The 56th Man

by J. Clayton Rogers

  No. You did well. Doing something like that might draw attention.

  An unpleasant odor greeted him inside the house. It seemed to be coming from upstairs. Going up, he found his thin blanket balled up at the end of the mattress. A nudge of his foot exposed feces and a large wet patch that could only be urine.

  The cat must have predicted Ari's reaction, because it was nowhere to be found. What a clever beast, to find a hiding spot where none existed.

  Only we both know that's not true, don't we?

  His wrath slowly receded, like a slow-moving thunderstorm disappearing over the horizon. After all, he reasoned, the cat was only guilty of a cultural misstep similar to the one Ari had apparently made in James River Park. Locked inside the house, it had used the nearest thing at hand that approximated loose soil.

  His primitive bed was now unusable. The mattress was thin and folded easily, along with the blanket, in the large trash can (Waste Management Systems grandiosely stenciled on its green flank) sitting outside the garage.

  He took a quick shower, shaved.

  He dressed.

  His suit looked rumpled in the bathroom mirror.

  A major shopping spree was called for. He had a $3,000 credit limit. Prudence dictated limited expenditure. How much would, say, $600 buy?

  As he raised the garage door a pickup truck pulling a trailer entered his driveway. The driver saw that Ari was about to leave and backed away to the street. After parking at the curb, he hopped out and walked up the slight rise.

  "Mr. Ciminon?"

  Ari nodded. "You must be Ted. It says so on your truck."

  "Actually, I'm Fred." The young man stuck out his hand. "I just work for Ted."

  "I received an email--"

  "All taken care of."

  "I don't understand."

  "I tried calling ahead, but no one answered."

  "I went jogging."

  "And didn't take your cell phone with you," Fred clucked, as though Ari had committed a major faux pas. His second that morning. "That's all right. I'll just run my little Toro around here a bit and trim a few hedges and I'll be out of your hair."

  "I never requested this service," Ari said.

  "It's all under contract," the young man answered with an annoying combination of servility and confidence. "You just go about your business. We'll do fine."

  "Uh, Fred," Ari called out as the man turned and headed back to his truck.

  Fred turned. "Yes?"

  "Your uniform."

  Fred, puzzled, glanced down at his carpenter jeans, then tucked his chin for a look at the name stitched on his shirt pocket: Fred, in flowing cursive. He raised his head. "I'm sorry?"

  "It's quite...immaculate."

  Their eyes met. Fred held his gaze a fraction too long. He grinned broadly and chuckled, looking away. "It's under contract, too!"

  Ari smiled, nodded, and returned to the garage. As he backed his Scion down the driveway, Fred waved for him to stop. Ari lowered his passenger window and Fred leaned down.

  "About these," he said, nodding at the flowers and wreath clustered around the mailbox post. "You don't want me to get rid of them, do you?"

  "You can leave them," Ari said.

  Fred gave him a sad smile and turned away.

  "Uh...wait!" Ari called after him. "I've changed my mind. You may get rid of them. All of them."

  Ari brushed off Fred's dismay with a wave of his hand. "There will be more, soon enough. Fresh ones."

  Fred gave him a long look, then said, "Nice car!"

  Ari glowered and pulled away.

  America, Land of Shops and Shoppers. Ari had been astonished when, only a few days after 9/11, the President of the United States had stood before the people of this great land and announced the sure cure for global terrorism:

  "Go shopping."

  Ari had gone barely a mile down Midlothian Turnpike before he spotted a men's clothing store and negotiated a turn into a strip mall parking lot.

  "Ah, yes," a salesman said appreciatively as Ari walked in. "Just the shark for my sharkskin."

  Ari gave him an 'I beg your pardon' lift of the brow.

  “I have a real bargain from Vanetti, just the thing for hot summer days,” the salesman said, guiding Ari to a rack near a fitting room and a trio of mirrors. He looked the prospective customer up and down and removed a gray three-button suit, holding it up to the side of Ari's chest. “Polyester and rayon blend, very cool. Classic center venting, with pleated pants. Of course we have this style in wool, too. It will be getting chilly in this neck of the woods in a month or so.”

  Ari fingered the material. Adequate. He noticed the chalk marks on the unfinished pants cuffs and sighed. “I need something right away.”

  The salesman sighed, too, as though forming a duet of disappointment with his client. "That limits our options somewhat." He hesitated, then said, "I hope you won't take offence, but...your English is very good."

  "Cambridge," Ari said.

  "Ah! I thought I detected a trace of English English."

  Ari smiled.

  The salesman tapped his lower lip, then held out his hand. "Do you mind?"

  "Please."

  The salesman pinched Ari's pinstripe jacket and rubbed the fabric between his fingers. "This is very fine."

  "This? I wore it at work.”

  “This?”

  “At the Casino du Liban.”

  “That's…” The salesman's eyes widened. “In Lebanon? Beirut?”

  “Actually, it's in Jounieh, about twenty kilometers outside the city. They're famous for their Maronite Catholics.”

  “Those Catholics love to gamble!” the salesman barked--then closed his mouth. “I'm sorry. You aren't by any chance…” Then he frowned. “Didn't all the casinos close down? I thought I heard something about that…”

  “Casino du Liban reopened years ago, after the civil war. But because of the recent troubles with Syria, there's been some readjustments in the staff.”

  “Hard times?”

  Palm down, Ari brought his hand up to the salesman and the inch of pinstripe still between his fingers. “As you can tell, this has seen better days."

  "Yes, but…the thread count must be tremendous. Barbera? Piana?"

  "Marzotto."

  "Oh my," the salesman wailed lowly. "I'm afraid we don't have anything like that here. You would have to go to New York to find something like this. Or Rome!”

  "I certainly don't have time for that."

  "Of course not, of course not." Making a sound that combined a snort with a laugh, the salesman said, "You could take a look at Macy's Donald Trump Collection."

  The salesman showed Ari a few more suits and combinations, but his attitude was halfhearted. It was like showing the Queen of England a collection of Tupperware. When Ari made it clear even these modestly priced items were beyond his current means, he dropped all pretense.

  "I suppose you'll be wanting Wal-Mart, then. This is as low as we go."

  Ari had seen at least a dozen Wal-Marts, or signs directing shoppers to Wal-Marts, during his drive south. He had concluded that it was some kind of department store chain.

  "They sell suits?"

  "Allegedly." The salesman was courteous, but obviously put out. "Chinese suits, strictly off the rack. You'll probably need a tailor, to take out the shoulders."

  "Can you tell me where the nearest Wal-Mart is?"

  The salesman told him. Then, his sense of self-promotion completely shattered, at least for what remained of the morning, he added: "Too bad, too bad. My suits would have looked so good on you. You put my mannequins to shame."

  Ari glanced toward the display window. All of the mannequins were blue.

  Two hours later Ari unloaded his wardrobe. The George suit and slacks (Bulgarian, not Chinese) went onto new plastic hangers, as did his three new shirts, an additional pair of pants, a dark blue sports jacket, and two ties. On the overhead shelf he placed underwear, socks, a fresh jogging suit, an
d a proper pair of pajamas.

  He then pumped up the inflatable mattress and pillow that he had gotten from the sports department. Hopefully, it would prove more resistant to the cat's whimsical bladder. He would bring out his new blanket at bedtime.

  The cat greeted him in the kitchen, as though it knew Ari had gone to additional expense on its behalf.

  "Sphinx," Ari said before knocking it off the counter. The cat began to run away, but stopped when it heard Ari pop open a can of Special Kitty. "That's your new name. Get used to it."

  He put several scoops of Mixed Grill into a plastic dish decorated with paw prints. Sphinx came forward, its tail whisking the air. Ari knew dogs well, certain types of dogs, but they had been handled by men whose training was every bit as specialized as that of the dogs in their care. Of cats he knew next to nothing. He had no idea if he was giving Sphinx too little or too much. His first inclination was to give nothing at all. Pushing his cart through the Wal-Mart pet department, he was left to wonder if any of these American pets earned their keep. With so many varieties of pet food available, would any cat feel inclined to expend energy on a mouse?

  "And I have something else for you," he told Sphinx.

  After setting the dish on the floor, he pulled out a kitty litter box. He'd had a bit of luck at the store. A woman had spotted him putting the box and cat food in his cart, and then a bag of cedar shavings on top. She asked him if he had a hamster.

  "What's that?" Ari asked.

  "Something like a rat."

  "Certainly not!"

  "Then I think this is what you want..." And she had directed him to the kitty litter.

  Ari filled the kitty litter box and took it to the downstairs bathroom. Returning to the kitchen, he swept the cat away from the dish, carried it to the bathroom, and dropped it in the fresh litter.

  "This is your toilet. You will use it. You will not--"

  Sphinx fled.

  Ari had seen the slip of paper on his kitchen table when he first entered, a receipt from Ted's lawn service, stamped PAID. It confirmed what he already suspected, but he doubted 'Fred' was the same person who had come in through the back door last night. Fred was advertising the fact that he had been in the house.

  Ari learned the meaning of the implied message when he went upstairs to switch on his computer. A flash drive had been inserted in the USB port at the back of the screen.

  'Time to get to work,' could not have been spoken more plainly.

  The folder on the flash drive was full of jpg files--over a hundred of them. He clicked on the first one and his image viewer opened automatically.

  Ari put aside the bag of Fritos he had brought with him and turned the mouse wheel, bringing up the second digital photo, then the next. At the sixth picture he stopped.

  “Ah, Abu Yaqoub…. When did you start playing with sharp objects?”

  There was no need to zoom in, but he did.

  No mistake.

  He paused to consider his next move. According to his new job description, he should immediately shoot off an email. But when the opportunity presented itself--and God knew he had plenty of empty hours on his hands--the wise course was to sit back and calculate. What would be the consequences if he sent the email? If he didn't? Who benefited, who lost?

  But in this case, the ramifications were plain and simple. Nor was this a time to make outrageous demands of his employer, on only his third day in the franchise. He sat up, opened a second window, and logged on to his email account. He had only to type in the letter 'u' for the complete address to drop down in the address box.

  He wrote:

  'Picture No. 6, third from right. Abu Khalid Yusuf al-Kayid. Mid-thirties. No distinguishing marks. Arab. Thief. Part of the mass release of 2002. The last I knew of him, he had apparently come up in the world. He had moved to Kadhimiya, near the Shrine of Imam Musa al-Kadhim. Used to be a safe neighborhood until you kindly improved it. Work history unknown, but has obviously acquired a new job skill.'

  Ari paused. This last was a bit of editorial sarcasm that exceeded the parameters set out for him. He decided to leave it. His employers having little sense of humor, they would undoubtedly ascribe it to an ineradicable cultural deviation. He continued:

  'Religious affiliation: cannot recall. Probably none. He did not do this out of conviction. No doubt was paid by parties unknown. He would also make a first-class alassa. He would rat out anyone--I believe that's the phrase. Cannot recall details about his family, but this kunya should give you a clue. He was known to associate with Feisel al-Amiri, a well-known businessman (I believe you would call him a 'fence') near the gold market. Yusuf was not known to be particularly dangerous before. As you can see, that has changed. Just as Kadhimiya has changed.'

  The cursor hovered over the Send button for only a moment.

  "So much for Abu Yaqoub," Ari murmured, and clicked.

  He returned to the images. As he scrolled through the files, his face began to sag. The loss. The enormous loss. Was it necessary? Inevitable? Even preferable?

  He froze. Ghostly voices were calling to him from down the hallway. That they were summoned by his own imagination did not make them any less real.

  EIGHT

  Omar still believed the best solution for the ills of the world verged on universal destruction. Otherwise he wouldn't be here, with Ghaith, with these other prisoners. His compatriots might have other motives--long-standing grudges or basic religious hatred. They might be undergoing a gang initiation, or be ignorant pawns of rival factions. They could be here simply because they were being paid to be here. But Omar, Ghaith sensed, was still a low-class blowhard. Circumstances dictated that he must act upon his avowed convictions or be seen as a coward. Someone in the Ministry had played Omar like a harp. Who could that be? Anyone. In the current environment, it would be no exaggeration to suspect everyone. That would explain why Ghaith had heard no hint of the power shift in the Ministry. Conspiracy as a social movement. Americans might dismiss it as a passing fad.

  "There's no such thing as eidetic memory," Ghaith said.

  "Always the scholar!" Omar complained mildly. "I never could understand half of what you said."

  "He didn't talk like that back in the truck," the policeman groused. He gave a little jump of horror when Ghaith shot him an erotic purse of the lips.

  "Never mind that," said Omar, who had not seen the airline kiss. He nodded at the third guard. "Get it."

  The guard shouldered his Kalashnikov and went to the back of the truck. When he pulled out a long, curved blade that shined in the headlights.

  "Why Omar, you've been looting the Baghdad Museum,” Ghaith snorted. “I thought that was you I saw on television."

  The ghost voices alerted him to the fact that he had neglected a vital purchase during his morning spree. He had seen nothing but wine, beer and some awful looking flavored fizzies at the grocery stores he had visited. Even Wal-Mart was not all-encompassing when it came to hard spirits. Using the online Yellow Pages, Ari located the nearest liquor store. It was called an 'ABC'. He found that droll, sounding as it did like a shop that provided educational supplies for schoolchildren.

  Within half an hour, he had returned with three bottles of Jack Daniels. He lined them up on the floor next to the computer desk and stared at them fondly, almost in wonder. While standing in line at the liquor store, the clerk had asked him if he was planning a party.

  "Excuse me?" Ari had said.

  "Your smile," the amiable clerk answered. "It's like you're expecting company."

  "I'm enjoying the freedom," Ari said. "Where I come from, you would have lost your head for selling this."

  The clerk's own smile faded and he quickly checked Ari through.

  He took up one bottle, broke the seal, and wafted the opening back and forth under his nose. Then he poured about two inches into an eight-ounce glass and took his first drink since....

  It had been a long time.

  He tapped the mouse and the scre
ensaver (a realistic image of a fantastical poppy field that had never existed, not on this planet) dropped away--revealing Digital Image No. 33, a horrible scene that should not ever have existed on any planet. He sipped at his drink slowly. The warmth felt good. And it helped.

  It helped so much that, nearly three hours and five emails later, he had absorbed half of the first bottle. He knew he was close to being drunk--perhaps was drunk. He was so unaccustomed to alcohol that he found it difficult to gauge its impact, especially after he had guzzled a good portion of it.

  It had grown dark outside. He had earned his keep for the day. He was about to call it quits when his wavering eyes fell on Digital Image No. 56. He stared at it a long time.

  He began an email, perused the opening sentence for a minute or so, then deleted it, unsent. He began another, and then another, with the same result.

  He stretched his aching back, glanced around, saw that Sphinx had sprawled itself out on the camper mattress.

  "It's just you and myself now, isn't it?"

  Sphinx glanced at him through slit eyes, gave a kind of feline, slightly venomous shrug, and resumed its nap.

  Ari began a new email, one guaranteed to displease his employer. It was not informative. Nor was it the chatty plaint of a foreign soul stranded alone in a strange land. It was demanding. It was overboard. It was, to some degree, the liquor talking--but only a little. Even as he sent it (without hesitation), he doubted the people on the other end would comply. On the other hand, he wasn't asking this gratis. He had a very fat target for their scope. He would be glad to put him in harm's way if (as he said in the email: "and only if") his employer gave him what he wanted.