The edge of Sandra's mouth curled up. "You don't like it?"
"I'm very impressed by your generosity."
"Don't be. The U.S. Marshals Service isn't paying. In fact, no government entity is paying. It's my understanding that this is all being funded out of Iraqi assets frozen before the war."
"So you could have purchased an even larger house for me."
"I'm budget-conscious," Sandra shrugged. "Besides, we got the house for a song."
"Because of what happened to the Riggins family."
"So? You don't like that? Does it give you the willies?"
"Quite the opposite. It has given me something to occupy my many idle moments."
Sandra nodded, disgusted with herself. "I didn't see that coming."
"You didn't see that a skuzzy Iraqi cop would become interested in the murder of an American family..."
"I figured you would shrug it off." She sucked at her Coke through a straw without interrupting her monotonous gum-chewing. "I'm sure you've seen worse."
Ari didn't answer.
"What is it you do for the U.S. that makes you so god-important? I’ve never done witness protection for a foreigner before."
"You don't know?" Ari said, a little surprised.
"We were told to find a place for you to live and protect you if you got into trouble."
"I haven't seen any security details."
"You won't need any if you keep your head low."
"Ah," Ari sighed, a tacit admission that he had not done very well in that department. But Sandra seemed oblivious to his numerous faux pas, from peeing in the park to killing three men in a Chinese market. "Your mandate said nothing about comfort, I presume."
"Meaning?"
"No furniture, no television, a primitive cell phone, my computer and purchases monitored..."
"Blame that last bit on Homeland. I don't think they trust you a whole lot."
"And the furniture?"
"You have an expense account," Sandra reasoned. "You want wicker or box furniture, go for it."
"What I want is the file on the Riggins case."
"We don't have jurisdiction over the RPD."
"The Richmond police were at the house only the other night."
"Why?" Sandra asked, her face going hard.
"They performed a rather gruesome walk-through of the premises, showed me exactly where the bodies were found, their condition, and various other details. It's my definite impression that they were sent to scare me away. Now why would they do that unless the house is still important to them?"
"Shit."
"So you see, either you move me out of that house--in which case, you'll have to admit it was a mistake to put me there--or give me the material I'm requesting so that I can better defend myself against my defenders. You say you are budget-conscious. Which would be more economical?"
"Asshole," Sandra said in a low voice. Her hand circled the bottom of her cup. She swiveled it slowly, contemplating the beads of condensation on the table. "I tried to join up, you know."
Ari gave her a blank look.
"In the Army. The recruiter asked me what I wanted and I said boots-on-ground infantry. They turned me down...said I was too small. As hard-up as they are, and they turned me down."
Ari sized her up. He had seen some surprisingly small soldiers overseas, but it was true Sandra would have needed lifts to match them.
"I've taken down 300-pound men," Sandra said. Then, with a confessional demureness, added, "In training."
"You wanted to get at the enemy," Ari nodded.
"I wanted to be on the front line. Anyway, I ended up going to Justice."
"And now here you are," said Ari. "On the front line. I admire your dedication."
"Yeah, you can, can't you? Running away from your country, taking aid and comfort from the enemy, including bopping every woman in sight. That makes the guys on the firing line real happy, I'll bet. Having a camel jockey in bed with their wives."
"You seem to be obsessed with my sex life."
"I saw those women coming on to you at the gallery."
"I believe only two women approached me. One of them was you."
Sandra was worked up, her eyes glowing narrowly, her complexion a reactor of red. Ari had seen enough satellite television to know of the West's fixation with sex, including the satisfaction that was apparently due every woman. He found the notion alien and puerile. But was that what was happening here? Was Sandra taking out some kind of womanly frustration on him? It was perfect idiocy. Perfect self-absorption.
"You don't know how 9/11...you just don't know. And then we saw your people celebrating in the streets. Were you out there with them, 'Ari Ciminon'?" Sandra was fidgeting in her seat.
"The World Trade Towers? Quite honestly, I only thought of it as another terrorist attack. We discussed how slipshod American security was. That was all. At the time, of course, we did not suspect you would be paying us a visit."
"But you were with them."
"I don't understand what you mean. I had some access to government intelligence. Saddam and bin Laden? They loathe each other. We had nothing to do--"
"But you were with them," Sandra insisted.
"Very well," Ari sighed.
"And then the great Baghdad super cop chickens out and comes running to Uncle Sam. All by himself, no family, no wife--"
Ari's arm shot out so fast the diners next to them didn't see what happened. He judged his action perfectly, snagging the gum out of Sandra's mouth before she could so much as flinch.
She gasped, placing a hand on either side of her jaw. "You hit me!" she hissed.
"I did nothing of the kind." With a look of disgust, Ari pressed the gum into his napkin and took up a second napkin to wipe off his hand. "This is an unsightly and perverse habit."
"How did you..." Sandra was astonished. His fingers had scarcely brushed her lips. "Is that how you shoved the mouth guard in before applying shock torture?"
"There was no need for dexterity at Abu Ghraib," Ari said. "If the prisoner bit off his tongue during electroconvulsive therapy, so be it. If the prisoner did not open his mouth for us, and we wanted it open, we broke it open for him."
Sandra forgot her seat was bolted down and attempted to pull away without standing.
"Those fuckers," she said, still keeping her voice low, still on the job--and part of the job was to not draw undue attention. "They didn't say a word about this to us. Not a peep. You should be in Gitmo. At the very least."
"Guantanamo’s for peasants. Get me that file on the Riggins, Sandra."
"Go fuck yourself."
For a brief moment, Ari unveiled himself. Let her feel the invisible menace. Sandra fell silent, looked away, stood up slowly.
"I have not been humored, Sandra. Your people are awaiting vital information. I will not give it to them until I have that file. I will have it."
Sandra began to shake. She scurried by him and passed through the railing, leaving her shopping cart behind.
“Baraka Allah,” said Ari, sipping his coffee.
TWELVE
The Americans were wilting under the Iraqi sun, but the translator was suffocating. His olive-brown balaclava seemed to circulate an extra layer of heat between the fabric and his face--a regular convection oven. Ghaith felt he was breathing his own blood. He was crouched several yards away from the soldiers, a target for glances that varied from courteous nods to vacuous grins.
They were huddled in the narrow strip of shade provided by a HESCO barrier—oversized, reinforced garbage bags stuffed with rubble and piled up to form a stout defensive wall.
Captain Rodriguez and Lieutenant Pito emerged from the CP at the same moment Private Ropp was holding out a packet in Ghaith's direction and calling in sing-song:
"Hey Haji, you want four fingers of death?"
"Sergeant Mastin," Rodriguez said loudly enough for them all to hear, "Is that soldier trying to give that man pork?"
"It's beef, Sir
!" Ropp jumped up, saluting. "It says so on the pack! They eat beef!"
Rodriguez did not seem to hear the explanation, or felt it was Ropp's attitude, and not the beef franks he was offering Ghaith, that deserved a deaf ear.
"I'm going to the TOC for the new grid. Read this squad the Keep-Off-the-Grass Riot Act, then get them and the rest of Blue Platoon ready."
The soldiers exchanged embarrassed glances. So…Rodriquez had learned their phrase for the weekly or bi-weekly or tri-weekly reminders Pito was compelled to give his platoon, negative pep rallies that never failed to drain the men of pep. But Pito would have none of it. He nodded at Sergeant Mastin, whose face seemed to pucker.
Captain Rodriguez and Lieutenant Pito had walked out of earshot when Private First Class Tuckerson turned on Ropp. "So you're the rat fuck stealing the dogs out of the MRE’s."
Ropp was temporarily saved by Sergeant Mastin, who called his squad together, then asked Ghaith to stand next to him.
"Okay, Haji here is our new interpreter," said Mastin, nodding at Ghaith. “You are to treat him with all the respect you show your weapons. Do not offend him in any way, or you fuckchops will answer to me. The contractors have stolen all the decent terps in this sector for their new cement plant, and unless I miss my guess we’ll lose Haji to the tactical HUMINT team in short order. In the meantime, though, Haji has kindly accepted employment with us.
“It looks like we might do some FISHing this afternoon, so…if for any reason you have to enter a Shia mosque…and it better be a damn good reason, like you just saw Godzilla ducking for cover…there’s a whole slew of don’ts for you to observe. Do not touch the following things: shrines, books or walls, mainly the western corner. If someone’s praying, don’t walk in front of him because that interferes with his god-signal and he’ll have to start all over again, including performing something called wudu, which I think means ‘hand-washing’—and you know how these people dote on cleanliness. Don’t talk, and if you have to talk, whisper. Don’t talk unless spoken to, which means Ali Babba first, you second. If that makes you dead, you must’ve talked out of turn. When you walk in a mosque, someone might offer you a cup of water, which is guaranteed to contain Ebola and every other disease of the Near, Far and Middle East, Africa included. Take the cup, say ‘shukran’ to the guy, then hand it back. ‘Shukran’, incidentally, means ‘thanks’ in basic Moronese. Don’t immediately pull out your antibacterial Handi-wipe to clean your hands. This might be misinterpreted. We do not find these folks disgusting, got that?
“All-purpose greeting: ‘al-salamu ‘alaykum’. All-purpose response: ‘wa ‘alaykum as-salam’. To indicate respect, put ‘ostaath’ in front of a man’s name and ‘ostaatha’ in front of a woman’s name. I highly recommend that you refrain from speaking to women at all. These are not regimental ground sheets or desert queens. You see a habeebatee, look the other way. I’m dead serious on this. Habeeb will kill you if look at his woman the wrong way, or for too long, or step on her shadow. I can’t say I care about your sorry asses, but Ali Babba will kill the woman, too, and all for just you looking at her. You got appliance rags in your issue. Dump your wads in there, if you have to. We’ll be getting a woman translator in here for today’s fun. Let her do all the female talk.
“Don’t use last names alone. This is considered a serious diss and Habeeb’ll blow your dicktrap right off your face. Don’t go off if an Iraqi doesn’t look you in the eye. They don’t get into eye-gazing hereabouts. You’ll also see Iraqi men hugging and kissing and holding hands. That’s just how they are…and I’ll leave it at that. Also…the following words are totally unsat: dunecoon, sand nigger, towelhead, camel jockey, etcetera. Some of these people speak English, and they’ll know what you’re saying. Always use your right hand when giving or accepting anything. They don’t know Charmin’ around here. They use the left hand for hygiene. I know we’ve got some southpaws here. Think twice before you twitch.
“Don’t show the soles of your feet. It’s a big insult. Don’t ask me why. Do not consume alcohol in public. Do not stick up your thumb…like so. This is like flipping the bird at home. And don’t flip the bird, either, because flipping the bird here is the same as there. Do not use your index finger to call someone over. Don’t use a finger to point, use the whole hand. Make that the right hand. Don’t talk to Iraqis with your hands in your pockets. Don’t cross your legs. Do not compliment an Iraqi on his lovely child—this attracts the Evil Eye. Do not ask an Iraqi not to smoke. Do not signal with your palms up.
“Try not to shoot any FIF’s. That’s Free Iraqi Forces. Yeah, I know it’s hard to believe we got any friends around here. Try not to shoot any ICDC’s from the Civilian Defense Corps, either. They might not exactly be friends, but they go with whoever pays them, and we’ve paid them. As a general rule, try not to shoot any pax who aren’t shooting or RPGing us.
“Got all that? Don’t raise your hand, Rossco, I didn’t ask for questions.”
“I was just wondering if in all this ‘don’t’ we have any ‘do’. I mean, if I pick my nose, do I start a world war?”
The squad was staring at Ghaith, as though expecting him to answer. He knew he spooked some of them with his anonymity, his bank-robber ski mask and probing silence.
“We’re going to broom down Al Qods Street,” Sergeant Mastin continued, ignoring Rossco. “S-2 says the Mahdi Army might try another attack on the district advisory council. I want every swinging dick back here in ten minutes. No sickcall rangers. It’s only 130 degrees Fahrenheit. CS and MO!”
“Hooah!”
As the men ran into the abandoned Al Thawra police barracks they had commandeered, Ghaith caught Mastin’s attention.
“Where is the female interpreter? The captain promised there would be one.”
Mastin had mentioned the possibility of ‘FISHing’, which was the soldiers’ informal acronym for ‘Fighting in Someone’s House’, which they used to replace the official ‘Fighting in Built-Up Areas’. The irony was that, while it was against U.S. Army policy to put women on the firing line, Arabic-speaking women soldiers were essential in house-to-house searches.
Sergeant Mastin looked at Ghaith with a face as stiff and uncommunicative as Ghaith’s balaclava. “Promises aren’t Army issue.”
It was a little after two when Ari returned from Wal-Mart and his first conversation since New York with anyone connected to his handlers. There must be large gaps in the U.S. Marshal Service's file on him, or else Sandra would have been far less charming. To an outsider, there seemed no improvement in America's security since 9/11. The vital agencies were still not communicating with each other. Optimists declared this a good thing. No one wanted yet another police state.
He lugged his new sledge hammer and other hardware store items into the living room and laid them out. He opened the front door, then studied the central air control in the hallway. One setting said 'Fan Only'. He turned this on. Mechanical life entered the house, air thrumming through its tin or steel or fiberglass ducts.
Going into the kitchen, Ari stripped to his shorts, then went downstairs, pinpointed the spot in the basement directly under the living room, and sat on the cool floor. He closed his eyes and concentrated, though without any real hope that he would hear the signature tune he was seeking. Something soft would not rattle, and a solid object would need a jet blast to make its presence known. But he tried.
Every so often he would hear a knock. Once...twice.... Then it would stop. He scooted closer to the wall. He did not want to press his ear against the paneling, knowing his own heartbeat would interfere with his hearing. Finally, though, he tried that, too.
And heard distinctly something tap-tapping inside the ductwork. Could it be part of the normal mechanical digestion of an HVAC system? It sounded as though it was coming from overhead.
He returned upstairs and repeated the process, seating himself first in the center of the room, then slowly easing over to the wall beneath the overhead register. When he fin
ally rested his ear against the cool painted sheet rock he again heard the rattle. Just as faint, and now it sounded as though it was coming from below. He stretched out along the bottom trim and held his breath. Just as he predicted, his heart thudded with annoying, if reassuring, persistence. The sound in the wall was almost tender, like the click and thump of the cook's rolling pin when she lifted it off the chapatti dough as she prepared the family's weekly Indian dinner. It almost matched what he was expecting....
He lay like that for fifteen minutes, almost dozing, allowing his near trancelike state to navigate his thoughts through the metallic (or fiberglass) caverns. And then he heard a soft thud that did not come from inside the wall. He opened his eyes.
"Ah, Sphinx, you yellow devil. I was expecting you. I have some nice fish…"
"What are you doing?"
Ari shot up into a seating position and swiveled around on his buttocks to face Louis Carrington.
Been expecting you too, Detective Sergeant.
"Pardon me, Captain..." Ari stood. "Let me put some clothes on."
He gave the wrong rank to sow a moment's consternation, allowing him time to gather his wits. Carrington hung back in the living room while Ari went into the kitchen and quickly donned his shirt and trousers.
"You're in pretty good shape," Carrington said when Ari returned to the front. "Are architects expected to work out every day?"
"It's not a requirement," Ari shrugged modestly. "Only a personal preference."
"I guess you can tell my preference is the opposite." Carrington's ratchety laughter echoed against the bare walls. "I'd eat a rat's ass if it was the last thing left on the menu."
Whatever the general state of Carrington's health, Ari would take care if he encountered him in a dark alley. He had entered the house so silently Ari had mistaken him for a cat.
"So what's all this?" Carrington cocked his head at the Lowe's paraphernalia. "I'dve thought a few decent chairs would have priority over a sledgehammer."
"I heard knocking in the wall," Ari said, striking the pose of a disappointed home-buyer. "At first I thought it was mice. I went to Lowe's for poison and an employee there suggested it might be some kind of louver in the heating unit that's come loose."
The 56th Man Page 16
