“Do you remember what you were telling me the last time we talked?”
Rafik’s head kept lolling around as if it were barely connected to his neck.
Al-Kalli nodded at Jakob, who picked up one of the Calistoga bottles, opened it, and then held Rafik’s head back; he poured the water over his broken, half-open mouth, and only stopped when the prisoner began to sputter.
“We were talking about that party at Saddam’s palace.”
Rafik’s tongue touched his parched, cracked lips.
“The one where you served my daughter her soup.”
Rafik’s head dropped, but held steady.
“I was asking if you knew that the soup had been poisoned.”
Rafik didn’t move.
“You were saying, as I recall, that you were just doing what you were told.”
“Why,” Rafik muttered, in barely audible Arabic, “don’t you just get it over with?”
“Because we’re not in any rush,” al-Kalli said, sharing a half smile with Jakob, who stood, hands folded, to one side of the metal stool. “And I still want to know who the other waiter was — the one with the mustache, who served my wife.”
“I told you,” Rafik croaked, “I don’t know.”
Al-Kalli barely had time to signal his desire to Jakob before the bodyguard lashed out, knocking Rafik off the stool with a single punch to his face. The man fell, the chain dangling, to the concrete floor.
“Oh, I don’t think Saddam would have entrusted such an important job — murdering my family — to strangers.” Al-Kalli shook his head, as if debating the point with himself. “No, I think you were all well trained, together. I think you were specially chosen.”
Rafik didn’t stir.
“I’ve already found the other two.” He didn’t say what he had done with them. “And I went to a lot of trouble to track you down.”
Indeed, the search had cost him nearly a million dollars in bribes, and as much again in transportation costs. Rafik, at the time he found him, was living in Lebanon, under another name, working as a garage mechanic. He had been smuggled across several borders tied in a sack, under the floorboards of a van that had been in the shop for repairs.
“Straighten him up,” al-Kalli said; Jakob bent down and, with unexpected care, righted Rafik with his back against the wall. Above his head, hung there many years earlier, was a framed Campari poster, covered with dust.
Al-Kalli crouched down in front of him, so he could look directly into his eyes. What he saw there was defeat, resignation, even the acceptance of death. What he didn’t see — and had hoped for — was fear. Out of fear, he would talk.
But that could be remedied easily enough.
“Rest,” al-Kalli said, first in English, and then, remembering himself, again in Arabic. “You’re going to need your strength.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
When Sadowskl suggested that Greer rendezvous with him at the Liberty Firing Range that night, Greer smelled a rat. And once he got there, he knew he’d been right.
About a dozen men — all of them white, all of them service vets of one kind or another — were milling around in what Burt Pitt called the classroom. But between the poster for gun safety and the one that showed you how to clean your weapon, there now hung a banner showing the Liberty Bell and proclaiming SONS OF LIBERTY — ARISE! It was the same image Greer had seen tattooed on Burt’s arm.
The table in back had some chips and salsa, a cooler filled with cold beer, and a thick pile of stapled materials. Greer had the impression they were expecting more people. He picked up one of the packets; it was a hodgepodge of stuff, xeroxed copies of speeches by guys like Tom Paine and Patrick Henry and Pat Buchanan — wasn’t he that guy with the funny, high-pitched voice that Greer sometimes saw on TV? — along with pictures taken at Sons of Liberty rallies held in Green Bay, Wisconsin; Butte, Montana; Gainesville, Georgia. The last page was a picture of Charles Manson, with the words HELTER SKELTER across the bottom. Greer was still mulling that one over when Sadowski stepped up and said, in a louder voice than necessary, “Brew, Captain?”
He was holding out a can of Coor’s, and Greer noticed that several bystanders perked up — as Sadowski no doubt had hoped — at his saying “Captain.” It was as if Sadowski wanted credit for bringing in an officer.
Greer took the beer.
Burt waddled to the front of the room and called for order. Everybody but Greer, who had commandeered the sofa in back, took a seat on the folding chairs.
“First of all, I want to thank you all for coming,” Burt said. “I know you’re busy guys.”
Yeah, Greer thought, looking around at the motley crew nursing their free beers. These were guys who’d come straight from their delivery trucks and factory jobs, or, better yet, the local welfare office.
“Some of you already know all about us”—a couple of heads nodded sagely—“and some of you are here tonight because you’re wondering. You’re wondering who we are, you’re wondering what we stand for… and you’re wondering what the hell is happening to our country.”
Oh boy, Greer thought, here it comes. And he was right again. Burt launched into a long speech (better, actually, than Greer thought it would be) about the founding of the country by our noble forefathers, about the contributions made by men and women from all over Europe and Scandinavia (Greer noticed that Burt glanced at a guy in the front row who looked like a Viking when he said that), about how the culture was built on Christian values, and about how that culture—“once the highest in the history of the world”—was now in terrible danger.
“What is it in danger of?” Burt asked, looking around the room. Everybody stopped crunching on their chips or sipping their beers. “It’s in danger of falling apart.”
Not even a chair squeaked.
“And from what?” Burt asked. “Why is it gonna fall apart?”
“Because you can’t carry a gun anymore,” someone called out.
“That’s true,” Burt said. “In L.A., they’ve got more laws about guns than you can shake a stick at. But that’s not what I was talking about.”
“Pornography,” another guy threw out. “Ever’where you look, there’s nothin’ but porn, porn, porn.”
Especially under this guy’s bed, Greer thought, sipping his beer in back.
“That’s a problem, too,” Burt said, “but I’m getting at something else.” He clearly felt he had led his audience to the brink and then started to lose them. When another guy said something about divorce law and the rights of fathers, Burt jumped in and said, “Race, gentlemen, race.”
They all got quiet again.
“We’re in a race war, and most people don’t even know it.”
That dog’s too old to hunt, Greer thought.
“We’ve got a border with Mexico that’s nearly two thousand miles long, and it’s about as protected as…” He paused, trying to figure out how to complete his thought. “About as protected as anyone here would feel at midnight, on the corner of Florence and Normandie.”
A few obligatory chuckles, but his hesitation had killed the joke.
And, Greer considered, he was mixing his message. Who were we supposed to be worried about? Blacks in South Central L.A., or wetbacks sneaking into America through the back door?
“Every day hundreds — hell, thousands — of illegal immigrants just wade across the Rio Grande, stroll into San Diego or up here to Los Angeles, and flood our systems. Our schools, our hospitals, our highways.”
Now he was back on the more likely track. You could always get people fired up about the border, Greer reflected. If they weren’t worried about terrorists coming in, they were up in arms about all the spics taking those great jobs picking tomatoes and mopping floors. You could see Burt warming to his task, too.
“Just look around you the next time you go to the mall. I was out in Torrance last night, at a Denny’s, and I was the only white guy in the place. And I counted — there were sixteen customers, an
d maybe three waitresses — and I was the only authentic white guy in the whole damn place.”
He waited for that alarming news to sink in. But if Greer was any judge, only half the crowd — probably the ones who were already charter members of the Sons of Liberty — seemed moved. Two or three others glanced down at the sheaf of papers they’d picked up from the table, one glanced at his watch, then stared blankly out the window, undoubtedly wondering if he could have one more beer before getting the hell out.
But Burt was just hitting his stride. For another twenty minutes or so, he outlined the darkening skin, and the resulting decline, of the United States of America. Most of his warnings were about the Mexicans, the Guatemalans, the Salvadorans. Greer had never been able to tell one from the other, not that it mattered. For a second, he thought about Lopez, the guy he’d lost on that mission outside Mosul. The guy who’d just been… carried off in the night. Had he felt one way or the other about him? As opposed to, say, Donlan, or Sadowski, or anybody else in his unit? He took a long pull on his beer, and decided that he had not; there were even times when he felt bad about having gotten the guy killed.
As if he’d been reading his mind, Sadowski was now turned around in his chair, smiling at Greer, with an expression on his face that said, Isn’t this guy Burt great or what? Greer just tapped his wristwatch. Sadowski, looking disappointed, turned around again.
But Burt was finally wrapping up. “I hope you’ll all take a copy of the Sons of Liberty membership packet — you’ll find a new members form inside — and if you’ve got any questions, or you just want to shoot the shit, I’m here… all the fucking time!” He laughed, and a few of the audience members, maybe just because they were so happy to be free again, laughed along. “And don’t forget, when you join, you get a ten percent discount every time you come to the range.” Same discount Greer was offered as a vet.
While a couple of interested candidates milled around the front of the room with Burt, and the others grabbed a beer or headed for the men’s room, Sadowski ambled back to the sofa. “You got any questions for Burt?”
“Yeah. How come he talks so much?”
Sadowski started to look pissed. “You didn’t believe him? You don’t think it’s time we woke up and smelled the coffee?”
“I think it’s time we got in your little patrol car and did what we’re supposed to do tonight.”
Greer got up — damn, his leg had locked again, and he had to stop to rub some life back into the knee — and headed for the door. He saw Burt, busy recruiting a guy in a UPS uniform, look his way, and Greer raised a hand, giving him a thumbs-up. Yeah, right — he’d be joining up real soon.
In the parking lot out front, Greer waited by the Silver Bear Security car until Sadowski, after muttering something about the Fourth of July to another Son of Liberty, came over and unlocked it. He still looked pissy.
“I don’t know why you won’t listen,” Sadowski said as they got into the car and strapped their seat belts.
“Because it’s a crock of shit.”
“It’s not.”
Greer wondered if it was his turn to say, “Is, too.” Instead, he said, “Just give me the jacket.”
Sadowski, pulling into traffic, said, “It’s in the bag.”
There was a Men’s Wearhouse bag on the seat between them. Greer opened it and took out a gray Silver Bear windbreaker, with epaulettes and silver snap buttons, and a visored cap. A growling bear, rising up on all fours, was emblazoned just above the brim. He put the cap on and turned the rearview mirror to check himself out.
“I need that,” Sadowski said, turning the mirror back.
Greer laughed. “What, did I hurt your feelings?” he said.
Sadowski, his jaw set, just kept driving.
Greer shook his head; it was too weird. Sadowski didn’t mind Greer getting a lap dance from his girlfriend, but he got bent out of shape if you dissed his secret society. He looked out the window, trying to focus himself; there wasn’t time for this bullshit right now. He had to concentrate on what was ahead. He reached into the pocket of his dark gray jeans — as close to the jacket color as he could find at the Gap — and took out a couple of pills; one to kill any pain from the leg, and another to raise his internal alert level. This wasn’t like that job in Brentwood, when he’d stumbled into the dog-sitter at the doctor’s house. This was big time.
This was the al-Kalli estate.
And he would need to be as hyped and vigilant as he had ever been.
Once they’d passed under the arched gateway to Bel-Air, Greer started to take careful mental notes on the terrain, the street layout, the avenues of escape. He’d already studied the map of this area in his Thomas Guide, and pulled it up on MapQuest, too, but there was nothing like checking out the lay of the land for real. And the maps didn’t tell you just how dark — he guessed the locals would call it tasteful — the street lighting in here would be. No high-crime, low-sodium glare here, no rows of towering poles, humming softly, their heads bobbing in the ocean breeze. The street lamps were few and far between, and the light they cast was more like amber pools. As far as Greer was concerned, that was ideal.
The higher they went, the darker it got, and the less Greer could see from the patrol car. If there were houses back there, behind the high hedges and brick walls and iron driveway gates that bristled with warning signs and intercoms and surveillance cameras, you’d never know it. Once in a while, especially when they passed a Silver Bear sign, Sadowski told Greer what movie star or pop singer or athlete lived there. Greer could only imagine what kind of pickings those houses would provide. Why had he been bothering with guys who were just doctors, in Brentwood? He’d have to discuss that, later, with Sadowski.
“See that? Sadowski said, slowing on a narrow curve, beside a high stone wall.
“See what?”
“The gates.”
Greer saw an unmarked solid steel-plated gate, and a door, barely visible between some thick bushes, set into the wall beside it.
“That’s the back service entrance to the Al-Kalli estate. That’s where I’ll pick you up.”
“How do I get out without setting off an alarm?”
“Only the driveway gates are alarmed, and the door can only be opened from the inside,” Sadowski said, driving on. “You see any other car come by, just hide behind the bush.”
“I haven’t seen another car for the last fifteen minutes.”
“Yeah, but up here, almost any car you do see is a security patrol.”
Greer nodded, as Sadowski completed the curve, then took them back up around a wide bend — Greer had the feeling that they were basically making a big circle around the top of the hill crest — before entering a long, dimly lighted, dead-end street. Greer hadn’t even seen another driveway gate, on either side, for a while — just ivy-covered walls, with impenetrably thick and high hedges rising right behind them. So all of this was one property? And all of it al-Kalli’s?
“Okay, that’s his gatehouse up ahead,” Sadowski said. “A guy named Reggie’s usually on duty.”
Greer straightened his cap and collar. “You’re doing the talking.”
“Yeah, I’ll get us in,” Sadowski said. “After that, it’s up to you.”
Sadowski flashed his headlights as they approached the lighted gatehouse. It looked like the kind of stone cabin you’d see when you were entering some national park. A black guy holding a magazine in one hand stepped out as Sadowski pulled to a stop and lowered his window.
“What’s up, dude?” Sadowski said in a friendly tone.
What happened to the coming race war? Greer wondered.
“Not much,” Reggie said, resting his hand on the door of the car. He looked into the car. “Who’s this?”
“This, my man, is our sensor expert.”
Greer lowered his head, nodded, but said nothing.
“Your what? Your sensei, like in Karate Kid?”
Sadowski faked a laugh. “No, this is the guy
that checks out all the motion sensors around the house and grounds.”
“Whatever you say,” Reggie replied.
“Anybody home tonight?”
“Everybody.”
“Okay, then, we’ll get this done as fast as we can.”
Reggie stepped back and batted a lever with the end of the rolled-up magazine. The gates swung back smoothly.
Sadowski raised his window again as he steered the patrol car up the long, winding drive. Greer didn’t particularly like the sound of that — everybody home. He always hoped to hear that his targets were away on business or off on vacation. But he would work around it.
But he still couldn’t see any sign of a house. What he did see, standing by the side of the drive and staring silently at the car, was a pair of peacocks. When one of them, suddenly caught in the headlights, cried out, the sound took him right back to Iraq. To those eerie cries, at dusk, when he’d first ventured into al-Kalli’s palace grounds.
“Yeah, those fuckin’ birds are all over the place,” Sadowski said. “I don’t know how anybody gets any sleep up here.”
Greer wasn’t going to worry about it. “Is there a house somewhere, or are we just out for a ride?”
Sadowski snorted. “Yeah, it’s coming.” And then, under his breath, for no particular reason, “Fucking A-rabs.”
The car passed a lighted fountain, with lots of carved figures and water jetting up on all sides. Greer started to feel like he was in an amusement park — but he wasn’t amused. Maybe it was that damned peacock cry, maybe it was just the fact that it was al-Kalli’s place, but he was already getting a bad vibe about the whole mission. He’d had enough bad nights, nights when he bolted up in bed sweating, thinking about endless colonnades, slanting desert sun… and empty cages with bent bars. Just a couple of weeks earlier, he’d actually screamed in his sleep, so loudly his mother had poked her head in the door and asked if he was all right.
At first, he hadn’t been able to answer her; his mouth was that dry. And he hadn’t been able to shake that image… of a black fog, but stronger, and more substantial, rolling toward him, starting to envelop him. He’d been struggling to get free, to get out, before whatever was in that fog — and he knew there was something in it, something terrible — discovered him. He could hear its breathing, a low rumble, and he could smell it — the smell of putrid fur and dung and blood.
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