussein, Saddam’s sons, had been mortally fragmented by the U.S. Army. No one knew who had fingered the brothers, but Nawaf had been made a U.S. citizen and given a whopping thirty million dollars, which naturally raised suspicions.