Omar, nearly forty, was an exception. It was hard to jibe him with the scruffy kid who screamed laughingly at incoming rockets during the Whirlwind War, somberly declared he would kill a million Iranians with his bare hands, then cried in outraged misery when his favorite shop ran out of sweets.
But how many of them hadn't changed? Ghaith doubted he would have recognized young Ghaith, that astonishingly skeptical boy who took luck and disaster in stride, unconvinced that fear should be a ruler of souls. Only years later, on the Highway of Death, while American tank-busters roared with impunity overhead and men were roasted by the bushel all around him, did Ghaith finally have it beaten into his head that fear, on some occasions, was a valid guiding principal.
Ghaith had missed the key moment in Omar's transition from a pint-sized hellion to a dour takfiris--one of those self-appointed assassins (who had formed a kind of club of the self-anointed self-appointed) who took it upon themselves to decide who was righteous and who was not, with the intention of inflicting the ultimate penalty upon those found wanting.
Omar had been arrested and tortured under the old regime, but no more than anyone who wanted to wipe out most of mankind deserved. Ghaith had been in a position to check the file on his old chum, who had not exactly flourished as a killer of lukewarm Muslims. But he had a big mouth (hence his arrest), and when the new chaos came and all the restraints were thrown off he was ready to settle down to business and discard hope for his immortal soul. The takfiris understood that destroying people on a large scale might be misconstrued not only by their victims, but by the One True Power, as well. So be it, if that meant the salvation of humanity--or what was left after they were done with it.
Unfortunately, Ghaith had not understood any of this until Omar told him about the power shift in the Ministry and pulled a gun on him.
He arrived home at midnight--an iconic moment for this house. After placing a kettle of water on the stove he changed into the jogging suit that served double duty as pajamas, switched the computer on, then returned downstairs. Packing a small wad of black Assam tea into his steeper, he dropped it into a coffee mug (should I invest in a proper tea cup?), and relished the brownish red swirls of infusion. He looked slightly devilish as lowered his head over the cup to savor the aromatic steam.
He rested the cup on the kitchen table (still the only furniture in the house aside from the computer desk and two smallish chairs), went to the back door, and studied the strip of clear tape he had stretched between the top of the door and the frame.
Broken.
With a satisfied chuckle he sat at the table and sipped his tea.
His complacency was disrupted by a faint thud. Upstairs, perhaps, but he couldn't be sure. Was it possible that he--or they--was still here? Lowering the cup onto the table, he rose and moved silently to the front of the house. Turning the corner to the living room, he saw a large yellow cat descending the stairs.
Ari bellowed with outrage. The cat stopped, as though amazed, then took off, squirting through the banister rails and vanishing into the den. Ari gave chase, racing into the den only to see the cat flitting into the kitchen, running into the kitchen only to see it scoot down the hall, taking the hall only to catch the briefest glimpse of it popping into the living room, arriving in the living room to see it complete the circle, bouncing up the stairs and disappearing from the top landing.
Ari followed. He stopped in the upstairs hallway and looked both ways. The doors to the Riggins boys' two bedrooms were closed, as were all the closets. That left the master bedroom, the bathroom, and what Ari thought of as the studio as possible escape hatches. There was no furniture beyond the computer desk and office chair. No place for the animal to hide. It should be an easy matter to locate and evict it. Or strangle it and toss it in the garbage.
A single glance told him the master bedroom was clear. He went in anyway, to check the windows. Then came the bathroom and the studio. All the windows were closed, but where was the yellow devil? As he came out of the studio he saw the flick of a tail as the cat whipped downstairs and back into the living room.
Ari swore loudly and pounded down after it. He circled the rooms, then saw the door to the basement standing open. He hesitated at the top of the stairs, breathing hard. With another oath, this one lower, he went back into the kitchen and dropped into the chair. He would deal with the beast in his own good time.
After a few more sips of tea he was able to regain his equanimity. He dwelled on the possible identity of his unannounced visitor. He was fairly certain all the first floor windows were closed. There was an outside chance the cat had sneaked into the garage while Ari was pulling in, but he was certain he would have seen it spurt past his legs as he entered the kitchen hallway. Unless there was a large hole in the wall somewhere, the cat had to have entered with the intruder.
He had been sitting at the table for over five minutes when the cat appeared at the entrance of the kitchen. Ari restrained himself from leaping up immediately. He watched.
The cat stepped out cautiously onto the linoleum floor. It glanced at the refrigerator, then stopped when it spotted Ari. Having decided to wait and see what it did next, Ari did not move. It backed away very slowly, then stopped again, watching him. After another minute, it sat and took a few long swipes at its fur with its tongue, shifted its front legs, then watched him some more. Seeing no more threatening gestures, it rose up and walked a few feet into the room before sitting back down to watch him some more. Once or twice it met Ari's eyes, after which it would look away, almost as if out of shyness--or insolence.
Ari nearly lost his self-control when the cat rose and leapt on the counter. He found it revolting to have the animal tread on the cutting board he used to divide his chicken. But he waited.
The cat sat on the cutting board and stared at the refrigerator. It obviously knew this was a place where food was stored. This was no feral animal but one wise in the ways of humans. A pet.
It meowed once, a short, almost harsh sound. Rising on its rear legs, it pressed its front paws high up on the side of the refrigerator and meowed again. Then it sat back down on the cutting board and stared at Ari.
"Don't tell me you haven't eaten in nine months."
On hearing a voice far less dangerous than the one Ari had used while chasing it, the cat rose, lifted its tail, and emitted a pigeon-like trill. It seemed healthy enough, in no way underfed. Ari drew out a Winston and lit up. He was still using the ash tray from the car.
He no longer felt so keen on throwing the cat out. It belonged here as much as he did. More so, maybe.
It jumped to the floor and put a prudent distance between them when Ari went to the refrigerator and took out the milk. He poured some into a saucer and placed the saucer on the floor. The cat did not come. Ari reseated himself at the table and took up his cigarette. The cat approached the saucer, sniffed at the milk, then crouched and began to drink.
Ari finished his tea and smoke. The cat backed away when he stood and walked past the saucer.
"Smart cat," Ari nodded.
He stopped in the center of the dining room, then called out over his shoulder. "Hey cat, do you think they found what they were looking for?"
He had planned to do this the next day, opening the thick curtains and letting sunlight assist him in his search. But the chase had shaken off all trace of evening lethargy. He did a quick tour, looking for anything amiss, registering possible hiding places for future investigation. At first glance, in a house without furniture, there appeared to be few options.
Back in the living room, he took up the same speculative stance he had assumed on his first night, next to the invisible easy chair in which the body of Jerry Riggins had been discovered. The scene sprang to life--or death--in his mind. But there were too many gaps in his mental reconstruction. The Christmas tree--had there been gifts underneath it? Often Christians who celebrated the season put lights on their trees. Ari had seen this in pictures. Had there been lights on Jerry'
s tree? Had they been switched on? Had there been a fire in the fireplace? And there was the blood. How much was there? What was the splatter pattern like?
He looked again at the fireplace. Something was hanging down in the back. Ari had a reliable memory, and he didn't recall seeing that when he last stood here. Resting on his haunches, he saw it was the chimney’s damper handle. Ari went down on his hands and knees and leaned inside the hearth. Twisting his head, he tried to peer past the open damper and smoke shelf. Too dark. He reached inside as far as he could and encountered nothing more than the cool lining.
Pulling out, he began to knock his hands together, then stopped. They were still clean. Everything about the fireplace was clean. Not so much as a smudge on the log rack, the brass andiron, the little black poker, shovel and broom. He looked up to find the cat watching him from the bottom of the stairs.
"Ah. You're wondering, too. Why would the damper be open if the fireplace has never been used?"
Weariness overtook him. He went up to the studio to find the computer humming loudly in the bare, enclosed space. In the heat of the cat chase he had forgotten he had turned it on. Dropping into the chair, he went online and checked his email. He did not find it surprising to find a message in his inbox, but the heading startled him:
A FRIENDLY REMINDER.
He opened the message.
‘Ted's Custom Lawn Care & Landscape Design Service wants to remind you that you will soon be due for a lawn manicure. Thank You!’
Ari glanced at the sender's address: tedslawncare.net.
Junk mail? Spam? Or some form of American humor?
He spent a few minutes perusing the news, the gruesome mayhem of bombings, shootings and beheadings in the Middle East. Then he logged off and lay down on his mattress, his bones settling in with a slight ache as he stretched out.
He was just drifting off when something tucked itself in the crook of his knees. He controlled his reflex with the memory of Carrington's glower as he read his text message in the restaurant. Was someone telling him that he had been unable to find the secret buried somewhere in the Riggins' house? Or could the message have been:
"The cat got in."
The cat was kneading the mattress, purring softly. Ari let it stay, accommodating himself as best he could.
SEVEN
When Omar called him earlier that evening, and Ghaith asked how he had gotten his private office number, Omar explained that a mutual friend, a leading member of a prominent shura, had given it to him in strictest confidence. All hell had broken loose in the country, but the Ministry was well-protected from looting. Americans stood guard outside the complex in Central Baghdad, just as they had sent their army to fend off plunderers at the Ministry of Oil. Ghaith had not been forced to relocate, and under the Multi-National Security Transition Command – Iraq, the old phone numbers were still operable. It was quite possible that Omar had formed an odd allegiance to the imam, a well-known Twelver Ghaith had met years earlier. Just to be on the safe side, Ghaith called up someone he knew well, an assistant imam. He confirmed that Omar was a follower of the moderate cleric.
Omar showed up in a white Toyota pickup—only borrowed, he told Ghaith, but the policeman riding shotgun in the back added a kind of official sanction to the mysterious proceedings. The circle seemed complete. Omar's youthful craving for martyrdom had been defeated by the younger Omar's craving for sweets. When Ghaith opened the truck door, Omar held up a bag of lu'mat al-adi, laughing.
"Remember?"
For a moment, they were boys again. Omar removed one of the sticky pastries from the cellophane bag, took a bite, and handed the remaining half to Ghaith, who grinned and finished it off in one bite.
If Ghaith had known that Minister of Interior Falah al-Naqib (Sunni, and a bit of a media hound) was being ousted to make way for the more silent (and sinister) Baqir Jabr al-Zubeidi, a Shia, he would have been infinitely more circumspect. If he had gone with Omar at all, he would have arranged for an armed escort. But who would have accompanied him? The MNSTC-I didn’t have enough men to do more than hold their ground against the looters. And local Iraqi alliances had radically changed overnight. Ghaith had been caught flat-footed. It was someone in the Ministry who had supplied Omar with his phone number, of that Ghaith was now certain. And the assistant imam Ghaith had called must be in on the plot, must have been waiting for Ghaith to contact him so he could confirm Omar's legitimacy.
After all that's happened, it's only to be expected...one can only be so clever, so lucky, before history gravitates towards the overabundance of good fortune and smashes the game....
"Come on, Ghaith. Rifle through that file cabinet of yours." Omar tapped Ghaith on the side of the head, then pointed at the unhooded man kneeling on the ground. "Who is he?"
Ghaith did not answer.
"I've told my brothers about your photographic memory. Don't make me look like a fool."
Akhee. 'My brother'. Always 'my brothers'. Brothers in arms, band of brothers, blood brothers, daisy chain brothers. There is as much blood relation here as between an ox and an eel. Doesn't matter. Plumbers, beggars, jihadists--all brothers in kind. The U.S. Army’s motto is more accurate. 'An Army of One'. That's it. You're on your own, with only your own sweet ass to kiss good-bye.
Omar smiled tensely. He was not concerned with looking foolish. He was, Ghaith decided, screwing up his courage.
The little rat-mouth can't still think of me as an old friend, can he?
"Hey! You! Asshole! I'm talking to you!"
Ari had no doubt that the man was speaking to him. He had been discreetly urinating in the bushes when this rude madman burst through. Not believing in putting off business, Ari continued to pee.
"Do you hear me!" the man screamed. "I can't believe it! There are children around here!"
The last child Ari had seen had been over a mile back on the main trail. He had chosen a narrow, half-overgrown side path to empty his swollen bladder. Even then, he had stepped half a dozen yards into the undergrowth to guarantee privacy. Back in his homeland, where a man found the nearest convenient corner to piss in, he was considered a bit of a prude because of his delicacy in this matter. It had nothing to do with timidity and everything to do with public hygiene. The city and outlying villages stank enough without him adding his few ounces to the mess.
The woods seemed a perfectly reasonable venue for relieving himself, screened off from women and little girls, and a perfect absorbent for natural human waste. It was just his bad luck to encounter a lunatic. He finished peeing and rolled up the front of his jogging pants.
The lunatic retreated a short distance as Ari stepped through the brambles and onto the path. He only now saw Ari's face, and was busy reassessing the situation.
Foreigners were more common in the outlying counties than in Richmond proper, Ari had noted. Sometimes, in a checkout line or on a street corner, he saw the same flicker of uncertainty or outright fear--and occasionally loathing--that made Americans overseas so disruptive, if sometimes amusing. But most of the locals seemed to accept the presence of Chinese and Indians and (above all) Hispanics in their midst. There weren't that many Arabs yet, though, not this far south. Perhaps a few thousand in the immediate area. Ari wondered if the outraged jogger would conclude he was Punjabi. Or Sikh. Or a member of that relatively new race: a Terrorist.
Why not? We all look the same to them.
"You don't do that here," the jogger admonished, no longer screaming, but scolding. "There are public toilets."
Ari had tried to use the facilities at a nature center further up the trail, only to find the building locked. Peering through a plate glass window, he saw a marine turtle moping in a fish tank and some fanciful children's drawings of various animals on a bulletin board next to the entrance. Otherwise, the interior was dark. Ari had encountered this manifestation before. Americans were very good at stockpiling material in great abundance, then locking it all up. Everything for the record, none for use.
"There's a shelter for..."
Ari raised his brow inquiringly.
"They have toilets. You can even take a shower." He chose to interpret Ari's silence as a query. "It's three or four miles from here, across the river. Next to the city jail...I hear."
"I am not a peasant," Ari said with grim civility. Feeling a twinge in his calf, he braced his hands on one knee and stretched out his leg. When he straightened, the other jogger was gone.
It was his own fault, he thought. He had been living in a state of semi-savagery, sleeping in his jogging suit, eating junk food, neglecting his appearance. He had neither showered nor shaved this morning, putting off his toilette until he'd taken his morning run. Which only made sense, but which also helped explain why the man treated him like some alien cast-off.
But it did nothing to alleviate Ari's sense of outrage. He had done well in his country, so well that there was an assumption among some that his good fortune was simply that, plums that had fallen out of the sky into his lap. True, luck had been involved. But few understood how hard he had worked, the risks he had taken, the fragility of the thread from which he dangled. And with the final toss of the dice, he had lost all. Not that he had had much choice. Nor was he by any means the only one to have found a desert where, only a day before, there had been lush pastures. Which made the man's reaction to his uncovered presence all the more galling. He had reprimanded Ari out of ignorance. He had screamed out of ignorance. And Ari wondered, as he jogged the several miles back to Beach Court, if he should have broken the idiot's jaw.
The 56th Man Page 6
