Ben was staring at him in horror.
"I know this because I was there. Perhaps you don't recognize me because I was wearing a ski mask at the time."
The lower part of Ben's eyes seemed to lift up, pushing his whites into his brow. He dropped into the seat with a gasp. From behind, Becky took him by the shoulders, while glaring over Ben's head at Ari.
"Sir, I don't know who you are—"
"It's all right." Ben patted her hand. "And it's true."
"I beg you not to tell anyone that I said this," Ari said.
"Why?" Ben asked, struggling to breathe.
"Several lives are at stake. Including, I must admit, my own."
Ari was aware that his mental scales had gone awry. As a young teen, he had stood on the sandstone parapet of the Assassin’s Gate with his friend Omar, howling delightedly at Iranian F-5’s scudding close to the ground as they strafed the city. He knew it was dangerous, that one the enemy pilots might mistake him for a combatant (or a worthless civilian worth a bullet) and tilt his wings in their direction. Later, but not that much later, as a young sniper, he would be forced to time the moment to squeeze the trigger of his Tabuk before his distant target guided his pack mules behind a turn in a valley, knowing that this might be his last opportunity, but also knowing a miss would alert the smuggler and make future attempts more difficult or impossible. Later still, in the Byzantine court of the Imperial Palace, choosing your friends (and enemies) was a life or death commonplace, with promotions and demotions secondary considerations. On the battlefield, of course, Chance ruled, but there were still tiny crevices where the right judgment could save your skin, as well as the lives of the men under your command. Ari’s acceptance of CENTCOM’s invitation to come to America had been relatively easy. Of course, anything to save Rana and his surviving son had to be weighed against the fact that the invitation came from the very people who had killed his other two boys. But Ari’s enemies, of which there were many, would not hesitate to kill Rana, who lay helpless in Ibn Sina Hospital after her transfer from Saddam Medical City. She was still in need of medical care. In his eyes, there was no choice in the matter.
Revealing himself this way to Ben and Becky was the behavior of a complete stranger. So far as he knew, he had nothing to gain and everything to lose. He was fully aware that a day might come when his logic slipped on fundamental human irrationality. And, at this moment, his rational side was calmly informing him that he was crazy. Should he do something about it? Should he walk away from the church, leaving this former soldier and his wife in eternal confusion? Should he walk away from America and move to...well, Sicily, perhaps? But then, what about Rana, who had stepped so elegantly out of a shop in al-Mansour, bundled against the snow, so wise and beautiful she broke Ghaith Ibrahim’s heart on the spot and forever more?
Even if this lunacy passed—and Ari believed it already had—it was too late to take back what he had said to Ben Torman. But before he could begin raising a reasonable palisade of lies, Pastor Grainger returned from saying farewell to his parishioners. Seeing the stricken faces before him (Ari’s too, it seemed), he came to the wrong conclusion.
"You were discussing Mustafa and Akila?" he said. "It almost doesn’t bear thinking about. This country has become godless, and this is the result."
Ari was silently working out his options when Ben unwittingly betrayed him.
"Yes," Ben sighed heavily. "But isn't it like a sign from God, bringing an Iraqi to our church?"
Ben was either not too bright, or was totally unaccustomed to lying. Ari had met numerous people who were incompetent liars, but hardly a one who didn't try. Was it possible Ben was a freak of nature?
"Oh," said Grainger, turning to Ari. "But aren't you Italian?"
Ben realized immediately that he had stumbled badly. "I just assumed," he laughed apologetically. "We didn't finish our introductions."
"But...why Iraqi?" Grainger asked. "Why not...well, Egyptian?"
Ari, for whom one lie was the same as a thousand, could see Ben was having difficulty with even a half-truth. No, they had not been fully introduced. Yes, Ari had indirectly told him he was an Iraqi—there were precious few foreign translators tagging along with the U.S. Armed Forces. He noticed Becky looking intently at her husband. Ah...the conscience. Maybe her presence had fogged Ben's head. Ari was familiar with that kind of situation. Rana had often caught him out in an untruth. In Iraq, lying came before breathing. Ari's wife understood one needed to lie to survive, but when Ari spouted a lie that was unnecessary, or harmful, or dangerous, she would caution him with a calm, silent touch of the hand.
Ari gave the nave a cursory inspection. He saw no one else, but he was still uneasy.
"That prisoner in the state facility, Mr. Salman...I thought right away that he recognized you. And you told us he was an Iraqi."
Ari smiled at the pastor. "I would be only too happy to discuss this somewhere where there aren't so many...echoes."
"Is there something to discuss?" said Grainger, turning to Ben and Becky.
Becky gave her husband a pensive glance. "Is there?"
"I think at this point, now that I’ve spoken out of turn…there is," Ari intruded. "Please give me the opportunity to clear up any misunderstanding."
Ben nodded.
"I hate looking at my watch at a moment like this...I have to prepare for the second service." Grainger looked at his wrist. "It seems we have a little time."
They followed him out of the nave and through the welcome area to the pastor’s office. Inside, in addition to the pastor’s executive chair behind the desk, there were three cushioned guest chairs. Ari briefly amused himself with a probable scenario: mother, father and recalcitrant, common sense son who wanted nothing more to do with the church arraigned before Grainger for consultation and clerical claptrap. On the wall was a painting of John Wesley, which seemed unpromising to Ari until he saw the mock yellow road sign beneath it: ‘Ornery Methodist Zone.’ At least Grainger could laugh at himself.
Ben and Becky sat next to each other, within handholding distance. Ari took the chair closest to the door. Grainger settled in behind the desk and looked at him inquiringly. He folded his hands on the desk, then spread his fingers, as though opening the floor to anyone who wanted to begin.
"As of this moment," Ari said, "my life is in your hands."
"I understand," said Grainger with polite equanimity. "But it is beginning to seem I have introduced you into a secure government facility under false pretenses—at least, under a misconception. I have programs to assist inmates at Powhatan—many churches do—that would be jeopardized if it was discovered that security regulations have been violated. You’ve met the assistant warden."
Not a bad chap, Ari thought.
"You understand, he would shut us down in a bleeding heartbeat."
Ari thought the pun felicitous and smiled in appreciation.
"I don’t think there’s anything sinister here," said Ben with a trace of uncertainty.
"I’m sure you recall what Mr. Salman’s lawyer said, Mr. Ciminon," Grainger continued. "We are involved in a war in Iraq—although God forgive how many of us forget that—and by force of circumstances we…" The pastor suddenly realized he was verging on the intemperate. "Someone who is Iraqi, in the States, under an assumed name…it’s only natural that we regard them with extra care. I’m the first to admit this is a sad state of affairs."
"Of course," said Ari.
"Then…can we learn a little more about you?" Grainger asked.
"Yes, I am Iraqi. I only left my country a few months ago." Ari, no longer succumbing to mystical confidentiality, worked hard to dovetail partial truth with current necessity. "As you saw at the prison, my documents are perfectly legal. They are not forged. After the defeat of the main Iraqi army, I became a translator for the Americans—that includes Blackwater, naturally. The British, Australians and Poles, too. Even the Italians, on occasion."
"You’re very good at langua
ges?" said Grainger with a touch of envy.
"It seems I was blessed with that particular talent. However, my identity was compromised. The American ambassador graciously offered me asylum."
"Do you have family?" Becky asked.
"A wife and son. They’re somewhere else."
"They weren’t included in the invitation? Isn’t it very dangerous for them? I’ve heard…" Grainger allowed the peril to drift into the vague silence of hearsay.
"They’re no longer in Iraq, but they’re not here," said Ari carefully. When Pastor Grainger’s eyes widened slightly, he quickly continued: "We’re being kept separate only as a precaution. My wife was a well-known actress in the Middle East before the war. Other refugees here would recognize her and word would spread that I’m in America."
Forgive me, Rana.
"Oh," said Grainger, briefly subdued by Hollywood-faux. "But wouldn’t her very fame protect her?"
"Saddam Hussein’s cousin, Saddam Kamel, portrayed the president in a very long movie called ‘The Long Days’. Hussein had him murdered in 1996. In my culture, fame can get you killed."
"I see," said Grainger. "And the authorities have seen to all of your security arrangements? There’s no risk to your neighbors?"
"The risk, which is minimal, is entirely mine. Unless…"
"Because you’re taking such a big risk telling us all this," said Becky, watching her silent husband as much as Ari. "Aren’t you protected by the government?"
"Certainly," Ari answered. "But I am here as a guest, not a prisoner. As you can see, I am allowed to roam freely, so long as I perform my assigned tasks. I do not take extraordinary precautions. I don’t feel the need to."
"And what are your tasks, Mr. Ciminon?" Grainger said.
"The American government believes there is an Iraqi provocateur on the loose in your country. I can’t tell you what organization he belongs to. That information is, as you say, ‘classified’. This man has been terrorizing refugees, forcing them to enlist in a jihad against the West. Homeland Security has brought me here because I can identify him no matter what disguise he is wearing."
Pastor Grainger seemed startled. "You really think you can identify him? When was the last time you saw him?"
"Mr. Ciminon’s very good at remembering faces," Ben interjected quietly.
Grainger gave him a puzzled look, then turned back to Ari for an answer.
"I worked with this man for several years. Your FBI sends pictures to me of likely suspects, hoping I’ll spot him. They believe he’s in San Diego or Los Angeles, where there are sizable populations of Iraqi refugees."
This seemed to appease Grainger to some extent. California was not as far away as Iraq, but the width of a continent gave at least some cushion against danger.
"There are some in your intelligence community…" Ari paused, and not only for effect. He was entering treacherous territory and needed to carefully balance his lies. He had damaged his own cover story, but he needed to maintain the pretence that Mustafa was an Egyptian. Karen would be furious if he exposed the dead man as a former collaborator, and there was no need to have the DEA gunning for him, as well. "…there are some who believe that an American serviceman who served in Iraq is assisting him."
Grainger’s sudden look of disgust probably had more than one cause. Predominant would be having a foreigner telling him that one of the few and the proud was a traitor. Ari fully understood the reaction, and sympathized.
"You can’t think—"
"Oh, Becky, I don’t think he’s suggesting Ben is under suspicion. I am correct, Mr. Ciminon?"
Ari laughed as if it was the wildest suggestion he had ever heard. Grainger, still vigilant, managed a polite nod at Ari’s reassurance.
"You knew about the threatening letters sent to Mustafa?" Ari said abruptly.
Grainger blushed. "How did you know?"
"I really can’t tell you how I found out…"
"Mustafa told Mr. Salman?" said Grainger, beginning to look more upset than ever. "You mean it was something Salman said to Mustafa that got him killed? I introduced him to the prisoner…"
"The lawyer explained to me that anything said in that room—"
"Yes, I understand," said the pastor, batting away the over-familiar explanation with an irate swing of his hand. Ari wondered if Methodists held close to the same vow of confidentiality as Catholics and defense lawyers.
"Did Mustafa mention the drawing of an eagle on those letters?"
Grainger looked bemused.
"I believe," Ari continued, "that it’s referred to as a ‘screaming eagle’."
"No!" Ben blurted. "He wouldn’t!"
Grainger and Ari turned to Ben.
"Who wouldn’t?" Ari said, smiling.
"I think this needs to come to an end right here," Becky suddenly pronounced. "Aren’t the police dealing with this? They might not take it kindly if we butt our noses into their business..." She leaned towards her distraught husband, who was staring so intently at Grainger’s modesty panel that he seemed on the verge of taking cover under the desk.
"I concur," said Grainger, his amiable demeanor evaporating. "This is a police matter."
Nodding absently, Ari put on the appearance of full agreement. "You are correct. However, I was with the police when the body was discovered…"
They turned and stared at him.
"Because of concern for the safety of the Arab community here, there are certain…concordances between the authorities and myself. I have been fully vetted by Army intelligence."
"You work for the police?" Becky asked warily.
"No, they only consult with me on occasion." True enough. Officers Jackson and Mangioni had asked for help on a murder Ari himself had committed. "They wanted me to come with them if it proved necessary to enter the Zewail house…in case there was a confrontation. A fellow Arab could have helped resolve any misunderstanding, you see. Alas, we were too late."
Ari was fully prepared to threaten Grainger if this story proved unsatisfactory to the pastor. He might throw out a strong hint that the church's beloved inmate programs might be permanently shut down if it was discovered that Grainger had risked the exposure of a precious government asset. But the pastor followed the logic of the lie, and accepted it as a twisted truth.
"That still doesn't explain why you are here, without a detective in sight," Becky pressed, frantically wanting to end the interview that was so detrimental to her husband's mental well-being.
"I learned from Pastor Grainger that Mustafa and Akila were members of this church. I learned about the eagle head from...somewhere else. I already knew it represented the 101st Airborne Division. I came here to find out if anyone from that division was also a member of this church. It is true, Ben has the bearing of a soldier, and for a moment I thought..." Ari gave his shoulders a sheepish heave. "But then he told me he was with the 1st Armored Division…I believe you were in the 2nd Squadron, 2nd Stryker 2nd Stryker Brigade Combat Team."
"2nd Stryker Cavalry Regiment," Ben gasped. "That's a helluva memory you have." Becky got up from her chair and stood by him. Ben did not seem chagrined by this feminine defense, which Ari found queer and unsettling. A hundred times Rana had stood by him, but usually discretely, from an inseparable distance.
"Are any other servicemen members of your church?" Ari asked. "I mean, any who belonged to the 101st?"
Pastor Grainger shook his head, then shifted his attention to Ben. "But you seem to know someone—"
"Sid wouldn't be so stupid as to send threatening notes on letterhead!" Ben said angrily.
"Ah," said Ari with a show of sadness, lamenting the mental disease one friend has discovered in another.
"Ben," said Grainger slowly, "I think you mentioned this man to me before, without giving me his name. You knew about the letters, too."
"Mustafa burned them all," Ben said, slumping under his wife’s hand, as though Becky was pushing him down into the chair. "If I’d seen them, I would have kn
own who wrote them…if it was Sid, I mean. But Mustafa didn’t want to take the risk of Akila seeing them. He said they were too disgusting."
"But you must have suspected," Grainger pressed. Ari stayed silent, satisfied to have the pastor doing his interrogating for him. "Did he know you and Mustafa were friends?"
"He dropped by the house once when Mustafa and Akila were visiting. He took one look at us at the dinner table, eating kushari, and...it was pretty awful."
"He was insane," Becky said, her blue eyes reflecting an incomprehensible mystery. "I told Ben never to go out to Sid's place again. He has plenty of guns, and he knows how to use them."
"You think he would shoot Ben?" asked Grainger with a glance at his phone, as if he was ready to call the police then and there.
"Naw," said Ben, looking at his wife. "But you can see any idea of him helping an Arab agent in CONUS is out of the question. He hates them like nothing else."
Ari brushed off his irritation at being subjected to another useless acronym. "Would you happen to know if he was in Iraq in 2003?"
"He was..." said Ben, puzzled. "What's that got to do with anything?"
"I'm only trying to reassure myself on certain details," Ari shrugged. "Do you think we could pay him a visit?"
"No!" Becky said fiercely. "He's already on a hair-trigger with Ben. If he saw you on his property—"
"I've been meaning to go see him, just to clear the air," Ben interrupted, touching his wife's hand, a gesture wonderfully familiar to Ari. "Becky, I knew him when we were kids. I can't just drop someone like that. But I don't understand. I just told you that you're way out of the park."
"But there is still the matter of the letters to Mustafa. 'Disgusting', you said."
"He said," Ben corrected. "Anyway, I've seen Sid's handwriting and it's illegible. You can't get into the 101st if you're an illiterate, but I don't think they use penmanship as a criteria."
The Godless One Page 15
