"Hell if I know. I don't think they want to bring slavery back, not really. Maybe they want to make eating raw corn and possum the national pastime. The South lost the war over a hundred years ago, but you still get these devotees of the Lost Cause."
"'Lost Cause'?" Ari inquired politely.
"Like when you lose a big fight and can't get over it."
"Ah," said Ari, understanding completely.
"I'm a good 'ol local boy myself, but I got over that fight long ago—before I was born. You read too much history, you start mooning over the fall of the Roman Empire."
Ari wondered if, in a hundred years' time, his Iraqi descendants would charge blindly in all directions in celebration of the beating they had taken at the hands of a once great superpower. That was the worst thing about defeat. Losers possessed a vaguely ridiculous taint—until, of course, they redressed the situation.
Down one hill and up the next, Ari found Jefferson Davis' crypt in a pleasant circle overlooking the river. He got out and looked at the statue. It was not oversized, and the one and only Confederate President came across like a man patiently waiting for a train, hand on hip, the other hand holding a hat. An image of Saddam Hussein's statue being toppled in Firdos Square came to mind. Ari had watched the proceedings with mixed emotions. He was sickened by the ease at which the Iraqi Army had been defeated. He was grieving for his family. He was feeling hopeless, desolate...a very rare experience for him.
Had this Jefferson Davis been, so to speak, an Ur-Saddam Hussein? A despotic sadist who brought a tormented stability to his country? Or a benevolent bureaucrat whose dreams had dissolved in the rush of modernity? The marble did not speak, and Ari did not know enough to draw any conclusions. Obviously the re-enactors, allegedly representative of Davis' followers, had mixed feelings about him. Just as Ari, in spite of the monolithic revulsion of the world when confronted by Saddam, could point at the turmoil and occasional wickedness of his homeland and say: What else could you expect?
The great man's memorial was surrounded by prominent satellites, headstones and crypts almost as elaborate as Davis' own. There must have been a fine squabble for precedence after his death. Who would be close enough to accompany the Confederate president into the Hereafter? Obviously, the question had carried weight with some people of means. Ari had been in the States when Saddam was executed at Camp Justice in Iraq. Was a similar tussle taking place even now, at his burial site in Al-Awja?
Hollywood Cemetery was no Pere Lachaise, but it had its own aura of charm. One could spend many hours exploring its historic niches—on a warmer day. Right now, Ari was eager to race back to his despised xB and its essential warmth. The little car was tossed about in the wind as he made the turn around Davis Circle and bolted downhill.
Neither the policemen nor the re-enactors were in evidence when he pulled out through the gate. They had probably decided no cause, even a much cherished lost cause, was worth a symbolic bout of frostbite.
Ten minutes later, Ari entered Lowe's. The paint department was near the front of the store. Ben Torson was behind the counter, an open can of freshly mixed paint sitting open before him. On the other side of the counter stood a woman almost cross-eyed with wrath.
"That is not the color I gave you!" she shouted, not entirely unpleased by audience of customers within earshot. "I wanted burnt umber. This is...umberish. It looks like raw meat!"
Ben wore a look of stoic politeness, his workplace smile slightly stiffened by concern. "I can scan your sample again, Ma'am, but this looks like a perfect match to me. See...when it's finally dried..." He smeared a sample from the can on a pad and played a blow dryer over it until it dried. He slid it onto the countertop next to a flake of paint the woman had brought in. "There..."
The woman did not look down. "You already showed me. Wrong once is wrong again. I'm not going to pay good money for something that is not only overpriced but wrong. You need to bring out a new can and start over."
Ari edged closer for a look. The two samples perfectly matched the swatch of flaked paint.
Ben had served two tours in Iraq, had seen the worst war has to offer, and had been present when his battle buddy committed suicide. To Ari's thinking, such an experience endowed a man with the inalienable right to crush obnoxious civilians in word and deed. He realized this had always been the viewpoint of aggrieved soldiers when confronting a spoiled citizenry, and that such notions should be nipped in the bud in boot camp. But that did not lessen his ire over the woman's behavior.
She was dressed neatly in slacks and a coat that emphasized slimness. Her knitted wool cap added a deceptively childlike slant to her appearance. Her bombast did not jibe with her look of sober intelligence. Was this all a performance? A premeditated attack? If so, was she attacking the brand...or this specific man?
He reached forward and took up one of the samples. Ben and the customer glanced at him. The veteran's expression of surprise and mild dismay was to be expected. After their last meeting, he must have thought they had a tacit agreement to keep their distance from each other, for their own safety. But the woman's slight charge of recognition was unanticipated, and brief. When Ari had first encountered Deputy Marshal Karen Sylvester at a downtown art studio, he had thought, 'She knows me. How can she possibly know me?' He was experiencing the same sensation at this moment.
"This reminds me of the red ochre of Aegean frescoes. In fact, at Knossos you'll find ground hematite that resembles this greatly. Of course, the whole world admires the griffins couchant..."
This was about the extent of Ari's art appreciation.
Ben, the woman, and all the customers who had gathered to watch the confrontation between them had now switched their collective gaze to Ari, who had a knack for drawing unwanted attention.
"I've always wanted to visit Crete," Ben smiled dreamily, then turned to the woman. "Can I seal up the can for you, now, Ma'am?"
She was in her mid-thirties, trim, her black hair appearing to be cut shoulder-length, though it was hard to tell under the cap. She handled her punctured certainty uneasily, as though she had dropped her script and could not stoop to pick it up without being punished by laughter from the spectators in the theater. She gracelessly resigned the fight, gyrating on her flat heels and walking away.
With pursed lips and a sigh, Ben tapped the lid onto the paint can with a rubber mallet and slid the can into a hidden space under the counter. As he did so, he murmured, "4:30," then turned to his next customer. Ari returned to the parking lot.
With an hour to kill, Ari walked about five blocks to a VCU campus book store he had passed on the way in. Strolling through the aisles, he noticed there were far more novelties than titles. Sweatshirts, backpacks, Nalgene bottles, mugs, footwear, bed risers, splash goggles for the safety-conscious art student…the clutter was overwhelming. A clerk noted his bemusement and tried to dodge away. Ari found this interesting. At the Amis Discount Furniture Universe one almost had to beat off the salesmen with a baseball bat, but in a bookstore customers were treated like tainted meat. Ari had abundant experience as a tracker and had no problem intercepting the reluctant clerk in the next aisle. On finding his path blocked by an Arabic mountain, the young black man braked on his heels and stuttered, "Can I help you, sir?"
"I can't help notice there are precious few books in your book store."
"Well...it's a campus bookstore," the clerk said, as if that was explanation enough.
"You mean a university book store."
"Right."
"Where there should be books in chaotic profusion."
The clerk looked from side to side. "I don't think there's any chaos."
"Nor is there profusion."
"Sir, most of the business here is in textbooks. The teachers assign them, the store orders them, the students buy them. But we've got some non-textbooks here..." He looked around. "Oh, yeah, down there at the far end. Plenty of books."
"I've been down there and didn't see what I was looking for,
" Ari complained mildly. "Perhaps you can assist me?"
"Uh...I'm just a stocker."
"You shouldn't demean yourself. You are proud of being a good stocker, right?"
"Uh..."
"In all of your stocking assignments, do you recall placing a book about Jefferson Davis on the shelf?"
The stocker frowned thoughtfully. "I think we've got some tourist guides for Monticello somewhere."
"Monticello?"
"You know, the big house up in Charlottesville." The young man's frown became a scowl. "He had hundreds of slaves."
"I would have thought he did. He fought for the right to keep slaves, correct?"
"Did he? I didn't know he was as bad as all that. You've heard about Sally Hemmings, right?"
Ari shook his head.
"That was one of his house slaves, became his mistress. She had children by him."
"That must have disturbed Varina."
"Who?"
"I believe that was his wife's name. I gather you don't think of him as a great hero?"
The young man snorted.
"I gather that is because you are black?"
"Just like you, sort of."
"Me?" Ari looked at his hand. He took some pride in the belief that a substantial quart of Assyrian blood ran through his veins. Admittedly, his hands did not look all that Assyrian.
"But Arabs still have slaves, don't they?" asked the young man with snotty objectivity. He leaned sideways, as though glancing at a chained servant.
Ari drew himself up. "My distant ancestors only enslaved enemies defeated in battle. And those were the lucky ones who did not have their heads chopped off."
The young man's face dropped. "Listen, sir, if you want a book about Thomas Jefferson, you'll have to go down the aisle here. I've got to go stock something."
"Thomas Jefferson? No, not him. He's on your citizenship exam. I was speaking of the great hero, Jefferson—"
But the young man had already eluded Ari, scooting out of sight behind a row of black and gold polo shirts. Glancing at his watch, Ari decided there was no time for further pursuit.
He felt a little foolish jogging up Broad Street in his Vittorio St. Angelo, but he did not want to risk missing Ben when he got off work.
He need not have worried. Ben was waiting for him next to the lumber yard. Shivering in a thin jacket, he smiled and stretched out an ungloved hand.
"Didn't expect to see you again so soon."
"Are you annoyed?"
"No. It's just...unexpected." He paused. "But I've been wanting to ask you...was that really Uday Hussein you had me take up to the Iraqi embassy in Washington? He kept insisting he was just an innocent so-and-so."
"A 'so-and-so' he most certainly was," Ari asserted.
"I didn't hear anything in the news about it," Ben continued. "And our government declared him dead after that shootout in Mosul. So it was natural for me to wonder..."
"He was a crime against humanity," Ari nodded sagely. "You must be freezing."
"We can go down to the Village for a cup of coffee. It's only a couple blocks away, on Grace."
Ari looked at his watch.
"You're in a hurry?"
"I'm afraid so." Ari hesitated. "I believe you have a phrase, 'tear into me'."
"You don't have to worry about me on that score," Ben half-laughed, half-shivered.
"I'm thinking about your wife. She would tear into me if she knew what I was about to propose to you. And this time, we won't be accompanied by a Deputy U.S. Marshal."
Ben visibly suppressed a wisp of interest. "You know, in spite of what you saw back there..." he nodded at the store "...it's not a bad job."
"I would never suggest that it was." Ari scanned the parking lot. "Did you know that woman?"
"No. Why?"
"She seemed very intent on making an impression on you, personally."
"Hang around at the paint desk and you'll see a lot more of that," Ben laughed. "When it comes to interior decorating, everyone's an expert. And the definition of an expert is someone who argues with other experts."
"Ah," said Ari. True, anyone even remotely familiar with the recent history of the Middle East might dart Ari a second glance. I thought Nasser died way back when....
"I was just saying I wouldn't want to do anything that might end up on a police blotter," Ben continued. "Lowe's would can me if I got arrested."
"No police," said Ari, taking a deep breath. "But I would be remiss if I didn't add that this could be very dangerous."
To Ari's surprise, Ben looked relieved. He seemed more concerned with besmirching his record than in getting killed. But perhaps he had not caught the full import of 'dangerous'.
"When I say there might be danger involved, I mean—"
"OK, you guessed the truth: this is a crappy, dull job and I'm at it six days a week, at least until Spring comes and I can go outside to the Garden Department. I've had two exciting moments since I came back from the Sandbox: seeing my wife again, and getting sucker-punched by the late Sid Overstreet, on your behalf. Quite honestly, sir, I'm glad you showed up. I was getting ready to drink a gallon of Cremnitz white."
"You are certain you want to come?"
"And you're certain it isn't too illegal?"
Ari shrugged. "I have been invited to meet an unknown man in an unknown place. It is necessary, because I need to find out how this man knows of my existence."
"Interesting..."
"There might be more than one...um...I assume he is an adversary."
"You need a backup to face down his backup."
"Precisely."
"And someone might start waving a gun around."
"Possibly."
"I'll get my Mossberg and wave back. It'll be real friendly."
"I would not want you to use your personal armory," said Ari, elated by Ben's enthusiasm, and troubled by what might come of it. "I will see to your arsenal. Can you lead me to an isolated spot where we can prepare ourselves?"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"There is a man in the middle of the field," said Ari into his cell phone. "I see no one else."
"When I hear the word 'field' I think of 'fields of fire'," came Ben's voice. "I don't think you should risk it."
"Agreed," said Ari, stepping out of his Scion. "You can see me?"
Ben had parked his old Datsun pickup fifty yards up the park road, next to some tennis courts. Ari had given him his latest cell phone number.
"Yes," said Ben. "I also see the perfect ambuscade. Trees on two sides, underbrush, perfect cover. We aren't dealing with the same people who were in Cumberland, are we?"
Ari had not filled Ben in on events at the farm near Bear Creek Lake, where Uday Hussein's American minions, as well as members of the ANO, had made a noisy last stand that the authorities were hard-pressed to explain. Ben must have heard one of those explanations on the news, and tied it in with the sudden appearance of Saddam Hussein's eldest son on his doorstep.
"I sincerely hope this man is not from the same group," said Ari.
"Which means you have a whole new set of enemies," Ben rejoined. "For such a friendly guy, you seem to have brassed off a lot of folks."
"It is a consequence of my unfortunate situation."
"Hey! What are you doing?"
"I'm walking into the field. Please keep an eye on the treeline." Ari closed his phone and continued towards the lone man facing him.
It was growing dark. Caution lights high up on two radio towers bracketed the intervening dusk. The man had chosen to meet at a little league baseball field at one corner of a Chesterfield County park complex. It was too cold for sports. It was too cold for much of anything except staying indoors and watching TV, which Ari would be doing, if he had a TV.
His cell phone vibrated. He opened it.
"Don't do it," came Ben's plaintive request.
"I am committed," Ari answered.
"As well you should be."
Ari hung up, thinking ther
e was not enough time to reconcile the various meanings of 'commit'.
Ari had instantly recognized Bruce Turner from the Mackenzie party, who ranked very low on the list of men he had expected to encounter. He played back the abusive phone call he had received before talking to Rebecca, but that voice had been condensed and then rarefied by the technological marvel of the cell phone. It was also likely Turner had helped the process along by lowering his voice.
"Keep on coming!" Turner shouted from the pitcher's mound when Ari slowed his pace, cautiously checking the treeline. "I don't have a gun, if that's what you're thinking." When he noted Ari swiveling his head, he added, "I'm alone."
"I'm not reassured!" Ari yelled back at him.
Turner shrugged. "I'm here to talk, not shout."
The cell phone vibrated. Not caring if Turner saw, he took it out.
"On your right, in the woods near the bleachers..."
"I see nothing."
"I saw movement."
"I believe you," said Ari. He closed the phone. If one was determined to walk into a trap, it was best to get it over with as quickly as possible.
"Who are you talking to?"
"My guardian angel." This was what Americans called their rooftop guards in Baghdad. He stopped at the base of the pitcher's mound. "Mr. Turner, that was a very rude phone call you made to me. I presume you got my number from Tracy Mackenzie. May you eat snails in hell."
"Ouch." Turner kicked at the rubber at the top of the mound, then glanced up at the backstop. "Can you imagine throwing a baseball at a hundred miles an hour inside a 3X3 imaginary square?"
"I understand batters sometimes get hit."
"Accidents happen."
"On purpose."
"No, I'm saying shit happens." Turner came down from the mound. "Of course, even the best throwers can misjudge the Magnus effect. But enough baseball. We need to talk about—"
Ari punched him in the jaw. When the man collapsed, Ari dropped behind his body, using it as a shield as he waited for a gunshot. His phone vibrated.
"What are you doing!" Ben said in a shocked voice when Ari answered.
"I'm interrogating the suspect," said Ari. Noting that Turner's eyes had rolled up, he amended, "I will be interrogating the suspect in a few minutes."
Cold Snap Page 19
