"It's on the paper I gave you."
Ari again looked down. Yes, there was a phone number, just below Elmore Lawson's number. Rebecca had charitably listed it as: Tramp's number.
"Isn't this what one would consider a broad assumption?" he said.
"What?"
"That this woman is your husband's mistress?"
"When I asked her if Ethan was there she gave a squeal and hung up."
"That's rather telling," Ari admitted.
"Listen, Mr. Ciminon—and let's please keep this formal. I know I'm asking you a favor, but it wouldn't do me much good if people start suspecting that I'm behaving the same way as my husband."
"You mean...indulging in a pastime with an Oriental."
"Oriental?"
"Um, numerous Italians have Arabic blood, and—"
"Yes, I see. That's not exactly what I meant. But I guess, in a way, it is sort of what I meant. But that aside, I just want you to find out if he's safe."
This surprised Ari. "Safe? I thought you wanted to find out where he was."
"Would that matter, if he was with another woman?" She stared down at her empty ice cream cup. "Are you familiar with the phrase, 'There's something wrong with this picture'?"
"It has crossed my chalkboard."
"There are creeps, and there are creeps. Just look at that picture, with Ethan grabbing my tit for the camera, in front of his boss...as if I was chattel or something."
"Yes," said Ari in polite acknowledgement. The woman was wounded in a hundred ways.
"You might not get this, but Ethan is a good creep. He might steal, he might even cheat, but he would never be mean. Forget the picture, I mean really mean. But he was definitely the kind of man to dive in over his head. It was a kind of...creative cleverness? I don't know. And I think he's into something now, way over his head."
"Your evidence for this?"
"I don't have any," she admitted sorrowfully.
Ari was not convinced there was such a thing as 'woman's intuition'. However, he had experienced first-hand that some women were powerful psychics.
"You still love him," he said.
"I don't like using that word."
"Why not, if it applies?"
"'Love' means someone has something over you."
"A pity," Ari said.
"Maybe." She reached forward, as though intending to grasp Ari's hand. But she pulled back short of contact. "Mr. Ciminon, all I want is for you to ask your police friends if they've heard..."
"Of a fatal accident?" he ventured. "But they would tell you, the spouse, if anything had happened to him."
"I think so, too. But what if..."
"Such as a charred corpse, for example?" Ari did not regret his choice of words. He wanted to see her pain. Something that he could verify.
"Has anyone ever told you you're a shit?" she hissed.
"Excuse my poor choice of words," he said, doing his best to appear the hapless, ignorant immigrant.
"Okay. But yes, something like that. Things come out of the blue, you know?"
"The blue?"
"Ethan had found another job, everything seemed safe and secure, and then this. It's like the worst happening, then the best happening, and then...blank."
"Your ends were loose," said Ari helpfully.
"You could put it that way. Don't put yourself out too much, Mr. Ciminon. But if you can find out anything, I would be so grateful..."
And how grateful might that be, thought Ari...thinking of a cat.
CHAPTER THREE
Baghdad
March, 2004
Al-Amn al-Khas, known to English-speakers as Iraq's Special Security Organization, was disbanded by the Americans per Coalition Provisional Authority Order Number 2—Order Number 1 being the banning of the Ba'ath Party from any participation in the new Iraqi government. Along with the SSO, Order Number 2 disbanded the Iraqi military. Many would consider it to be the CPA chief's biggest blunder. Throwing so many young men out of work was bound to radicalize much of the population, and payback would be hell. But Ghaith was not one to point his finger at Paul Bremer and declare him a charmed idiot. It was American policy to reverse hundreds of years of murderous religious antagonism. No policy imposed from the outside could possibly succeed. The Americans might have learned from the British experience in Northern Ireland. Perversely enough, a large number of Sunnis and Shia had become good neighbors under Saddam. A case of behave...or else. American thinkers thought that logic alone could replace 'or else'. They were about to learn that in large chunks of the world, logic and religion were still very much at odds. Human ancestors had gone to a lot of trouble to pass on their predatory lunacy; it would be a shame to chuck it for the sake of some alien ideal.
Ghaith's superficial Sunni upbringing (Ba'athists and their associates were lukewarm on everything but holding power) was sufficient to teach him that the Sunnis were not about to roll over and let the Americans rub their tummies until they were placated.
He quickly proved his usefulness to the Iraq Survey Group, but not in the way either party had anticipated. The secrets Ghaith thought he had up his sleeve had already been pried out of the SSO databases. But members of the international group had difficulty deciphering what lay before them. Surprisingly few were fluent in Arabic, putting them at a disadvantage with an open source program like AMMORIA. Of course, Ghaith could not make heads or tails out of Jeem or Phoenix, but the researchers were not interested in programming languages. They lusted for bombs. Big bombs. As far as this went, the pertinent data Ghaith translated for them could have filled a thimble. He could have told him much more off the top of his head.
Naturally, he didn't.
Although Ghaith could be ferociously antagonistic when it suited him, he was also naturally gifted at earning the trust of others. The ISG was reassured when he showed no fanatical tendencies, and they were even more pleased when he unhesitatingly guided them to various hidden personnel records, not knowing that this trustworthy assistant, whom they knew as Al-Sayyid Faisal of Al-Baghdadi, had doctored many of those files before the first American JDAM fell on Baghdad. What a swell guy Al-Sayyid was. Some of them even stopped calling him 'Haji'.
Enhanced by this reputation, the ISG began to allow him to shuttle unguarded between the various points of interest to them: Al-Hayat, Palestine Street, the office block behind the Rashid Hotel, the Brigade of Amn Al-Khass near the Baghdad Clock, the SSO Gun Club near Al Masba, the Security Institute in Hai Al Amil, the Protection Office and the Office of Public Opinion near the Agricultural Circle. The kids of the ISG must have believed they were winning his heart and mind by allowing him so much latitude They were also understandably reluctant to expose themselves on the increasingly dangerous streets of Baghdad. 'Unguarded' also meant 'unprotected', and Ghaith had to tread warily. This became all too clear when he received a call from someone who should not have had his number and he found himself the target of an ambush outside the city.
After the incident in the apricot grove, where he had not only saved himself but also his surviving son, Qasim, Ghaith had reported back to his office as though nothing had happened. Whoever was behind the plot to kill him would probably suspect his would-be assassins had been stopped by an American patrol and bide his time until the next opportunity presented itself. There were any number of parties who wanted Colonel Ghaith Ibrahim dead. Uday Hussein himself had set a trap for him after the colonel had played an unforgivable prank on the one-time heir to the presidency. The Americans asserted that Uday was now gone, but his adherents still viewed Ghaith's throat as a delectable target. Then there were the insurgents, the snipers, and bombers and mortar men who lobbed shells into American compounds and crowded markets. As far as they were concerned, Ghaith was marked as a collaborator.
The ISG regarded him with renewed uncertainty after his two-day absence. Sometimes they kept him at arm's length. At other times, they seemed inclined to stand him before a firing squad. But he was the one who h
ad fingered Uday and Qusay Hussein for the invaders. With the eagerness of children on holiday, Task Force 20 swept into Mosul and smashed the brothers' holdout, allegedly killing everyone inside. The Americans offered Ghaith (as Al-Sayyid Faisal of Al-Baghdadi) a reward of $30 million for the betrayal. Even with his assumed identity, Ghaith could not accept the money. He would be risking exposure, putting his wife and Qasim in harm's way.
His refusal made the Americans more suspicious of him than they already were. They were suspicious of all of the people they had come to save. But turning down a multi-million dollar reward made someone stand out. Ghaith did not help his cause with his behavior after his meeting with Omar. The major general in charge of the ISG had personally demanded an explanation when Ghaith returned, wide-eyed with innocence—after slaying a half-dozen men in apricot grove.
"I was visiting Saddam Hussein," Ghaith said blithely. This was during the height of the manhunt for the former president.
"You know where he is?" asked the MG, seeing fame and a third star on the horizon.
"I knocked, but no one was home," Ghaith shrugged. "He's always been a bit of a nomad that way. Do you know how many palaces he had? Hopped from one to the other on the slightest whim. Drove everyone nuts, not knowing where he'd be next…"
"Well, it looks like he's still hopping," said the general, eyeing Ghaith sourly. During the early days of the occupation, having one's leg pulled by an Iraqi was tantamount to being subjected to a terrorist attack. It was far more onerous when the butt of the joke held high rank. The MG had no doubt this joker was a security risk. He ordered the head of the Physical Security Detail not to allow Ghaith outside the operating range of Sector Control Point-Baghdad, and to keep tabs on him at all times.
His cell phone was confiscated. This was no inconvenience because, under the previous regime, Ghaith had found it prudent to keep several spares tagged to the same phone number, one of which was taped to the back of a file cabinet in a hallway of the office on Palestine Street. He retrieved it, checked that it was charged and in vibration mode, then merged into the bustle of techs and intelligence officers to offer his assistance, if it was requested, and to otherwise stay out of the way. Now that he was in the MG's bad graces, he mostly stayed out of the way. The SPC charged with keeping an eye on him limited his intrusiveness to half-hour checks. Whatever SSO building they were assigned to for a particular day would be surrounded by guards who would keep him on the premises. And at the end of the day he would be returned to Camp Slayer, part of the Victory Base Complex at Baghdad International Airport. Ghaith was not put out by this, as it gave him the opportunity to enjoy the amenities of the Perfume Palace. All of the furniture had been looted, but the thieves had been unable to make away with the excellent indoor pool. He was certainly better off than the Sinhalese, Indians, Nepalese and Bangladeshis being held as slave labor in the American's KBR warehouse just across the lake. Sometimes, their eerie lamentations crossed the water.
He had no home to go to. Although there was only minor damage to his house in al-Masbah, a house absent loved ones was no home, and in his case was no better than a torture chamber.
As the days passed and the ISG burrowed deeper into SSO files and databases, they began to appreciate Ghaith's almost impeccable English, marred only by the occasional malapropism. They were glad to have his knowledge of the chaotic filing system. They suspected (correctly) that he was imparting only a fraction of his knowledge, and while he seemed somewhat deficient in computer expertise, he had memorized a prodigious number of passwords, making the chore a lark for the hackers.
He was standing next to one of those young techies one day when the phone in his pocket vibrated against his thigh. Few people had access to his alternate cell number. He had used the phone solely to call the hospital, to find out if his wife had finally emerged from intensive care. He told the tech he had to use the bathroom, the current euphemism for going outside to use a portable toilet. That particular day he had been assigned to the SSO HQ on Palestine Street, and while the building sported toilets that almost met Western standards, there was still no running water in that part of the city. As a sop to the numerous American civilians in the ISG, the Army employed KBR to set up portable toilets down the entire length of the building.
The phone continued to shiver in his pocket all the way outside. The doors to the porta-potties had been removed to make them less vulnerable to bomb-planting insurgents, but they provided enough privacy for a good sit-down. He took out his phone, pulled down his trousers, and sat. While the cracked lid pinched his ass, it was easier than hiding his scat in the field. He opened the phone, but said nothing.
Several moments slipped away, silent but for the gasps and grunts in the johns to either side of him as the bowels of Coalition soldiers and contract civilians battled manfully against the bacterial flora of a foreign land. He read the notice on the plastic wall:
Please discard your toilet paper in the trash can, not the toilet. If you dispose of materials in the toilet, these privileges will be taken away.
That was pretty severe punishment, but judging from the amount of tissue in the smoldering chemical stew underneath him, the soldiers were willing to take the risk of being banished. He did not bother to check and see if there was any printed matter floating beneath him. A group of GI's had raised a stink, so to speak, when some locals caught them using pages from the Koran to wipe themselves. The mujahideen would just love to isolate those fellows on a back road.
"Colonel?" came a voice out of the phone.
Ghaith frowned. The caller would want to verify his identity. Anyone could answer a ringing cell phone. By asking for him by rank, the caller risked betraying Ghaith's identity. Where had the ISG put the phone it had confiscated? Was it fully charged? Hopefully, it had been handed over to a young techie already overwhelmed by a flood of captured Iraqi communications gear and tossed in a forgotten bureaucratic drawer. Still, it was a given that the enemy was monitoring the airwaves. The caller was either very stupid, or willing to sacrifice Ghaith to a greater cause.
Reception was poor and the gaseous detonations of his neighbors made hearing difficult, but Ghaith thought he recognized the caller's voice. How could he acknowledge this without breeching security even further? Gritting his teeth, he said, "Yes, sir."
Colonel? Yes, sir? If they were on their toes, the Americans could cull a lot from that, alone.
"Are you able to travel?"
There had been rumors that the caller, a general in the former Iraqi army, had been in negotiations with the Coalition Military Assistance Training Team, offering his informed services in return for a job with the Vinnell Corporation, which had been hired to train the new Iraqi Army—a prospect that was inevitable but which, at the moment, looked very distant. The general was taking a huge gamble by making this call. If the signal was picked up by SIGINT, U.S. Army Intelligence might think he was contacting a member of the insurgency, making him a potential double agent. And while his future military career might go up in smoke, the life connected to that career would be shortened dramatically if the man he was calling had himself joined the uprising. He could not have possibly known what Ghaith was up to, lately.
"Are you secure?"
The dire gasps and eructations from the portable toilets and wet CHU's ranked in the alley confirmed that any would-be eavesdroppers were preoccupied. It was generally assumed by the Iraqis that the Americans had come here for the gas. Well, Ghaith thought, nearly choking on the stench—they've found it.
"I believe I'm as secure as I can possibly be under the circumstances, but—"
"Go to Pallgutha…you know where I mean?"
"Yes."
"Our Ahlus Sunnah wa al-Jama'ah brethren are stirring up quite a haboob out there. I need to know more. Respond to me in one week, zero six hundred Romeo."
The general closed the connection.
Ghaith pulled up his trousers and emerged from the john. He noted guards at the end of the alley
checking passes of Iraqis leaving the building. Ghaith suspected his unauthorized foray of the previous week had triggered a request for tightened security, in addition to the bored SPC assigned to look in on him. What disturbed him more were the two men passing in the street. Their glances in the direction of the former HQ seemed casual, but in the current environment they amounted to open stares. They were surely taking mental notes of anyone making friendly with the Americans, with lethal consequences sure to follow.
An officer emerged from the side door, red-eyed from long hours of listening to translators reel off names and data from SSO personnel files. He began to draw in a deep breath as he stretched, but was brought up short by the unholy stench of steamrolling shit. He took out a cigar and quickly lit up, firing off clouds of smoke like an industrial hygienist fumigating a pestilential neighborhood. He was around Ghaith's age, but not the same build. His desert camo hung limp in the swamplike humidity.
Ghaith dismissed any notion of trying to lure the officer into an isolated corner and robbing him of his uniform. Way too risky. Stripping an unconscious man was a cumbersome process. True, there were plenty of discreet sound-proof rooms in the building. But convincing this vet to follow him alone into a room previously used to torture suspects verged on the impossible. Strangers in a strange land, a foreign soldier was unlikely to succumb to the blandishments of a local. And an old veteran like this would be doubly cautious.
Turning away from the porta-potties, the officer went down the alley, away from the road. He had the telltale urgent saunter of a confident man with a full bladder. Confronted by a pressing logistical problem, he was sure to solve it one way or another, even if it meant becoming a public nuisance. Not that pissing in a Baghdad gutter was considered much of a crime these days.
Coming to the back wall, the officer opened his fly without looking right or left. No lowly private was going to question his right to flush out his system on government property. This was one of the lucky Iraqi structures to have escaped the rubble heap, and a little bit of urine on the wall was a small price for survival; cheap and efficient, if a tad unhygienic.
Cold Snap Page 6
