The Godless One

by J. Clayton Rogers

  "Better," the man conceded. He found the knife and stood. "The only reason you're not dead yet is I've got a message. It's stupid, I should have killed you and lied about it."

  "But your employer is very good at detecting lies..." The reflections from across the river were slipping away. Ari wondered if he was losing consciousness. He might not hear the all-important message. That would be a shame, but the universe was petering out, anyway. Sinkhole? No. Black hole. No. Heat death.

  "Here's the message: 'The deliverer of dogs will die a dog’s death.'"

  "I'll bear that in mind."

  Now Ari knew for certain. Or maybe it was the fact in hand that was comforting. He had always known.

  "Why are you grinning, asshole?" the man demanded, annoyed.

  "Have you ever fucked a virgin? I'm going to fuck 72 of them."

  "Right. You sort of have a nasty mouth on you, you know that?"

  "I'll have you know I'm an alumnus of a prestigious university."

  "So am I. You'd be amazed what they teach at the culinary institute." The man hefted the knife waste-high. "The carotid?"

  "You could do worse," Ari smiled dreamily. "In fact, you have."

  The man hesitated. Ari was a fighter, not above trickery. But was he above a final riposte? He was too much a professional—

  "Hey, Yank! Aiyz temus?"

  The man whirled, dodging, but too late. It was like a cannon shot, his chest blowing out. Ari was almost certain he saw a projectile come out his back. He marveled as the man flew off his feet, landing at least three yards away. Then Ari rested his head and stared up at the sky. No, it wasn't the sky. Too many trees. Stars in his eyes. Or maybe the retinal afterimage of the gunflash.

  Slushy footsteps hastened up to him.

  "Colonel...?"

  Ari raised his arm, then dropped it.

  "I heard what you said to him. You shouldn't have warned him like that. I could've missed. That's not like you."

  Ari raised his arm again, then dropped it. "But you asked him if he wanted a blow job."

  "I guess you aren't right in the head at the moment,” said the man, ignoring Ari’s protest. "He was right, though. You shouldn't have said that about the virgins."

  Ari coughed. The footsteps shuffled away. He waited for the sound of a coup de grace, but doubted it was necessary. The newcomer must have agreed. There were no more gunshots. The slushy footsteps returned.

  "What a mess," said Abu Jasim, looking down at him. "You, too."

  "Bouse tizi!"

  "Hey, I just saved your life, Colonel Asshole," Abu Jasim said grumpily.

  "And I saved yours," said Ari wanly. "He was headed down the river to kill you, but then he saw me and changed direction."

  "He would kill both of us?" Abu Jasim was stunned. "But I’m not important enough to kill! Except…I know you…. Can you get up?"

  "Not...quite...yet..." said Ari after a feeble attempt.

  "My van is stuck in the mud. I was trying to hide it near the river. Fucking mud. I came up here when I heard you two scuffling. I need to go get it out. Can you wait? Are you going to be dead when I get back?"

  "Distinct possibility."

  "Well, God be with you if I'm not back in time. Want my gun?"

  "What is that thing?"

  "500 S&W Magnum, more powerful than Dirty Harry's, with 2600 foot pounds that can take down an elephant."

  "Amazing," said Ari when Abu Jasim handed it down to him.

  "Sure is. You could plant a flagpole in that fucker’s chest, now."

  "I want one," said Ari, feeling more than seeing the weapon lying on him.

  "Don't be jealous, I'll get you one. Is it too heavy for you? It's almost 80 ounces."

  "Not at all."

  "If you have to shoot, use both hands and watch out for the kick. You could break some more bones. I'll be back in a few minutes. I have to get the van out by myself. I couldn't bring my son with me."

  "What's wrong with Jasim?"

  "The stupid fool broke a collar bone doing hagwalah." This was the Arab version of American 'drifting', where young men tilted their cars up on two wheels while passengers hung out the side. It was most often performed in Saudi Arabia.

  "But there aren't any deserts in Quebec to do that," Ari said.

  "I know."

  "Then what about Mahmoud?" Another of Abu Jasim's sons.

  "He has exams this week. All of them do. French exams. Can you believe that?"

  "'Bâteau, ciseaux

  La rivière, la rivière

  Bâteau, ciseaux

  La rivière tombée dans l’eau…’"

  "I hope you're not brain-damaged," said Abu Jasim before walking away.

  Ari proceeded to check out his injuries. Since he could barely move a finger, the inspection was remote, his mind drifting through the caverns and extensions of his body. First off, check the instrument that would be doing the checking. He had taken two hard head shots. Or maybe it was twenty. He did not think he was concussed, although he would probably be the last to know. But he certainly would have to wear a bag over his head for the next month if he did not want to terrorize the local inhabitants. His jaw twitched properly if painfully, his nose was surprisingly unbroken and his eyes were intact, the assassin's attempt to blind him blocked by a timely upward thrust of his arm. Down to the neck, massively bruised but with his cervical vertebrae intact. His mental robot scooted down to the thorax, a hazardous morass of tangled bones and hammered skin. The report was depressing but not dire. The following reports were similar: bruising, swelling, sprains, contusions...overall, however, the prognosis left him in painful gratitude. The assassin had reduced him without crippling him. Luck purred at his ear like a cat snuggling near his neck.

  In the distance he heard swearing in Arabic, a beautiful sound that could snap the neck of any saint or sinner within hearing. Ari decided he was neither, since he survived. There came the sound of an engine wailing, then loud cracks as Abu Jasim rocked his van over the branches he had lain down for traction. A minute later, the van appeared, fishtailing over the slush as the irate driver worked his way over to Ari.

  "I didn't hear any shooting," said Abu Jasim, as he got out. "This guy must have been the only one."

  "One," Ari groused, lifting his head. "They sent one, without even a gun. Against me!"

  Abu Jasim coughed diplomatically. He waited a minute. "I'll help you up when you ask me to. I don't want to be presumptuous."

  "Hold on..." Ari lifted the .500 and Abu Jasim took it from him.

  "A fucking howitzer," he said admiringly as he returned it to the van.

  "You'll get me one?"

  "Yes, yes, Colonel. How are you doing?"

  "As you see." Ari was sitting up. It was all he could do to stay in that position. "Khara!"

  With that, Abu Jasim reached under his arms and began to lift him. Ari howled.

  "Where's all that ninja training of yours?" Abu Jasim complained. "Aren't you supposed to hold your peace even if your dick is getting cut off?"

  Ari howled again as Abu Jasim planted him on his feet. He let go. Ari wavered, but did not fall. He toddled over to the would-be assassin's corpse and stared at him in the glare of the van's headlights. "He's much younger than me. You can see he worked out forty-eight hours a day."

  "Anybody with a forty-eight hour day would have an advantage," Abu Jasim conceded. "But he won't be getting any older, now."

  Ari drew back his leg and gave the body a kick.

  "You call that a kick?" Abu Jasim came over and gave the corpse a kick that sent a squirt of blood out of the gun wound.

  "Again," said Ari.

  Abu Jasim kicked the body again.

  "Again," said Ari.

  Abu Jasim obeyed.

  "Search his pockets."

  Abu Jasim crouched and ran his hand through the baggy pockets of the jogging pants. "Just his keys," he said, pocketing them.

  "We have to find his car. It's parked nearby."
/>   "I didn't see anyone else down by the river."

  "Near the entrance, then."

  Ari howled once more as Abu Jasim settled him into the van's passenger seat.

  "I did not whimper," Ari said with a glare.

  "Right, Colonel. What do we do with the body?"

  "Leave it."

  "You think that's such a good idea?"

  "Go down by the shore. You'll see crosses dedicated to people who have been murdered here. The Americans are very big on crosses."

  "Murder, too. That's what we say up in Canada."

  Ari's silent contempt expressed the imbecility of the sentiment. Like people weren't being murdered left and right in Iraq?

  "I still think we should dump him in the river," Abu Jasim persisted. "We don't want to give the locals too much to think about."

  "You plan to drag him all the way there by yourself?"

  Abu Jasim went around to the back of the van and removed a tow rope from his cargo bay. Attaching it to his hitch, he walked around the front and displayed the hook. "See? Easy." Going to the body, he pressed the legs together and tied the rope around the ankles. "Voila!"

  At any other time, Ari would have congratulated Abu Jasim on this great stride in French. Abu Jasim got in and drove. The palpable jerks as the body caught on rocks and roots soothed Ari's wounds. Abu Jasim pulled up as close as he dared to the muddy riverbank. Ari heard swearing after he got out to untie the rope.

  "What is it?"

  "Big chunks of him fell out of the bullet hole! They're all over the parking lot!"

  "The cats will take care of it," Ari replied.

  "Ugh."

  "Fresh meat."

  "Ugh," said Abu Jasim again. Having the same broad physique (and practically the same face) as his one-time employer, Saddam Hussein, Abu Jasim did not find dragging the body very difficult.

  "Let me help you," said Ari, not moving.

  Abu Jasim didn't answer. As he moved around the front of the van, Ari noted the man's shirt had been pulled off while being dragged. He rolled down his window. "Stop."

  "What do you see?" Abu Jasim looked down at the corpse. "Right, a tattoo."

  "Hold his arm this way."

  Dropping the legs, Abu Jasim shifted to the front of the corpse and raised the right arm. "Just letters and numbers."

  "I can't see properly. Read it to me."

  "'TF-20.'"

  "Task Force 20," said Ari, grinning with bloodied teeth.

  "Who are they?"

  "They were with the 101st in Mosul, part of the group that didn't bother trying to catch the Hussein brothers but reduced them to their basic elements, instead."

  "Uday," Abu Jasim spat. "He deserved worse."

  "Indeed..." said Ari. "Okay, get on with it."

  Doing his best to keep blood off himself, Abu Jasim awkwardly worked the body to the water, just managing to maintain his balance on the icy mud and smooth stones lining the shore. Finally, he gave a heave. There was a splash. Then more swearing. The body was stuck in the mud. Ari would have laughed, but it hurt just to blink. He felt something rumbling and then oozing within himself. Blunt splenic trauma? Internal bleeding was a possibility. If it was bad, the hemorrhage could be fatal. He would have to undergo a splenectomy. But the pain seemed limited to the upper left quadrant. It was probably minor...so to speak. His brain would have to fend for itself.

  Abu Jasim located a stout branch and finally succeeded in pushing the body into the current without diving into the water. Pleased, he turned and slipped in the mud. He returned to the van looking like Saddam Hussein at his choleric worst. Ari felt like flinching in respect.

  "Now we find his car," he said.

  Abu Jasim drove slowly out of the Manchester Docks entrance. They spotted the blue Grand Turismo behind some bushes off of Brander Street. Wary of the mud, Abu Jasim gingerly guided the van next to it. While Ari slouched in his seat, Abu Jasim got out and looked inside the GT. There was no one else in the car. "Engine’s still running. He didn’t plan to take long. There's a couple of square lights on the dash. Looks like a GPS thing, and something else."

  "A tracker?" Ari roused himself up. "Your van might be bugged."

  "Shit." Abu Jasim pressed his face against the driver door glass and said, "Think it's rigged, Colonel?"

  "Unlock it and find out."

  "I've got more respect for virgins than you do," Abu Jasim scowled. He got back inside the van and drove off thirty yards. Then he took out the assassin's keys and pressed the remote. The parking lights flashed, but there was no explosion. He returned to the GT. He made certain that the Astrovan's passenger side faced Akila Zewail’s car. "If there’s a bomb and it’s not connected to the remote, you go with me."

  "I see how you trust me."

  Taking a deep breath, Abu Jasim grabbed the GT’s handle and swung the door open. He let out his breath.

  "We're still alive."

  "Could be a delayed timer," Ari observed indifferently.

  Abu Jasim delved into the car, leaving the driver door open so he could talk to Ari. "GPS, all right. And the tracker...it shows..."

  "It shows you, jahech. We need to search your van."

  "The GPS shows nothing," Abu Jasim sniffed. "From somewhere to Ashland. I passed a sign for Ashland on I-95. So he didn't follow me all the way from Montreal. He picked me up north of here. That means he had a friend in Longueil who planted the tracker."

  "It also means you'll probably have to move and change your name and change your face," said Ari, very alert. "The GPS is still on?"

  "Yeah. Want me to turn it off? It's draining the—"

  "No!" Ari pushed open his door and peered across the gap between the two vehicles. "You can backtrack to his starting point. Be careful! Don't erase the program! I think all you have to do is scroll..." He watched on tenterhooks as Abu Jasim poked the TomTom. "If you erase it I'll tear out your tongue and feed it to the pigs."

  Tentatively, Abu Jasim rolled his index finger over the screen. "I wish Mahmoud was here. He knows all this crap."

  "Careful..."

  After a minute, Abu Jasim finished tracing his way to the beginning of the route. "Got it. Five twenty-nine Sugar Loaf Road, Cumberland. I don't have a pen and paper."

  "That's all right," Ari said, easing back in his seat. "We have him."

  "We have who?"

  "A very big fish," said Ari. "And I intend to fry him."

  CHAPTER TEN

  "Othman al-Dulaimi has killed himself."

  Lieutenant Abu Karim Ghaith Ibrahim roused himself from his cot and tried to shake sleep from his eyes and the sergeant's incomprehensible words from his mind.

  "Captain al-Dulaimi?" he asked, last night's Clan MacGregor slaking off his tongue.

  "Should I have some tea brought to you?"

  Ghaith reached down to pull on his boots, only to find they were already on. "What did you say about the captain?"

  "He's in his tent," the sergeant answered tensely.

  "Assassinated?"

  "The guards say no one entered the camp last night. His pistol is in his hand. He put it in his mouth…"

  "You're crazy." This judgment carried a host of assumptions. Ghaith did not know the captain well, having been reassigned to the Medina unit only the week before. From what he could tell, the captain was an introspective man, one of those rarities of thoughtfulness and consideration who made you think humankind was suffering from a mild dose of decency. Otherwise, he had everything going for him. A Sunni born in Tikrit (nothing but Sunnis there), from a well-to-do family, his father a close friend of the Husseins, a rising military star. Sure, he had pissed in his pants on the Highway of Death, but so had they all. Only some kind of shame, perhaps a family scandal, would induce such a man to commit suicide. Another assumption, of course, was that the sergeant was genuinely crazy. Ghaith looked at him narrowly and repeated, "You're crazy."

  "Yes, Lieutenant, but the captain has also killed himself."

  "I
saw him yesterday. He was fine."

  But had he been? Qusay Hussein, Saddam's second son, was in overall command of the forces in this area, but with the arrival of his brother, Uday, it was understood something special lay in store for the local inhabitants. Ghaith was ordered to bring his platoon to Joufer Safa, the 'beach of rocks', where Captain al-Dulaimi was forming the company. This could only mean that more rebels had been captured and were slated for execution. Within a short time, Ghaith's platoon was ranked before fresh mass graves. Prisoners had already excavated new ones. Captain al-Dulaimi stared somberly at the nearest one. There was a roar up the road, and suddenly a bright pink Lamborghini hove into view, followed by several BTR's chock full of bodyguards.

  The Lamborghini jounced over several of the graves before coming to a halt in a cloud of dust and flying rocks. An instant later, out stepped Uday, in uniform, his beret tilted jauntily over his forehead. From the passenger seat emerged Hussein Kamel, Saddam's son-in-law. He was speaking into a handheld radio.

  Uday grinned when Captain al-Dulaimi saluted, reached back inside the car and pulled out a round bottle of Dimple. It was early morning, and the Scotch was already half gone. He pulled out the stopper and wrapped his buck teeth around the mouth of the bottle. Hussein said something to him and Uday nodded. A few minutes later, squads from another company marched thirty men onto the beach of rocks. Their hands were bound behind them. Some wore old trousers, others white dishdashas. One had a black turban. Their reaction when they saw the graves was familiar to Ghaith. This was why he drank so much Clan MacGregor at night—or anything else he could get ahold of.

  Curses, tears, the Salat al-Kwawf—the prayer of fear and danger.

  "Anyone who speaks will be immediately shot!" yelled a colonel striding onto the scene. The curses and prayers stopped. The colonel walked up to Uday and saluted. Uday laughed and took another swig.

  "Bring out the fucker," he said.

  A soldier in a dark green uniform was marched out, hands bound. He was bruised and haggard. His arm patches bore the red triangle of the Medina Armored Division. He was halted about ten yards from Uday. A dreadful silence fell across the field. Ghaith spent a moment trying to admire nearby date palms, then gave it up as a bad job.