The Godless One

by J. Clayton Rogers

  Uday handed his bottle to the colonel, who looked befuddled but sober. The President's son clasped his hands behind his back, as if imitating the bound prisoner before him. He began to rock his head forwards and backwards, murmuring to himself and nodding agreement at his own words. Then he turned to Captain al-Dulaimi.

  "Do you know this man?"

  "No, Sir!"

  "But he's from your division!"

  "A different company, Sir!"

  "Do you know where his company is?"

  "I believe the gunshots we are hearing from the south belong to his company, Sir!"

  Uday went red. His prominent teeth flew out and retracted. "What the fuck is this?" he demanded of the colonel. "I wanted this man's company here!"

  "We were unable to extract them, Sir," said the terrified colonel, holding the Dimple bottle as though it was a bomb. "They are fighting the Shaabanists."

  "Fuck!" Uday shouted. "Don't we! You were unable to extract them!"

  The Dimple shuddered in the round bottle.

  "Fuck! Fuck!" Uday walked in a circle, pulling on his clasped hands so tightly that he seemed to be screwing himself into the ground. "What's the point of all this, then?"

  "Sir," the colonel stuttered, "I'm sure word will get back to his unit. They're all part of the Medina—"

  "Shut up!" With that, as though striking out at the colonel, Uday kicked the captive soldier behind the knee. The man gave a shout and fell. This improved Uday's mood. He turned to the assembled company. "Very well, then. You'll have to do. Now…brothers…do you remember what we suffered just a few months ago, when the invaders slaughtered your comrades? It was a sneak attack! We were in the middle of negotiations! We honorably held our fire while the Americans and Jews sneaked into our country and stirred up this filth." He unclasped his hands and pointed at the prisoners near the open grave. "We were stabbed in the back! You fought with courage, while these sons of whores cut our legs out from behind. Now it's our turn!"

  At a discreet signal from their officers, the soldiers shouted, "Allah Akbar! Allah Akbar! Allah Akbar!"

  "Yes!" Uday said, yanking the bottle out of the colonel's hand and taking another swig. Keeping the bottle, he unsheathed a janbiya and strode back to the captive soldier, who had worked his way back up to his knees. "This scum was one of your comrades, a man you trusted. Or the men of his unit trusted. And where did they find him? Fighting for the Brothers of Atiq, a bunch of Shia fucks who don't know how to wipe themselves. He betrayed you! He betrayed all of us! And this is how we treat treason!"

  Ghaith could not turn his head without risk of punishment, or even death, but he could avert his eyes. He took succor from the palm trees basking in sunlight, even as the soldier's screams assailed his ears. The torture was prolonged. Uday had had a lot of practice.

  And then…a miracle. Suddenly, from the prisoners at the grave, came a shout:

  "Hey, Bucktooth, I made your mother wet last night!"

  Ghaith could not help lowering his eyes to see Uday's reaction. This meant also seeing the torture victim, recumbent on the dry soil, burbling in his own blood, parts of him gone, still unspeakably alive.

  "Who said that!" Uday screeched, leaping up. He whirled on the colonel. "Which one of those shitholes said that?"

  The colonel's finger drifted uncertainly over the prisoners. It was obvious he didn't know who had insulted the Defense Minister and his beloved mother. Uday picked up his Dimple and marched over to the open trench. "Who said that?" he demanded of the guards. They had been watching the soldier being flayed alive and had not been paying attention to the other prisoners. One of the guards, terrified by his own ignorance, pointed randomly at a man near the center.

  Because Uday was covered in blood, his pistol almost slipped out of his grasp when he pulled it out of its holster. He shot the prisoner in the back of the head. Instantly, he turned back to the frightened guard. "Are you sure he was the one?" he cried out. "The bastard insulted my mother! You'd better make sure. Maybe it was that one over there. A mean pile of camel dung. Are you sure it wasn't him?"

  "Well…"

  Uday went over to the man in question and shot him. Suddenly, the line of prisoners shifted.

  "Sir!" the colonel came running. "I'm responsible for your safety!"

  Suddenly realizing he might have blindly put himself in a dangerous position, Uday nodded at the guards. "Do it!"

  The guards raised their Russian rifles and began shooting.

  Captain al-Dulaimi had not moved, nor had anyone else in his company. Of course, had they been ordered to join in the massacre, they would have quickly done so. It would not have been the first time. During the Medina's drive south, many rebels had been put to the sword, one way or another. The captain’s men had wrapped themselves in cloaks of indifference, cloaks so dark they could not see each other or even themselves. It was a dreary insanity, and even the sadists among them began to sicken at the stench of Hell. But on this day they were reprieved, because no one thought to give them orders.

  If Captain al-Dulaimi was one of those very odd fellows who suffered from scruples, he picked a strange day to play his final hand. But Ghaith refused to believe he had killed himself. He rose from his cot and strode past the sergeant, half-convinced that the captain had been cleaning his weapon and accidentally shot himself. As he crossed the campground, he gave a nervous glance at man climbing a nearby palm tree.

  "He's not a sniper, Lieutenant," the sergeant assured him. "The farmers are pollinating their dates."

  "You're a farm boy?" Ghaith asked.

  "I am, Sir."

  "It's a very peaceful existence," Ghaith said, stopping to watch the farmer reach out to plant the long white stems bearing male pollen into the center of the female.

  "It used to be," said the sergeant.

  Ghaith found the scene in the captain's tent much as the sergeant described it. Othman al-Dulaimi lay on his cot, his knees drawn up. His Tariq was still in his mouth. The 9mm slug had come out the top of his head, leaving a hole surrounded by blood and brain spume in the tent canvas. Ghaith tried every imaginable way to twist the facts away from self-destruction. A rebel infiltrator might have gotten in and arranged the murder to look like suicide. The captain might have been cleaning his gun, but that was not something you often did with your tongue. The facts refused to be twisted, and the letter next to the cot cut the string between wishful thinking and reality.

  "I can't do this anymore. Allah forgive me."

  "Should I go get the other officers?" the sergeant asked.

  "Of course." But Ghaith stopped him as he began to leave. "Why did you come to me, first?"

  "Because you seem like someone who would understand."

  "Understand what?"

  The sergeant didn't answer.

  "You're wrong. I don't understand anything. And neither do you. Now go get the others."

  After the sergeant left, Ghaith spent several minutes brooding over the corpse. He heard the whispered injunctions of the dead.

  "Yes, you're right," he told the dead captain. "You're a better man than I am."

  A month later, Ghaith was posted north, to the more congenial task of hunting down and assassinating Kurdish rebels.

  For three days Ari lay in a motel bungalow on Route 1 south of Richmond. The air was sterile, seemed to be filled with fine white powder; very reminiscent of Mesopotamian flatlands. It was a land of the rejected and ejected, a conglomerate of poor whites, blacks and Hispanics who were lucky to get a job as a clerk at Dollar General but most often ended up as temporary muscle at one of the many warehouses that dotted the highway. Between jobs they got drunk, fought and staggered alongside the road, to the dismay of tourists following the Civil War Trail from Richmond to Petersburg. Ari, in his current state, fit right in. But no passersby saw him. He remained in bed, his head clear, knowing it would be useless if he tried to overcome his injuries through an act of sheer willpower.

  "You’re very heroic, Colonel,
" said Abu Jasim on the afternoon of the second day, looking down at him on the motel bed. Ari shot him an inquiring glance. "Staying in bed like that, I mean. I know how it galls you." He turned and brought forward a stranger. "Here, this is Ahmad, my brother’s son."

  "Canadian?" Ari asked.

  "Chicagoan. He didn’t even have to cross the border! Flew here straight from O’Hare. He’s all-American."

  "You can’t do this to me!" Ahmad wailed. "I can’t be here! I have tickets to the game! Do you know how hard those are to get?"

  "What game?" Ari asked.

  Ahmad gaped at him. "The Super Bowl!"

  "What did I say?" Abu Jasim scowled, slapping Ahmad on the back of the head. "All-American."

  "Have you ever heard anything about me?" Ari asked the young man.

  "Nothing," Ahmad admitted.

  "He’ll do," said Ari.

  "No!" Ahmad practically wept. "It’s the Bears against the Colts!"

  "It’ll be my fist against your skull if you don’t shut up," Abu Jasim reprimanded. "Anyway, Colonel, he’s just here for errands. His father will kill me if the boy gets his head blown off. Oh, and he’s good with gadgets, like all the kids these days. He bought a whole bag of disposable cell phones for $10.00. He can even do conference calls on them!"

  "That might come in handy."

  There was an outburst of venomous shouting next door. Although the walls weren’t connected, the din of crashing furniture made talking in a normal tone almost impossible.

  "I thought they would have worn themselves out by daylight," said Ari wearily. "But they still—"

  "Say no more, Colonel," Abu Jasim interrupted. "Ahmad, make yourself useful and go tell those idiots to shut up."

  "But I don’t speak Spanish!" the young man protested.

  Abu Jasim mulled this over. "Excuse me, Colonel," he said, reaching under the bed mattress and pulling out the .500 Magnum. "Here, they’ll understand this."

  "What is that thing?" Ahmad cried out, horrified.

  "In English, it’s called a ‘gun’. Don’t worry, no one around here’s going to call the cops."

  Ahmad’s arm sagged under the weight as he gave Abu Jasim an accusatory glance. "You just said I’m only supposed to run errands."

  "Shooting someone is an errand. Don’t look at me like that," said Abu Jasim. "I told your father I wouldn’t let you get your head blown off. We didn’t say anything about blowing off someone else’s."

  "So I get killed and miss the game," Ahmad said despondently as he walked slowly out of the bungalow.

  "There's a third option," Ari said. "He might accidentally blow his own head off."

  "You think he doesn't know how to use a gun?" Abu Jasim answered, amazed by the idea. "He was born here! In Chicago! The land of Al Capone! It's practically like home!"

  Ari shrugged, as though confessing he was ignorant in such matters.

  "I can't say I always act wisely," Abu Jasim confessed. "I mean, I'm sitting here with you, right? And now we've both killed an American citizen."

  "We didn't find any ID in the GT," said Ari.

  "But you ID'd the tattoo, right? And he talked like an American."

  "So does Ahmad," said Ari.

  At the mention of the young man's name, they cocked their ears, expecting at any moment for the yelling next door to stop. When it did, Abu Jasim smiled in appreciation. This quickly changed to alarm when screams of terror and breaking glass erupted. He jumped up from his chair and rushed to the door. He changed direction when they heard thumping noises out back. Rushing over to the rear window, he lifted the thin curtain.

  "What's so funny?" Ari demanded when Abu Jasim began to laugh.

  "The pigs broke through the window," he said. "Two men and a woman, hauling ass. The men are much faster than the woman. I guess they don't feel so much like fighting over her, now."

  Ahmad came back in, sweating and breathing hard.

  "Warmed up outside, has it?" Abu Jasim said.

  Ahmad rested the gigantic pistol on the bed before retreating into the bathroom.

  "That's right, take a dump," Abu Jasim quipped, reseating himself next to Ari. "Looks like the boy swallowed a laxative."

  "You got the license I wanted?" Ari asked.

  "And thanks for asking me to risk my life in one of the most peaceful countries in the world." Abu Jasim leaned back, glowering at Ari. "Those folks can be as tough as the Mukhabarat, and I’m not talking about the Mounties. Good thing I have a cousin working at Société de…de…de…"

  "Société de l'assurance automobile du Québec," said Ari, more or less patiently.

  "She was able to track down your plate," Abu Jasim nodded.

  "Front and back?" Ari asked.

  "You only need one in Quebec, not like Virginia."

  "You stole it yourself?"

  "Mahmoud got it while I played lookout. It wasn't all that hard. The guy lives in Westmount Park, the fat English district. Parked right on the street. I had my boy replace it with another plate, so the guy won't notice too quick."

  "Another stolen plate?"

  "From somebody less dangerous...I hope." Abu Jasim fidgeted. "You really want me to put that on my van?"

  "Not yet."

  "You'll owe me a new van," said Abu Jasim slowly.

  "I'll get you one."

  "I want a Sprinter from Mercedes-Benz. They're very expensive, upwards to $45,000, with features…and I would want features."

  "Will my share from the Kayak Express cover it?"

  Abu Jasim instantly became cagey, as he always did whenever the topic of money came up. Ari had no doubt the Saddam Hussein look-alike had shortchanged him. But how could he pinch pennies with the man who had just saved his life?

  "Easily," Abu Jasim answered, "with plenty left over. But if the police ever get hold of my old van they'll find the storage space behind the panels. There's going to be traces of that filthy cocaine you made me sell."

  "Perfect," said Ari as Ahmad emerged from the bathroom, still looking sick. He plopped himself down on a tattered sofa and turned away from the two men. Abu Jasim looked at him, then turned and leaned towards Ari.

  "I don't know what you have in mind, but if this guy is really big, like you say..."

  "He is."

  "You'll get us all killed!"

  Hearing this, Ahmad twisted around and watched them.

  "Do you have any fake ID's?" Ari asked.

  "I might have something in the van." Abu Jasim stepped out of the room and returned a moment later with an inch-thick collection of plastic-encased cards. Sitting down next to Ari, he propped his feet on the bed frame and began flipping through them. "You want Canadian, American, Mexican…"

  "American."

  "All right...Harun al-Rashid, Pittsburgh; Ronnie Khalil, Miami; Umm Kulthum, Indianapolis; Frederic Fekkai, Houston; Alaa Abdelnaby, Boston; D.J. Khaled, Bismark; Ralph Nader, Los Ang—"

  "Where did you get those ID’s?" Ari demanded, his bruises glowing like sunspots.

  "There's a guy out west that churns them out left and right."

  "Where out west?" said Ari.

  "Maybe more north…northwest."

  "Where northwest?"

  "Maybe in Detroit."

  "The Chaldean Mafia." Ari lifted his sore hand to his sore head. "What are you doing messing around with those people?"

  "I don’t mess around with them, I’m just a customer. I buy from Walmart without owning any Walmart stock, right?"

  "We’ll have to discuss this later." Ari nodded at the phony licenses. "Are they any good?"

  "Sure. I've even got matching credit cards on most of them."

  "Well, pick the one you want, because you'll be buying your new van under that name."

  Abu Jasim's face went wistful. "Really?"

  "But you can't use your home address or any other place in Canada. And don't buy from an Arab dealership. And if you see a face with a complexion like this—" Ari touched his own face, which in its current
condition looked like that of a defeated boxer's. "First off, they'll look at you cockeyed. You may be used to that up north, but down here it would draw too much notice. You got both of us in enough hot water going to that gas station in Cumberland the night we shot that that cop."

  Ahmad moaned.

  "There wasn't anything wrong with that gas station. It was…uh…congenial."

  "You mean it was run by an Arab. If I hadn't been sleeping, I would have told you to skip it." Ari smiled at Ahmad. "We'll talk more about it later."

  Abu Jasim gave the colonel a long look, then shrugged. "So what if I register my new van at his father's address?" he suggested, flicking a glance at Ahmad. The young man met his eyes. He was being subverted in a dozen ways. When he arrived that morning, Abu Jasim had immediately driven him out to the water treatment plant near the Manchester Docks. It was there, at the edge of a large, disused concrete apron, that he had stashed the assassin's GT.

  Ahmad had voiced his concern that the scenario was all askew. "Is this car stolen?" he asked. "How did you end up with the keys?"

  "No normal kid would ask such a question." Abu Jasim handed him the keys and told him to follow his Astrovan. Ahmad drew back—a little too delicately, Abu Jasim thought. "What's the matter?"

  "I'll leave fingerprints. And hair follicles."

  "It's the way of the world," Abu Jasim reasoned. "Besides, I'll shave your head and cut off those precious fingers of yours if you don't get in and drive."

  "You wouldn't."

  "I guaranteed your head, not your hands. Or that precious haircut. What kind of haircut is that, anyway? What's that purple stuff? Did you cut yourself?"

  Rather than discuss his coif, Ahmad reluctantly did as he was told, following Abu Jasim's van to a parking spot a short distance from the motel bungalow.

  Now Abu Jasim was asking Ari if he should register his prospective Sprinter in Chicago. It sounded outlandish, sinister and not a little illegal.

  "You don't want your brother dead, do you?" said Ari.

  "Uh, no."

  "Or your brother’s wife?"

  "I guess not."