Uday possessed as much self-control as Ari. He leaned back with a smile. "And now, since I have been so forthcoming, how is it you found out about me? Who told you? One of my idiot employees?"
Speaking of idiots….
"A few things. Your boys came back and stole the cars."
For the first time since his capture, Uday was nonplussed. He looked down at his handcuffs. "Stupid fuckers."
"Indeed. Do you employ anyone above the moron level?" Ari again glanced at his watch. Five minutes left? "How close are we?" he asked Abu Jasim.
"Six, seven minutes, if I don't see any cops."
"Then there was the Lamborghini..." Ari continued to Uday.
Uday frowned. "It wasn't that big of a mistake..."
"And the fact that I knew from the day the Americans announced you were dead that you were alive."
"How's that?" Uday asked with a smarmy grin. "Who told you?"
He really wants names. He thinks he'll get out of this and he'll get his revenge. He has no clue.
"Remember, just before the invasion, when the Americans were firing their Tomahawks left and right, trying to decapitate the government?"
"I remember, of course." Uday exposed his prominent buckteeth. "Fifty shots, and they didn't kill anyone."
"Over a hundred killed. But you're right, no one in the government was scratched." Ari adjusted his sore back. "I was given a folder of names. Certain people of influence wanted their official files to be altered, or even completely destroyed. These were naysayers who had no faith in the Boss's ability to hold off the American Army."
Now Uday was truly nonplussed.
"One of those who wanted their files altered was yourself. Do you remember that, too?"
"Camel dung," said Uday. "That order wasn't for you."
"But it ended up with me, just like that order for the German girl. I had access to the files at the SSO Security Office in Hai Al Tashriya and in the Imperial Palace. I was ordered to replace your dental records. I presume what I was given belonged to your latest fatid. Well...I didn't use them. I found a set of interesting X-rays at a veterinarian. So while I was removing all records concerning myself, I planted in your file the X-rayed dentures of a sick jackass."
Ahmad braced against the dashboard as Abu Jasim roared with laughter.
"Naturally, when it was announced that they had used the X-rays to identify you, I knew they were lying. Just as they were lying when they later said the DNA matched."
Uday sat stupidly.
"I was advised by a young friend that this area is literally surrounded by military bases. Maybe the authorities were keeping an eye on you, to keep you on the straight and narrow. I hope they were merely incompetent instead of...but excuse me, I'm pressed for time." Ari took out a cell phone and pressed the preprogrammed number. When the ring was answered, he said: "Are the guest accommodations ready? Please be prepared." He hung up.
"There, as you have proven, the Americans brought me here. You don't think they'll be pleased, do you?"
"And what a precious asset you must be, selling out old enemies while pretending they are threats to the New Iraq. I wonder what would happen if you went back home, now..." Ari saw lights from a gas station at the western edge of Cumberland. "Stop here."
"It's closed!" Abu Jasim protested, slowing parallel to the station.
"No, I see someone inside."
As they pulled into the lot, Ari withdrew a hundred dollar bill from his coat pocket..
"Ahmad, go inside and see if they have pistachio ice cream."
"Any size?" the young man asked, turning in his seat and giving Ari a puzzled look.
"Whatever size."
"I thought we were in a hurry." Ahmad's eyes were wide, but exhausted. They perfectly resembled the awful, aching stares in cities and towns and villages across Iraq; of frightened people peeking through cracks in doors, around street corners, through tank slits; eyes averted from authority, gaping with wild fear at the sky, worn out by trepidation; eyes constantly darting like skulkers in the night. Here was Ahmad, a good boy from Chicago, evincing all the dread of his ancestors in one bleak look. No, he was not adapting. He was, as the young man himself had felt from the beginning, being corrupted by the insanity of the land of fear.
"Buy something for yourself and your uncle, too" Ari sighed. "Take five minutes. More, if you have to."
"And him?" Ahmad nodded at the prisoner.
Ari leaned forward and sniffed Uday's breath. "I don't think they have any Dimple here. But they have MD 20/20, Ripple, Thunderbird…I hear all of those are excellent vintages."
Ahmad hesitated, glanced at his uncle, who shrugged. "As I said, the Colonel's ways are mysterious. Save yourself a headache and do as he asks."
The young man began to remove his ski mask.
"No!" Abu Jasim said. "Keep it on!"
"They'll think I'm coming to rob them!"
"They'll think you're trying to stay warm. Now go!"
Ahmad got out and rushed inside the shop.
"I hear sirens," Abu Jasim observed, adjusting the heat.
"But no more explosions," said Ari. "Sound carries far out here. The fight might be over."
"All the more reason to get back quick."
"Yes," said Ari, staring up at the ceiling. Suddenly, he leapt to his feet and jumped into Uday's face. He had only a brief glimpse of Uday's startled expression before his fist caught him in the eye. His wrath was like a juicy plum into which he had long lusted to sink his teeth, tear off the flesh and crush the pit. He could taste Uday's fear, the pain in his already-sore and abraded knuckles like hot spice that removed the sweetness and prepared the next course. He was eating Uday Hussein with his fists, even as Uday tried to dodge away, not pleading, because he knew it would do no good, but crying out in pain and terror, succumbing unwillingly to his punishment.
The frenzy did not last long. Ari simply didn't have enough energy left in him to inflict a sustained beating. He fell back on his bench with a kind of controlled sob. Tears of pain and satisfaction streaked his cheeks.
At first alarmed and fearful when Ari jumped up, Abu Jasim quickly fell into the role of complacent, and then amused, observer. Not even looking at Uday, he noted the mingled blood on Ari's hands. "What a mess, but at least you didn't kill him."
Breathing hard, Ari did not respond. He stared at his victim, curled up on the bench, whimpering. He looked like any other tormented prisoner, although by Abu Ghraib standards the beating had been minimal. Had his old wounds toughened him, or made him more susceptible to pain? It was a wonder that someone who had been shot so many times, had experienced the full wrath of an outraged populace, had not changed his stripes. Had bitterness been added to Uday's sadism? Had there been no moment of redemption?
"I'm going to have to get Ahmad," said Abu Jasim with disgust. "I can see him through the window. He's watching TV. You aren't going to shoot him while I'm gone, are you?"
Ari, still winded, shook his head. Abu Jasim stepped out.
Ari felt the great weight of having evil helpless before him. That he had absorbed some of this evil himself did not concern him, at least not at the moment. Remorse was something one took at one’s leisure, if at all. In Ari’s case, repentance could take a practical form. He did not like the idea that someone might take pity on this weeping creature. Any doctor attending his wounds would see the multitude of old scars and the overlay of new bruises and conclude this was man tortured beyond endurance to this very day. That was why American jurists were so keen against police brutality. They wanted their criminals to be clean, unblemished—virgins fit for sacrifice. Uday Hussein, privileged, pampered, his every sick whim indulged in by a host of fearful servants, showed all the signs of a man fully deserving refugee status. And yet…he had not changed. The murder of the Zewails provided evidence enough of that. It was as if his life-source was the taking of life. Deprive him of his right to torture prisoners to death, and he would be reduced, an incomplete human.
"Poor Uday, you’re just another victim of the environment," Ari said sympathetically as he unsheathed the Ka-Bar he had retrieved from Frank Drebin’s body. "Or is it possible you are the environment?"
Uday peeked out from behind his hands and saw Ari approaching. "What are you doing?"
"I’m going to cut your eyes out."
"No!" Uday shrieked and bound his fists tightly over his face. "You can’t do that!"
"Why not? It’s just like Abu Ghraib. Not a witness in sight." He took hold of one of Uday’s wrists and pulled. "Come on, I’m sure you know the routine. It’s an old tradition! Goes back all the way to Sargon of Akkad. If you don’t lower your hands, I’ll have to cut them off to get to your peepers."
Uday thrust his bound feet in Ari’s direction, trying to kick him away. He bellowed for help.
"Oh, I have to gag you, too? How very difficult you’re making this…"
The driver door opened. Seeing Ari wielding the knife, Abu Jasim coughed up a bit of local color that had clung to his limited vocabulary. In cheery English, he said, "Waz happenin?"
"I want to cut out his eyes and he won't let me," said Ari petulantly.
"Pig," said Abu Jasim, without indicating which one of them he meant.
The passenger door opened and Ahmad hopped inside. "They had pistachio, but only in half-pint—" He stopped when he turned in his seat and saw what was happening. Seeing blood on both men, he immediately assumed the worst, threw down the paper bag from the shop, and bolted.
"Retrieve your nephew, will you? I'll need him in a minute."
"You said you weren't going to kill him."
"I said I wasn't going to shoot him." Ari gave Abu Jasim a significant glance and curt shake of his head. Uday, his eyes still covered, did not see.
"Then do what you must," Abu Jasim nodded, backing out of the van.
"Close your door, and Ahmad's, too." When this was done, Ari produced a dramatic sigh of relief. "Ah, alone again."
"No, no!" Uday cried.
Ari nicked the back of Uday’s hand with the blade, drawing a thin line of blood.
"Ah! Don't!"
"Then take away those hands. Let me see those big brown eyes of yours. They're your father's eyes. The same eyes that bugged out when they hanged him."
"Wait! Wait! There's money!"
"After all of your crimes, there's not enough money on earth—"
"Half of the state treasury! I know where it is."
"I think of my beautiful wife, who you fully intended to blow up, and I say, 'Fuck you and your money.'"
"It's in an overseas account! Over three billion dinars!"
"That doesn't sound like half of the Treasury to me," Ari observed. He could hear Abu Jasim and Ahmad arguing outside the van and hoped they didn't catch the attention of the gas station proprietor.
"The Americans found most of it. They're all crooks. That's all they really wanted when they brought me here. But they missed this account."
"Did they, now? I didn't think they would be so negligent when it came to money."
"I can prove it! Just call the bank! They're open twenty-four hours a day."
"That's service," Ari nodded, giving Uday another prick, just for the hell of it.
"No! No! I'll tell you the numbers. I have them memorized!"
"You can't remember to wipe your ass!" Ari bellowed. "Who was the first President of the United States?"
"What?"
"I thought so." Ari was relieved when the passenger door opened and Abu Jasim thrust his nephew inside. He tried to snap his fingers to catch the young man's attention, but his fingers were stiffened by pain and the result was feeble. Abu Jasim climbed in the other side. Ari pointed at him, then at Ahmad, then mimed a cell phone with his free hand. Abu Jasim scowled, put off by the rudeness of the gesture, but nudged his nephew and nodded towards the back. With great reluctance, Ahmad shifted around. When he saw nothing worse than what he had seen earlier, he let out a sigh. Not much of a sigh, because the knife was still in Ari's hand. Once again, Ari began to mime a cell phone. Then he stopped. He was still able to hold the knife, but manipulating the keypad on a cell phone with his swollen fingers was beyond him.
"All right, boy," he said.
Ahmad raised his eyebrows.
"I don’t want him learning your name."
"Oh," said Ahmad. "Forgot."
"And just because I'm taking this precaution doesn't mean I won't poke out your eyes, or kill you," Ari said, tapping Uday's hand with his blade.
Ahmad held the phone out to him.
"No. You're going to have to call."
Ahmad looked at Ari's hands and nodded.
"What number do we call?" Ari said.
Uday had withdrawn his hands from his face and was staring at Ari with a kind of mocking horror, as though he was confronting a stupid, mad dog. He said nothing. Suddenly, Ari whipped the knife in an arc, coming within a whisper of Uday's eyes. If Uday had not flung himself backwards, he might have been blinded.
Uday reeled off a number. He spoke fast, but Ahmad picked up just as fast—he had kept up his Arabic, it seemed, probably at his father's insistence. Meanwhile, as soon as the number was out of Uday's mouth Ari had memorized it. As he expected, the first two digits were 00. The country code was 376.
"Andorra," Ari grunted.
Ahmad listened on the phone for a moment. His eyes widened and he gaped up at Ari. "Pretty fucking good, Colonel. Banca Privada D'Andorra."
Abu Jasim lifted a hand to cuff the young man for his rude language, but Ari waved him off. Ahmad's face turned sour. "It's a menu. I'm going to be talking to robots. And it's in Spanish!"
"Be patient," said Ari, turning back to Uday and hefting the Ka-Bar threateningly.
"Ah...'for Spanish, Press 1; for English'—" Ahmad quickly pressed 2. He unconsciously held up his hand, like a conductor alerting the Philharmonic that the next movement was about to begin. "Ugh! 'Please say or use the keypad on your digital phone to enter your password. '"
They all looked at Uday. Uday looked at the roof panel. Ari tapped the tip of his knife on Uday's knee and translated the computer's request into Arabic.
"Gilgamesh," he said.
"Gilgamesh," Ahmad said, and grinned. "'For domestic accounts, Press 1; for Overseas accounts, Press 2'—" Press 2. "'For corporate accounts, Press 1, for government accounts, Press 2, for individual accounts, Press 3'—" He pressed. "'For security purposes, please enter your name. You can speak it slowly, or use the keypad on your phone to'—" Ahmad stared at Uday and whispered, "Do I use his real name?" Then he jumped. The computer had picked up his words. "'I'm sorry, I did not recognize that response. Please state your name or use the keypad—'" Ahmad was bouncing up and down in his seat in frustration. Ari repeated the question in Arabic for Uday. When a response was not forthcoming, Ari began to move the knife in the air.
"Timothy Leary."
It sounded valid to Ari, but Ahmad burst out in laughter. He was punished when the computer voice told him it could not understand his response, and that he had only one more try before the account was locked, in which case he would have to present himself or an authorized representative with proper credentials at the headquarters in Escaldes-Engordany. When Ahmad covered the phone and whispered this to Ari, Abu Jasim picked up on the Andorran name. He shook his head.
"I had some funding issues, a few years back. You said the Banca Privada d'Andorra. No way. It's strictly for locals."
"You tried to make a deposit there?" asked Ari, curious.
"I had some cash..." In response to a querying look from the Colonel, he added: "How is it you think I can afford to come racing south whenever you call me? I'm retired."
Ari turned to Uday. "Well?"
"I didn't set up the account," Uday confessed. "A banker I know..."
"Maybe they're expanding their portfolio," said Ari. "I'm sure they must deal in more than just Euros." He nodded at Ahmad.
Ahmad lifted the pho
ne and said, "Timothy Leary."
A moment later, he raised his thumb. He looked quite excited. Then his face fell again. "They want the account number." He said this in Arabic for Uday's benefit.
Uday, as tired as Ari of playing games, told them the alpha-numeric sequence. It was burned in Ari's mind as Ahmad punched it into the phone.
"We're well past the time limit you gave me," Abu Jasim observed. "And the guy inside keeps looking out at us."
"Didn't Ahmad buy you a sandwich? Eat it. He'll think we're tourists."
"Aw crap," Ahmad moaned. "'For security purposes, we want you to answer some questions…' I guess these were programmed in when the account was set up. 'What is your favorite color?'"
Ari looked at the prisoner. "So?"
"Red," said Uday.
"Surprise," muttered Ari.
"'What is your favorite movie?'"
"The Long Days," said Uday.
This was Saddam Hussein's paean to his own heroism. "Sycophant," muttered Ari.
"'Who is the man you most admire?'"
Uday shrugged. "Uday Hussein."
"I'm going to puke," muttered Ari.
"'What is your favorite pastime?'"
"Raping virgins," muttered Ari.
"Car racing," scowled Uday.
Ahmad again held up his hand. "OK, we've gotten through..."
The proprietor of the gas station pressed his face against the front window and saw Abu Jasim slobbering down one the station's homemade sandwiches. Another satisfied customer. Another pig. From his Oriental demeanor, Ari guessed this was Buddy. Joe had said Buddy's English was limited to 'Hello!' and 'Get out of my store!' Reading his current expression, Ari wondered if the Vietnamese also knew 'Get out of my parking lot!'
"'For an account balance, Press 1.'" Ahmad couldn't resist. He pressed. He listened a moment. His eyes ballooned. Then he frowned. "It's in Euros? How much are they worth?"
"I think they're worth thirty cents more than the dollar."
Ahmad dwelled on this. His ballooning eyes popped and he shook his hand, as though he had been scorched.
"Does that mean 'wow'?" Ari asked.
The Godless One Page 28
