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 finally 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."
"Count on a Lowe's clerk not to know the difference between a rat and a flap." Carrington placed his index finger on the sledgehammer handle, which Ari had left standing on its head. "I wouldn't go tearing down your walls over a little knocking. If you don't like traps or poison, get a cat. We got one. There isn't a week goes by he doesn't leave a bloody lump on our doorstep as a gift."
"A good working cat," said Ari approvingly. "Do you know where I can find one?"
"Keep your door open the way you had it, one'll show up soon enough." Carrington took his finger away from the sledge hammer and tucked his thumbs in his waistband. A sign of qualified relief? "Looked to me like you were stripped down for action. Demolishing walls is a dirty business."
"I was thinking that myself. I think I'll let the professionals handle the job. The clerk mentioned something about a robot brush that they use to clean out these systems."
The thumbs popped out of Carrington's pants like broken springs. "It's rats, or mice. We got a real problem with that around here. My kids watch these computer-generated cartoons about rats. They think they're cute. They go bonkers whenever our cat tears one to shreds."
Ari had noticed Carrington's conversational wanderings at the restaurant. What was he trying to say now? That there was a cultural tendency to cutesify what they were unable to control? That his children were disillusioned by reality?
"I didn't know you had children," said Ari.
"That's not surprising. You don't know anything about me."
"Except that you're willing to eat a rat's ass."
Carrington laughed at Ari's bland delivery.
"Yeah, I got three sprats." He noticed Ari looking at him closely and judged he was calculating his age. "I married late. Finally found myself a good woman. Real lucky, for a cop."
"Yes."
"Take my word for it, get a cat. Go to Petco. They got cats up for adoption. They've had their shots and been fixed. You could pick one up for a couple hundred."
"I suppose you're right."
"But what's this with the rope and zip ties and stuff?" Carrington ran an inquisitorial nose across the room.
"More useless purchases, it seems. Captain, would you like some tea?"
Carrington had a flashback to Ari's encounter with the waitress at the all-night diner. He grinned, then seemed to perform a silent howl. "’Sergeant’, Mr. Ciminon. Just measly old Detective Sergeant."
"I beg your pardon."
"Don't think about it. No, I'm not a tea man, especially when it's straight from the kettle. You don't happen to have a Coke laying around? No? That's all right, I can suffer in silence."
"Would you like to sit?"
"Before I do, I guess I should advise you that you've become a person of interest--to me, at least."
"I'm flattered."
"Don't be." Carrington levered his thick arm around and massaged his lower back. "I think I'll take you up on that chair."
The detective was put out when he saw the ladderback chairs at the kitchen table. "That's it? You've been here almost a week and that's all the furniture you've got?"
"My living room and bedroom suites will be arriving by train," Ari said.
"The Orient Express ain't what it used to be." Carrington settled in like a patient easing onto a wheelchair.
"I have whiskey."
"I didn't think you people drank spirits. Course, I don't know squat about what Italians...or Arab Italians...do or don't do. No beer? The hard stuff kills my stomach." Then the detective wafted the air as though erasing his words. "Forget it. I'm on duty."
"Then you're here to tell me why I've suddenly become so interesting?"
Reaching into his jacket pocket, Carrington pulled out a cell phone. Ari leaned forward in his chair.
"May I?"
Carrington handed it to him. "You've never seen a BlackBerry Smartphone?"
"I've never held one. It's much more than a phone, correct?"
“Just look at all the buttons.”
Carrington held out his hand and Ari reluctantly handed the BlackBerry back to him. He watched closely as the detective slid open the back of the phone. With a bit of huffing, he took out a small plastic case containing a media card. He pushed the card into a slot inside of the BlackBerry, closed the phone, and fiddled with the buttons.
"I pulled something wild off the net. Get a load of this..."
He held up the BlackBerry so that Ari could see the LCD screen. Blank at first, then sound, then images.
People were shouting, crying, venting fear and confusion. Heads popped up in front of the lens, then came a yell in Chinese, "Get out of the way!"
Someone's head bobbed to the left. Ari could see the first cash register and the entrance. A man taller than the storefront bulletin board was swooping outside, his back to the camera.
"No! No!"
Even from the BlackBerry's tiny speaker, Ari could recognize the grocery store manager's voice. It grew louder.
"No camera!"
The glass door closed, then suddenly opened again as Ari's fishmonger ran out after the man, the bundle with the fresh carp under his arm. Whoever was holding the phone had finally managed to steady his camera. The view of the man in the parking lot was only partially blocked by the fishmonger, the image only slightly skewed by the angle of the rain-streaked plate glass window. As the man began to turn to accept the bundle, a hand suddenly shot up before the lens. The image became a swirl of close-ups of feet and linoleum floor tiles.
"No!" the grocery manager finished emphatically before the tiny screen went blank.
Ari sat back.
"Well?" Carrington demanded.
"Is this the robbery attempt I heard about?" Ari stood and went to the sink. "It happened yesterday, correct?"
"That's you, isn't it?"
"Do you think it looks like me?"
"Damn straight."
Ari ran some water into a pot for tea. He didn't have a proper kettle. He set the pot on the stove.
"It's all over YouTube," Carrington went on. "'Daytime Ninja Saves Oriental Market'. What crap."
"Do you have a description of this man?"
"Not a pimple. Mr. Fuck must pull some weight with his customers."
"'Mr. Fuck'?" Ari asked.
"Don't give me that screwy look. That's what his name sounds like. He must've put a real scare in his little community. Those Chinese love to talk, yin-yang-yin-yang, but as soon as we get there all they do is yang our chain. 'No see' and 'no hear'. You never met a more clueless group in your life. I'd like to know what Fuck told them. Maybe he threatened to cut off their supply of fortune cookies."
The water began to boil. Ari placed his tea strainer in his coffee mug and allowed his drink to steep.
"This man in the picture...you think he's the one who did the shooting?"
"You know I do," Carrington scowled.
"Is he considered a criminal?"
"We'd like to talk to him. After all, he blew away three men, two of them armed. Maybe three armed men, if the gun he walked off with belonged to the third guy."
"Will this man be arrested?"
"He'll be questioned...then probably released." Ari lifted his hands--palms up--as though to display neatly packaged self-evidence. "He's a hero, after all. It's just that we'd like to go through a few formalities."
"For appearances sake." Ari removed the tea steeper and brought his mug over to the table. "Forgive me, but Americans seem to be enraptured with 'appearance'."
"Name me one country that isn't," said Carrington.
"True, but here, there seems to be a total belief in the appearance. There's no culture of acceptance that what you see is illusion."
"You telling me those Muslim guys who blow themselves up don't believe in what they're doing?"
"I'm speaking of mainstream society." Ari sat across from Carrington and sipped almost daintily from his mug. "Those terrorists have...I think the phrase is 'bought into'...the themes of the prevalent culture."
"If they think everything's an illusion, why take it so seriously?" Carrington asked. "Why kill yourself and a dozen or a few thousand others?"
"To them, the illusion is the reality. Most of them don't believe they're actually dying."
"Oh yeah, Heaven and the virgins," Carrington mocked.
"The reason other countries are afraid of the United States is because you have an entire nation that has confused illusion with reality. And you have the means to destroy anyone who doesn't conform with that illusion. You haven't used it yet, unless we include Japan, but the fear is that one day you will grow annoyed and go beyond mere pinprick invasions..."
"Give me a break. You don't see us blowing ourselves up in a crowded marketplace." Carrington needed to keep his hands busy. He fiddled with the BlackBerry.
"You're rich. You can afford to do it by proxy. If we ever invade your country--"
"The Italians!" Carrington grinned.
"Anyone. If you see foreign soldiers on your streets, I'm sure Mr. and Mrs. Jones will start strapping on suicide belts."
Carrington half-intentionally hit the Play button on the BlackBerry. Again they heard the chaos in the Chinese grocery.
"Here's an illusion for you. I see a quarter profile of a man in a parking lot, and I see you. The Chinese see the whole man, and they see nothing. I think you should be the center of attention, and you say there's nothing to it."
"It's no illusion," said Ari. "The man is there. This is solid evidence. You've only reached the wrong conclusion. Have the two officers who came to my house seen this?"
"Yeah. They're not sure."
"And they're familiar with my appearance," Ari said sympathetically. "So I ask, what makes you so sure--"
"For one thing, I smell fish."
"You mean something is 'fishy'?"
"That, too. You mind...?" Carrington glanced around. "Where do you keep your garbage?"
"Under the sink."
Carrington opened the cabinet, where a trash can with a plastic liner was hooked to the cabinet door--one of the few amenities provided by Sandra and her people. The detective opened the flap and saw the white wrapping paper.
"Whew! Fish smell sure as hell lingers."
Ari parsed this sentence and found it vastly entertaining.
"The fish itself is in the refrigerator."
"You mind?" Carrington said again with monotonous certainty, as though the answer was forgone. He opened the refrigerator door and peeled back the aluminum foil in which Ari had wrapped his leftover fish. "What's that?"
"Carp."
"Kinda stinks." Carrington squinted, as though studying a wound. "Kinda boney, too. I notice you only ate half. You plan to finish it off? I wouldn't toss it outside. You don't want scavengers around the house."
"Like stray cats?"
"Or raccoons and possums. Get foxes around here, too." Carrington closed the door. "Yeah…Mangioni and Jackson said you were cooking fish when they showed up. You didn't get this out of the James, did you?"
"I've done some fishing in my day."
"But not yesterday. Unless you've already gone to Game and Inland Fisheries to get your license."
Ari was startled. You might get shot on the riverbank of the Tigris, might even hook a corpse, but you didn't need a license.
Carrington leveled an earnest look at Ari. "I saw a couple of Arab-type women at the Chinese shop and they had fish wrapped just the same way, with the same kind of paper."
"I bought the fish at Ali's in the Fan," said Ari, praying Ali sold fish as well as Halal meat. He had yet to visit the shop. He still wasn't sure where the Fan was, although he suspected it was just across the river.
"You know I'll check."
"Please do," Ari bluffed.
Carrington shuffled around the kitchen, giving the chair a wide berth. He rubbed his back.
"I'm sorry,” said Ari, “but this is the best seat in the house, except for an office chair upstairs."
"Surprised you haven't set up a tent," Carrington said. He nodded toward the living room. "So what's with the sledgehammer? Howie said you were trying to borrow one from him this morning. And don't tell me you're searching for mice. I don't blame you for not thinking of a better story, what with me catching you in your underwear and all."
So he had talked to Howie. Precisely what Ari had been hoping, although he had not counted on the cell phone video.
"I'm...looking into something," Ari said carefully.
"Like trying to find a hiding place for a gun? The two stiffs at the shop had Tec-9's. You wouldn't be trying to knock a hole in your wall for an automatic pistol, would you, Mr. Ciminon? Something like that would get you arrested."
"Do you know that drugs are being sold on the riverfront here, detective?"
Carrington went over to the small kitchen window and peered out, as if studying Howie Nottoway's house through the trees. "What did you see?" he said after a long moment.
"Do you know?"
"Yes."
"And your police department has done nothing about it?"
"We're working on it," Carrington answered grudgingly.
"Yes?"
"You're talking about the Kayak Express, I guess."
"They operate out of a kayak, yes."
"You've seen them in operation?"
Did Ari want to drag the Mackenzies into this? He personally did not care how people destroyed themselves. He was more concerned for the small farmers in Afghanistan, Columbia and elsewhere who got caught up in the cartel wars and deadly local battles over turf. And the middlemen were equally victimized, in most cases.