The 56th Man

by J. Clayton Rogers

  EIGHTEEN

  Ari stood in his driveway and bent over, planting his palms flat on the pavement. He extended one leg, then brought it back and extended the other. His muscles relished the warm-up, though it had been a couple of days since he had exercised. He adapted well to changes in scene and situation.

  "Abu Karim Ghaith Ibrahim no longer exists. Do you understand?"

  Ghaith--no, Ari Ciminon--looked to the north, where the World Trade Center had once stood. He felt a sense of vacancy that had nothing to do with the missing towers.

  "I understand that 'Ghaith Ibrahim' would be a great embarrassment to the Great Satan."

  "We're talking basic survival here."

  "So am I. I am to become an erasure. I no longer exist."

  "Good, you understand."

  As he jogged up Beach Court Lane, he kept one eye peeled for Sphinx. There was no sign of the cat lurking at the edge of the woods or in neighboring yards. Enjoy your freedom, little beast.

  He turned left onto Riverside Drive and the straight stretch of road that ran between the river and the houses situated high on the bluff. A car roared past at a blistering forty miles per hour, twenty beyond the posted speed limit. Ari shouted an oath in its wake.

  ‘American History 101.’

  'My country 'tis of thee,

  Sweet land of liberty...'

  Liberty. You had to crack a few legal codes to find liberty around here. Like the driver of that speeding car. He knew what it took: flagrant disregard of the rules. You might have to pay a few fines, but there was plenty of liberty for those who could afford it.

  He passed the entrance to the Pony Pasture, part of the James River Park System.

  'Do Not Park Overnight. Unleashed Dogs Not Allowed. Do Not Litter. Do Not Pick Plants.'

  A loose dog ran into the trash-strewn parking lot past an abandoned car. The dog's owner trotted up, a bouquet of wildflowers in her hand.

  "Good morning," she said.

  "Good morning," Ari smiled without breaking his stride. He avoided entering that section of the park, which terminated at a private golf course prominently littered with 'No Trespassing' signs.

  'Let Freedom Ring!'

  It wasn't about WMD. It wasn't about oil. It wasn't a new hegemony. It was all about freedom. But Iraqis understood 'freedom from'. Freedom from torture, freedom from censorship, freedom from being spied upon, freedom from...well, not freedom from want, Ari amended as he ran past two homeless men under the Huguenot Bridge. That was a 'freedom to'. Freedom to starve, freedom to be unemployed, freedom to hanker after the unattainable.

  'The bombs bursting in air…’

  Peace-loving American loved war so much it was incorporated in their National Anthem. But every society was a bundle of contradictions. Look at the Baathists. So many good intentions, all of them ending up on the chopping block.

  In order to live you had to die.

  In order to live in freedom you needed chains.

  In order to exist you must end existence.

  Only by ending could you see the beginning.

  Ari wondered if he was turning Sufi. A good mystical consensus to the nothingness around them. That was what he needed.

  But some practical measures had to be taken, first. Did his message get through? Or did Sandra and her cohorts intercept it? Who would be waiting for him at the end of his run?

  '…one Nation, under God…’

  No, no, it's not about religion. Americans are a secular crew. Don't begin each day at your new Shaabiya Satellite TV station with a prayer to Allah, you foolish Iraqis. That's too backward. Start it with—

  Wait, who did I just pledge allegiance to?

  Ari's logical mind tumbled across the miles. He detoured around Willow Oaks, used Forest Hill to cross Powhite, and swung back down towards the river.

  Am I a traitor? Am I savior? Am I like everybody else—just trying to get by?

  He crossed Westover Hills Boulevard and returned to Riverside, continuing east until he came to James River Park’s 42nd Street entrance. After crossing the railway tracks, he turned right at Reedy Creek and headed up the broad trail. Birds flittered in the bushes. Squirrels skittered out of his path. The dogs of joggers coming the other way gave him passing nose jobs.

  Am I Arab? Persian? Assyrian? Babylonian? Am I all? Or none? Am I...human? It's not a frivolous question.

  He climbed the steps of the 22nd Street platform and crossed Belvedere.

  Rana. Rana. Rana.

  He passed the massive, coldly precise financial buildings on Riverview Parkway, then entered upon (how appropriate!) the old Slave Trail.

  'With liberty and justice for all.'

  'Oh say can you see.'

  'Mission accomplished.'

  'By the dawn's early light.'

  In the shadow of the Manchester Bridge, he ran past the massive abutments and crumbled arches of its predecessors, now used for climbing practice. Rappellers tossed their ropes down, draping the old brick superstructure like scrappy Rapunzels letting down their long scraggly hair.

  Who will be waiting for me? Sandra, with a bruised smirk? Carrington, with less than a smile, his hand filled with a SIG Sauer? The FBI? The CIA? Die-hards from the Mukhabarat? The Canadian Mounties? A hit squad from Amnesty International? Why, I could end up in The Hague, right next to Slobodan Milosevic. But wait, he died back in March. Wonder where he is now? Where do atheists end up? No Heaven. No hell. Just sewage.

  His crimes were not so very extreme...by Iraqi standards. It was a sorry consolation.

  He went down a rocky slope, then up a ramp onto the southern section of the Canal Walk. Constructed by the 'Corps of Engineers'. Maybe they would be the ones waiting for him, ready to haul him off on one of their cranes. The ghost of Jerry Riggins at the controls.

  'We hold these truths to be self-evident...'

  'I am not a crook.'

  'Ask not, what your country can do for you...'

  Ari had asked what he could do for his country. You couldn't do that sort of thing on your own. Could not just build a school or kill an enemy or make a friend without consultation. The country determined what was needed. He had been told what to do, and he had done it...most of it. The secret agenda of Nuremburg. Obey commands unless, no matter, not ever, on occasion.

  'I have a dream...'

  Rana...

  Ari zigzagged his way along the floodwall, his lungs bursting. He almost fell down the steps at the end. He noted a dusky, busy street, across which lay a railway museum encrusted by chain link fences topped with barbed wire. After only the briefest of pauses, he forged the 14th Street traffic and ascended the next segment of the floodwall.

  Thought left him. Whether pragmatic or drearily amorphous, facts and theories dissolved in a fog of pain. There was nothing metaphysical about it. This was sheer physical agony. He was only vaguely aware of the floodwall petering out beneath his feet. After that came Manchester Road. Then Brander Street. To his left was a massive stone levee that looked hot and sterile, followed by a layer of trees that screened the river from view. Then he saw the entrance to Ancarow’s Landing and staggered into the parking lot.

  He fell to his knees, sobbing for air.

  "How far have you run?" a voice asked.

  "I...I...about...six..."

  "Six miles? Is that all?"

  "Maybe...seven. Maybe...eight."

  "The Ghaith I knew could run 20 kilometers without breaking a sweat."

  "That Ghaith...is dead."

  "Looks like it."

  Ari began to laugh. "Do you want...to help...me up?"

  "Of course, Sir."

  A pair of arms descended. A moment later, Ari found himself within inches of an astonishingly familiar face. Both men embraced and kissed each others' cheeks, laughing.

  "You look terrible."

  "You look worse," the man answered in Arabic.

  They laughed and embraced again. They had not seen each other in so long.

  “
Et comment est Montréal ces jours ci, mon ami?” said Ari.

  "Don't start that on me, again. My French is my French, which is no French at all."

  "Get any peculiar looks up there?"

  "All the time."

  Ari laughed loudly, as though the world had come home to him. "You brought your son with you?"

  "Mahmoud is in the van. I thought the fewer faces out here, the better.

  "A wise precaution," Ari nodded. "We have to prepare.”

  "That's what I'm here for," said the man. He knew better than to ask about Rana or Karim. He also understood it was pointless to ask if what they were about to do was dangerous. He turned and looked across the river at the city. “Nice little town.”

  “Yes,” said Ari. “Very scenic.”

  "Do the Abu Ghraib Shimmy for me," said Carrington.

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Strip."

  "I'm not concealing a gun."

  "I'm more concerned about a wire. I'm taking us to a place where only the bears have transmitters. But to be on the safe side...strip."

  "I have to make my call to Ms. Sylvester."

  "This first."

  "If I refuse?"

  "Then there's no agreement and it's every man for himself."

  Ari sighed and began to undress. The idea of being naked before a stranger did not bother him unduly. As a young man he had spent several years in an army barracks, where privacy was practically nonexistent.

  "You really want this meeting, don't you?" Carrington said as Ari draped his jacket over the kitchen chair and removed his tie. "If you asked me to strip, I'd drop you."

  "There's nothing to like or dislike. It's a matter of necessity."

  "Some necessities are pleasant." The police detective had turned his chair around and sat with his hands folded over the back. He had finally discovered a comfortable position.

  "I suppose it all balances out."

  "Yeah," Carrington agreed. "The trick is in the balance."

  "It's just as the ancient Greeks said, moderation--"

  "Fuck the Greeks. Come to think of it, keep the trousers on. I don't think they'd use your dick for a microphone. But take off the undershirt."

  Ari obliged.

  "So you're not wired."

  "I can do the rest, if you want," said Ari.

  "You aren't acting like a man in a hurry," said Carrington, lifting his chin off his hands. "Get your stuff back on, and hurry."

  Ari dressed.

  "Now make the call to your Federal girl."

  Ari took up his cell phone and began to dial.

  "Wait. You don't have her number in speed dial?"

  Ari shrugged. "I haven't figured that out, yet."

  "You? Hang up and hand it over."

  Ari disconnected and handed the cell phone to the detective. He studied the buttons for a moment, then checked the speed dial list.

  "No numbers in Memory." He looked up at Ari. "That could be a precaution on your part. You're not stupid."

  "I'm not a technological genius, either."

  "What's the number?"

  "Ms. Sylvester's?"

  "No, Saddam Hussein's. Who do you think?"

  Ari reached for the phone.

  "No, I'll dial."

  Giving him a long look, Ari said, "She won't recognize your voice."

  "And I won't recognize hers. We'll be even."

  Ari began to recite the number. Carrington held up a hand.

  "Stop. That's not the U.S. Marshals local office number. I checked."

  "Then you also checked to make certain Ms. Sylvester is one of their agents. I'm giving you her cell number."

  Carrington shook his head in disgust. "In bed with the Feds. Makes me want to puke out my still-beating heart." Carrington hesitated, then put the phone on the table. "Let me see that jacket."

  Ari had just donned his sports jacket again. He slipped it off and handed it over. "Please don't wrinkle--"

  "Dressing kind of fancy for all this, aren't you?"

  "I don't know where we're going. It could be a fashionable restaurant."

  "A fashionable restaurant in Richmond!" Carrington ground the jacket between his hands, checked the pockets, and gave it back. "Can't be too careful."

  Ari looked at the wrinkled lump. When he put it back on, he was woefully disheveled.

  "Now, what's that number?" He punched it in as Ari spoke. Almost immediately, a woman's voice came on.

  "Sylvester."

  "This is Ari Ciminon's friend. The one you're going to meet tonight."

  "Where is he?" asked the woman.

  "Right here. Shout something for the lady."

  "Everything is going according to plan," Ari shouted.

  "You heard?"

  "Yes," said the woman.

  "I'm going to give you directions instead of relaying them through Ari here. Got a pen and paper?"

  "Yes."

  "You know the town of Cumberland?"

  "On Route 60?"

  "Yeah."

  "That's almost fifty miles away!"

  "You got a problem with distance, Deputy Sylvester?"

  "No, no. All right, take 60 to Cumberland…"

  "Just before you get there, you'll see a sign for Bear Creek Lake Park. Or Bear Lake Creek Park. I always get that name mixed up."

  "I know where it is. Isn't that--"

  "Follow the signs until you reach the park entrance. The road forks. Go right, towards Cumberland State Forest. Got that?"

  "Yes."

  "Keep going about a mile--hey, is Bret Mason still picking his nose?"

  There was a pause at the other end. "I'm not at liberty to discuss our personnel," said the woman.

  "Good girl," said Carrington.

  Good girl, thought Ari.

  "Keep going until you see a sign for Arrowhead Lake. Turn right on the dirt road and keep going to the end. There's a small parking area and a suspension footbridge. You'll see us there."

  "All right."

  "You got all that down?"

  "I think so..."

  "Make sure you know so. You don't sound very confident for a Federal Agent." The detective chuckled. "Actually, you sound exactly like a Fed."

  He disconnected. Glancing at Ari's trousers, he said, "Pull up your pants legs."

  Ari did so, exposing his tall beige socks.

  "Higher."

  Ari brought the cuffs up past his calves.

  "Okay, you're not strapped. You're not wired. You're not LoJacked. Guess we're ready to go."

  Once they were past the town of Midlothian the road opened up. At the same time, they were closed in by darkness. It was almost midnight. There were very few cars on the road. They passed the small intersection of Flat Rock without seeing anyone.

  After openly admiring the Lexus, Ari fell silent, letting Carrington concentrate on the road. He thought the detective was going to drive the whole distance without saying a word, until he said, "I envy you."

  "How so?"

  "A cop in Iraq. That's real power, or it was until we got there. I hate those mealy-mouthed Europeans and their crappy system. I visited England and saw a bobby getting mugged at King's Cross. Not a police firearm in sight. It was disgusting. But in Iraq, if you didn't shoot the bad guy on sight, you knew he would get his due in prison. I mean, I don't know a lot about it, but from what I can tell, the law really meant something."

  "Yes..."

  "You don't know how much the average cop here would like to crack a few skulls. Nothing fatal, just a concussion here and there. But we whip out a stick and wham, a lawsuit."

  "I seem to recall a fellow named Rodney King," said Ari.

  "Who deserved every lick he took. Sure, things get out of hand, sometimes. But we've got the best system in the world. It's just gone wimpy, that's all. I hate to see it. Now, that guy who took out those badasses at the Chinese deli, he was from the old school. Shoot first and fuck the questions." Carrington cocked his eyes toward the passenger side. "Come on
, own up. You were the triggerman, weren't you? I won't tell anyone. Hell, I'll stop right here and kiss your ass. You don't see anything like that anymore. It's Old Testament."

  Ari did not speak for a few moments, then observed: "You have many trees here."

  "Aw, fuck the trees. Virginia's one big woodshed. Should have named it fucking Treeville."

  "The nearest we have to something like this is in the Zagros."

  "So what was it like, being a cop in Iraq? You must've been somebody, with the U.S. Government so hot for you and all. How many bad guys did you plug?"

  Ari watched the trees in the headlights for a quarter of a mile. He wished it was day. It must be a lovely sight.

  "Detective Sergeant, have you ever heard of al-Amn al-Khas?"

  "No. Should I have?"

  "No, I guess not." Ari watched some house lights float by like glowing buoys. A farmstead on a hill?

  "So?"

  "They were only an organization of clerks. I was one of them."

  Carrington seemed to fall into a sulk. If he was hoping for a bit of international cop-bonding, he was sorely disappointed.

  They had both taken a turn at sparking conversations, but neither had chosen a topic the other was interested in discussing. The grim hum of the engine and background hiss of tires on tarmac filled the car like white noise. Carrington switched on the radio. The dial was set on a classic rock station. They listened to one minute of 'With Or Without You', the song spliced with static. They were already at the limit of the station's transmitter. Rather than scan for a clearer signal, the detective turned the radio off.

  "I'm not in the mood and it's not your type of music," he said.

  "True," said Ari.

  "I guess you like that sitar-woozy stuff."

  "I think you're referring to Indian music. Which I happen to like. There are a lot of similarities between Indian and Arabic music."

  "I wouldn't know," said Carrington drearily, then perked up. "But you've heard of the big names here, I'm sure. How about the Eagles?"

  "No. Have you heard of Nancy Ajram? Very big."

  "Uh...no.

  “She's Lebanese. Very recent, extremely popular. You would call her a superstar. My boys are very keen on…”