The 56th Man

by J. Clayton Rogers

  "Playing cards with pictures of the Iraqis most wanted by the Coalition. Baathists and members of the Revolutionary Command Council.”

  "Officially, these are called ‘personality identification playing cards’. Fifty-five of them, including a few Jokers. I can't begin to remember all of them. Quite frankly, I have difficulty with all these Arab and Persian and what-all names, anyway. But I can't remember all of our Presidents, either, and there's only forty-three of those." He shuffled the deck. "Are you familiar with flash cards?"

  "Our teachers used them when I was a child," said Ghaith.

  "Good." He drew out a card and held it up, his thumb covering the name at the bottom. "What can you tell me about this guy?"

  "A nobody. Barzan Ibrahim Hasan al-Tikriti. Presidential Advisor. He was captured by the Americans. Being tried for crimes against humanity. He’s the former president’s half-brother, so he’ll probably get his throat scissored.”

  “And this?”

  “A nobody. Tariq Aziz. Deputy Prime Minister.”

  The colonel flipped the card over. “Oh yeah, this was the guy on TV all the time during the run-up.” He took out another card.

  “A nobody. Izzat Ibrahim al-Duri. Vice Chairman of the Revolutionary Command Council.”

  Another card.

  “A real nobody. My last boss. Mahmoud Diab al-Ahmed, Minister of the Interior. Last I saw of him was in 2003, when he was standing next to that other fool, Mohammed Sa'eed al-Sahhaf, the Information Minister. He was shouting like an idiot. He was going to bring down the U.S. Army with a knife and a Kalashnikov. He’s in jail now."

  “You said he was your boss?”

  “The police were under the Ministry of the Interior. Still are.”

  “You were a policeman?”

  “Just an ordinary cop.”

  “I doubt that, but since that’s the most you’ve said about yourself so far, I’ll let it rest for the moment.”

  The colonel tried out a couple dozen more cards on Ghaith before growing bored. He rested the stack on the desk. "That's pretty impressive, Mr. Ibrahim. To tell you the truth, I'm half-convinced that you were a ranking Baathist or RCC official." The colonel tapped the deck with a letter opener shaped like a sword. "For all I know, you're another Joker. The 56th man. But so long as you're not in the cards, that's clearance enough. That is, if you're useful enough. And that must be true, because the MNF-I Commander himself says it's so. There's just one more formality we need to go through before we proceed."

  The colonel appeared to have nothing else to say. They were waiting for someone with more authority. Ghaith suspected it would be a high-ranking member of the embassy staff. He took out his cigarettes.

  "Can't do that here," the colonel shrugged.

  Ghaith stared at him, but did not feel like arguing and put the pack away. He stood and walked over to the window. There it was, Saddam's famous swimming pool, gloriously blue and a sure magnet for overheated members of the Coalition and the embassy.

  "The imams would have a field day with this," Ghaith said with slangy expertise. The colonel came up next to him and immediately understood.

  "Men and women swimming together." He gave a small cough. "Maybe we can't smoke indoors, but there are other consolations."

  Ghaith looked beyond the pool to a group of groundskeepers near the orange grove. "You have many Iraqi civilians here."

  "Mostly Shia. Does that bother you?"

  "Not in the least." Ghaith noticed that one of the workers was watching the palace as he pretended to trim a hedge. Even at this distance he looked familiar.

  "Colonel, I think there will be a major rocket attack on the palace within the next fifteen minutes."

  The colonel snorted. "I don't think anyone can be that useful." Then he hesitated. "How would you know--"

  "I saw at least five former inmates of Abu Ghraib on my way in here."

  "In the Green Zone?"

  "And they saw me."

  "You think they would launch an attack because of you?" The colonel's inner mantra faltered. "Just who the hell are you, really?"

  "The man everyone wants dead, it appears," Ghaith said calmly.

  There was a knock and the office door opened. A lightly-complected, middle-aged man with sleepy eyes walked in. Ghaith cocked his brow in surprise. The colonel, too, was taken aback.

  "Mr. Ambassador, I didn't know you were coming."

  "General Casey is giving this high priority. I thought I would come in person." He looked at Ghaith. "This is the man?"

  Ghaith had been too preoccupied keeping his head attached to his shoulders to pay much attention to current events. He had heard mention of the new ambassador, but he fully expected him to be on his way as quickly as his predecessor. Iraq was as much a swampy armpit for career diplomats as it was for everybody else. There was no need to keep track of these token whisps from the other side of the world.

  Only the latest ambassador was more neighbor than foreigner. He was a farce, a joke, a pusillanimous trick. In short, an Afghan. He might have obliged the Americans with the requisite forms and pledges and kowtows, but in Ghaith’s eyes he was a peasant to the core.

  "Tse ghalti shewey da!" he complained in Pashto.

  “No mistake,” said the ambassador with a gentle nod. “Be assured, I am not a Pashtun. Ze la Amerika." He extended his hand.

  A firm, cold handshake to show what a good American he is.

  Ghaith saw no option but to take the proffered hand, which he did in the most cursory manner possible.

  The colonel was displeased that Ghaith's opinion of the ambassador was so obviously negative.

  "Mr. Ambassador, if you would take a seat..." The colonel gestured gracefully at a divan against the wall. Then he pointed at the straight-backed chair and told Ghaith, "Sit."

  Ghaith had been raised in a culture where insults were avenged with knives and guns. But he had also trained himself to swallow insults from superiors who handed them out in malevolent abundance. At the moment, the colonel was his superior. He sat.

  "I believe Mr. Ibrahim has been advised on the details of the proposal," said the colonel as he lowered himself behind his desk.

  "So have I," said the ambassador. "It presents grave problems."

  "Then it can't be done?" the colonel asked, pleased by the prospect.

  "You're asking that an Iraqi citizen be sent to the United States, where he will be established in a safe haven. From this haven, he will be providing information on possible threats to security in his homeland."

  "I understand the complications," the colonel nodded. "You would need to get the cooperation of the Department of Justice. This isn't exactly their bailiwick. Uh...their cup of tea? Anyway, it's not as if Mr. Ibrahim is a Mafia don or drug lord. Witness Protection was set up solely for the domestic environment, I believe. But if it's a matter of payment, we can shake out funding from those frozen oil workers’ union accounts."

  Saddam Hussein had outlawed unions. The American pro-consul had outlawed unions. Now that he was gone, the workers had celebrated their new freedom by unionizing. The Iraqi government had promptly banned them and frozen their assets.

  "It's not funding or our bureaucracy that worries me, colonel," said the ambassador. "Iraq is now a sovereign nation. We would need their approval for this, and any information we received from this gentleman would have to be shared--" The ambassador stopped when he saw Ghaith looking at his watch. "Are we keeping you from a pressing engagement?"

  "Mr. Ibrahim predicted a rocket attack within fifteen minutes," the colonel grinned, and pointed at the clock on the wall. "That was at eleven-hundred hours. It's now eleven-thirteen and counting."

  The ambassador's sad eyes showed no humor. "If there is a rocket attack in a few minutes, I certainly hope you had no part in arranging it."

  "And get myself blown up?" Ghaith said.

  "We encounter martyrs for the cause every day."

  "But in this case, to what point?"

 
; The ambassador dwelled on this a moment, then nodded. "I see your logic."

  "Mr. Ibrahim has also requested asylum for his wife and son. I understand his wife is an invalid. This might prove an unwarranted drain on the resources of the state."

  Ghaith went still. He watched the colonel narrowly.

  "Of course, we understand that his family will be put at increased risk if his activities are exposed. It so happens that the government of Iceland has kindly offered to take in--"

  Ghaith stood.

  "No, please, Mr. Ibrahim," said the colonel, raising his hands. "Think about it. If you were found out, and the Fedayeen contacted one of their friends in the States, do you really want your family with you if they come knocking?"

  Ghaith thought about this, and sat back down.

  "Now, I still have some further--" The colonel stopped when the ambassador nodded. "You have a question for the applicant, sir?"

  Ghaith had not heard himself referred to as an 'applicant' before. It made him sound like one of those thousands of Iraqis who had hovered around the Red Zone in the early days, waiting for the Americans to employ them. Only in that case, you were considered lucky to get as much as an application, let alone an interview with someone with the authority to hire you. Casting aside ethnic, tribal and religious origins, the insurgency was as simple as massive unemployment combined with equally massive access to weapons.

  But Ghaith had not formally applied for asylum. He had glumly listened to officers balance the tremendous bonus he represented alongside a past that remained largely unknown. Was he more risk than asset? Ghaith's presence in the Republican Palace was evidence of their conclusion. But the military could not provide the final word.

  "I've been told that you have the remarkable ability to stroll down the streets of Sadr City and identify enemies of the state," said the ambassador.

  "Many of the insurgents--are we allowed to use that word, yet? 'Insurgents'?"

  "We will, eventually," the ambassador sighed. "Please continue."

  "Many of them were prisoners under the old regime. Not political prisoners. Riffraff who would do anything for money."

  "Including blowing themselves up?"

  "Most certainly. Their families benefit. And being good Muslims, they don't actually believe that they're dying...in the usual manner."

  "Over 100,000 prisoners were released before the war, with this very situation in mind. How many of those inmates do you remember?"

  "Very few."

  The colonel leaned forward. "What's that?"

  "It's only when I see them that I remember."

  "Human mnemonics," the ambassador smiled.

  "Did you see one of those former prisoners outside the window a few minutes ago?"

  "Hazem Rasheed of the Dulaym tribe. Imprisoned for various petty crimes. He's a country boy from al-Anbar, near the Syrian border. He was one of Abu Mousab al-Zarqawi’s jihadi foot soldiers before you blew him up last week."

  "Whoa!" the colonel almost shouted, with a trace of glee. "That's all post-liberation."

  "I've kept tabs on some of our former guests of the state."

  The euphemism did not go down well with either interviewer. Ghaith could see no way to tactfully withdraw it.

  “That’s beside the point, Colonel. This man is saying you have a member of al-Qaeda in Iraq just outside your window. That’s a rather extreme claim. Perhaps you should look into it when we’re finished here.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  The ambassador leaned forward on the divan. "Were you ever involved in the torture of prisoners?"

  "No," Ghaith answered.

  "But you knew prisoners were being tortured?"

  "We all did. By 'all', I include the man on the street. Amnesty International knew, which means the whole world knew."

  "Eleven twenty-seven hours," the colonel observed. "Your rocket attack is running behind schedule."

  "Colonel..." The ambassador was already famous for negotiating compromises, and with that single word managed to quell the ire of the American soldier and Iraqi civilian, both of whom eased back in their chairs, a little. The ambassador turned to Ghaith. "You've been working for us for a year, now."

  "A year and a half," Ghaith amended.

  "And you're still alive. I've written to the Secretary to advise her that I fear for my own Iraqi staff members, that they can't go home at night without the risk of being murdered or kidnapped. And yet you managed to survive..."

  "Playing both sides," said the colonel.

  "Wouldn't you do whatever it takes to keep yourself and your family alive, Colonel?" said the ambassador without taking his eyes from Ghaith. "I've also been advised that casualties have been reduced dramatically in any unit where you have been posted. You're credited with saving quite a few of our soldiers' lives."

  Ghaith nodded in acknowledgement.

  "However, your recent behavior has been counter-productive to your own safety."

  "A ski mask is insufferably hot in 120 weather."

  "I can imagine. But what about your family?"

  "They are staying at Ibn Sina Hospital."

  "Yes, your wife. That was a dreadful accident."

  "Accident?" said Ghaith bitterly.

  "That hospital’s in the Green Zone!" the colonel exclaimed. How did you manage that?"

  "He's our employee," said the ambassador. "And your son? He is well?"

  How rude of you to ask.

  It was a good thing Ghaith was not superstitious. Many Iraqis would have been offended by the ambassador's inquisitiveness. To ask of the health of a man's son or daughter was to invite the Evil Eye. But perhaps, under the circumstances, the question was unavoidable.

  "He is well. He is watching over his mother." Ghaith offered up his most ingratiating smile. "Mr. Ambassador, if this proposal isn't feasible for myself, I would invoke the privilege of Melmastia for my wife and son."

  The ambassador's face reveled in a mix of emotions before going blank. Observing the colonel's perplexity, he enlightened him on the Afghan code of honor. "Melmastia is one of the concepts of Pashtunwali. A Pashtun is obligated to show the utmost hospitality to anyone under his roof. The guest could be his worst enemy. It doesn't matter. The code is supreme."

  "Isn't that a little theoretical?" the colonel inquired politely.

  "The Pashtuns are famous for their hospitality."

  "All those guys who are killing each other up in the mountains?"

  "I'm sure 'those guys' weren't guests." The ambassador studied Ghaith with his sleepy eyes. "The hospitality extends only to those directly under one's roof."

  "Isn't the United States your 'roof'?" Ghaith asked.

  "In any event, we are still confronted with how to present this to the Iraqi government. For us to be harboring informants would be intolerable--"

  The siren went off.

  "The Q36!" the colonel jumped. He looked at the ambassador. "Mr. Ambassador, if you would please get under my desk."

  "The insurgents are not only tardy, they are notoriously poor shots." The ambassador didn't move.

  The colonel did not press the matter, nor did he extend the invitation to take cover to Ghaith. He remained seated, wincing, annoyed by the noise if not the danger it was alerting them to.

  There was a bright flash, followed immediately by an explosion somewhere on the grounds.

  "One-twenty-two millimeter," the colonel observed. "Sounds like it hit one of the tent cities." He clucked. "Killing their own people."

  "Didn't your people kill your people during your civil war?" Ghaith asked.

  "One-oh-one again," said the colonel. He did not elaborate, because the alarm was still wailing. "Christ, another radar hit."

  The next blast shook the room.

  "That was closer," the colonel observed.

  The ambassador did not comment on this. He watched Ghaith for a bit, then drifted off into thought.

  The alarm stuttered, then went off again.

 
"Three Q36 hits," the colonel shook his head. "Those Fedayeen can't last much longer. The Apaches will be zeroing in on them."

  The colonel and the ambassador lurched forward when the next explosion created a shower of falling plaster. Ghaith did not budge. He took out a cigarette and lit up. The colonel shot him a warning look.

  "I thought even in your country the condemned man is allowed a final smoke."

  "Smoking's banned in most prisons," said the colonel.

  "Ah...masters of torture."

  The siren kicked in again.

  "Colonel," said the ambassador. "Is it possible someone is directing this attack from inside the compound? Perhaps by this Bedouin that he was speaking of?"

  "You can't walk rockets in like artillery--"

  Wham!

  There were shouts in the hallway outside the office.

  "Jesus, did they hit the South Wing?"

  "Colonel."

  "Yes, Mr. Ambassador?"

  "As soon as the all clear sounds, may I suggest you immediately put this man onto a rhino bus and get him out to the airport?"

  "I'll need clearance--"

  "General Casey has already cleared this, pending my approval." He turned to Ghaith, exposing his broad teeth. It could have been a smile. It could have been a grimace. "And I approve."

  The dark Lexus was parked next to the driveway entrance when Ari arrived home after his visit to the library. Carrington got out and followed while he drove the xB up to the garage. Ari knew there would be trouble when the detective glanced towards Howie's house, then the river, as though to verify no one was watching. Ari decided there was nothing he could do about the trouble he saw brewing beyond turning his back on Carrington and opening the garage door. He drove inside, parked, and got out. He smiled and nodded when he saw Carrington aiming a P226 at him.

  SIG Sauer, holds 12 to 15 rounds, depending on the size of the ammunition. A pistol designed for the U.S. Army. A favorite with Navy SEALS.

  "Ma sha' Allah, Detective Sergeant Carrington."

  "That doesn't sound Italian. Flat on your stomach, hands behind your back."

  "But this is a new jacket."

  "Flat on your stomach, put your hands behind your back."