FIFTEEN
Unlike the Americans, Ghaith was not burdened by twenty-five or more pounds of equipment. He was wearing a flak vest, but so were the two men he was chasing. He was on equal terms. He did not think being outnumbered was of consequence. On the other hand, being weaponless could pose a problem.
He had to keep the fake IP's in sight. While he knew the general layout of Sadr City, he was not familiar with its nooks and byways. It would be easy for the two of them to lose themselves in an unexpected door or alley. Fortunately, the few pedestrians dodged out of the way. Most people did not want trouble. Even here. Especially here. The two would not be losing themselves in a crowd.
It had been a long year of physical inactivity for Ghaith. The luxury of jogging ten or fifteen kilometers had been reduced to seven, then one, then none. If you ran now, it was to save your own skin--or to rob someone of theirs. Yet he gained ground quickly after only a few blocks. The men ahead of him were getting winded. They were in even worse shape. The poor had never had the luxury of working out. Under the old regime, unless he belonged to the right crowd, a poor man risked arrest and torture for just showing his face. And if you were part of the right crowd, but still managed to get arrested, the torture was even worse.
They threw desperate looks over their shoulders. Did they assume Ari was armed? Or could they see the Americans humping around the corner behind him? Ghaith did not pause to check. At this point, the infantrymen were as likely to shoot him as they were the bombers. Ghaith understood how difficult it could be to tell allies from foes.
His breathing was a little ragged, but he was pleased to note he could still move easily. During the embargo nearly everyone had gone hungry, and many, far too many, had starved to death--mostly infants and the elderly. But Ghaith had thrived. He was twenty pounds heavier than the average Iraqi--nearly all of it muscle. The Minister of Interior had been so pleased with his work that he had given him an honorary membership at the Nadi al-Said. At least twice a week, and usually more often, he would work out at the exclusive club's gym. His wife would sip at a martini while watching their children in the pool. He did not take her often, though. “Mr. Deputy's” son was known for his penchant for pretty wives, and if he came to the club and saw Ghaith's wife, he was sure to satisfy temptation.
Up ahead, one of the bombers said something to the other. They skidded to a halt and whirled, lowering their AK-47's. Ghaith jumped into a narrow alley to his right and flattened against the drab brown wall of the house on the corner. He could not see the Americans, nor could he hear them. But his view was blocked by the building on the other side of the alley. If the platoon commander and NCO's had any sense, and some of them did, they would understand the bombers might be luring them into another trap. They would be using hand signals to guide their men silently forward.
But he couldn't count on it.
The bombers would have no pity. He was working for the Americans. And he had told them only minutes earlier that he had fucked their god. They might just blow off his pecker and let him live with the consequences of his blasphemy. He looked up. The roof was low. If he could only find something to stand on--
Too late. There was a squishy sound. One of the men had stepped in raw sewage as he approached. They were moving slowly. If Ghaith was armed he could take them both down when they turned the corner.
"There!" came a shout from up the street. Frantic English, a dialect unto itself.
“Coos okt al laglesh,” one of the bombers swore. The two men saw they had been spotted by what must have seemed to them like the entire 1st Cavalry Division. Ghaith assumed they were turning to run, since one of them had just said, “Fuck all this shit.”
Ghaith leapt out of the alley. One man was still half-turned his way. As he raised his gun, Ghaith jammed his knuckles into his throat. There was a loud crack and he went down, making an odd sound like wind through rice paper.
Dalash, the second man, had barely begun to face his attacker when Ghaith kicked him in the side of the knee. There was a violent snap and he fell, screaming, his Kalashnikov clattering on the broken pavement. Ghaith picked it up and aimed it at the man's head.
"No!" A sergeant ran up, waving his free hand. "We need them for intel! Don't shoot!"
Ghaith stared at him wildly, unable to comprehend the dismissal of so obvious a necessity. This man had just killed some of their own American soldiers. Before that, Dalash the child rapist had lived a life that deserved only a quick and ugly finish.
"Sarge, I don't know about that AK," said a private, forgetting Ghaith knew English.
"Yeah..." The sergeant turned a stern eye on his Iraqi ally. "Sir, would you please hand that rifle over? It's United States property, now."
Ghaith, seeing so many guns around him, knowing that he could get another at any time, placed the weapon into the sergeant's gloved hands.
Lieutenant Pito joined them.
"Sergeant, secure the perimeter."
"Yes, sir," the sergeant said blandly, although his squad had already fanned out.
A soldier kneeled next to the first bomber and pulled out a CLS aid bag. When he opened the bag several items rained down onto the bomber's chest, including syringes and a pair of blue examination gloves. He opened the man's mouth, preparing to insert a J tube. Then he paused.
"Sir, this man's status doesn't look too hot."
The lieutenant walked over and crouched, looking at the silent body and the crushed throat. "He doesn't have any status at all, soldier."
A loud roar announced the arrival of the Bradley, Captain Rodriguez standing in the turret. He ordered the driver to stop. He spoke into his microphone and the lieutenant's head jerked up.
Ghaith had dragged Dalash into the middle of the street and had pushed his face into the raw filth and refuse that had pooled in the center. Courtesy of the invasion and consequent power outages, pumps had failed and sewage formed brown streams wherever gravity took it. This included Ghaith's rage, which spiraled downward in a superheated disgust that focused on the shit in the street. What better place to bury Dalash? Dalash and his kind? The whole shitty world?
Ghaith wasn't deaf to the shouts around him. The whole world shouted, so a few added voices of outrage made no difference to the chorus. He lifted the man's face out of the muck and slammed it down again. If he didn't drown, the stench would kill him.
"Watch it! He just killed an armed man with his bare hands!"
"And watch the spread!" another querulous voice joined in.
A nervous, familiar face came before Ghaith. Ropp, the private who had offered him the 'four fingers of death' all-beef franks earlier that week. He had just seen the friendly epithet become a grisly reality when Ghaith killed Abu Shihab with a blow to the throat.
"Sir! Back off from that prisoner!"
No longer mocking. Private Ropp’s eyes were wide with fear and determination. He was pointing a shotgun at Ghaith. A Mossberg, favored by the infantry in house-to-house fighting. Ghaith had been present when word came down from command that the 5.56 was to be preferred over the 12 gauge, which had too wide a spread. Shooting an alleged terrorist in his living room might also bring down everyone else present, including the man's wife and children. The M16 was more discreet, hitting only what was aimed at. But here was a Mossberg, pointed straight at Ghaith's head. Ghaith began to laugh.
That's right. Take me down. Take down everyone. Take down the whole fucking mess.
The godless mess. God was too great to want anything to do with Iraq. Too great for the Americans. Too great for this piece of shit world. They were an experiment gone wrong. A discarded lab test that they were too stupid to realize had been flushed down the sewer.
"Sir! Back away!"
Ghaith let go of Dalash and allowed his will to survive to carry him back several yards. His face felt like fire. The balaclava scorched whatever it touched. But it was worse than mere heat. It was a symbol of what he had come to. He had joined the world of useless anonymity. Not that he had ever been well-known. But always before he had walked proudly, openly, secure in his position, or as secure as one could be in this antique, violent land. He had been a functionary extraordinaire. His prodigious talents had been rewarded, something that would have been highly unlikely under the old monarchy his father had known.
And now he was less than what he had been in the beginning, a pitiful nonentity swathed in a death mask, like a criminal facing execution.
"You okay, sir?"
He looked stonily into Sergeant Mastin’s face. So fresh and healthy. So...unmasked.
"Do you know who I am?" Ghaith asked.
"Well, no. We're not supposed to know who you are, just so long as you weren't one of those Baathist assholes."
Baathist assholes. The same Baathists who had brought modernity and, yes, enlightenment to the country. Ghaith's education, a secular affair of science and wonders, was due to them and their leader. Ghaith had been able to marry the woman he loved because she loved him too, and the despised Baathists gave freedom to women to marry the man of their choice. Yes, they had brought wars. Yes, their leading families were despicable. Yet here was America telling Iraqis how loathsome the Baathists were. America, at war. America, its leading families and its guiding plutocracy demanding a laughable transparency from the defeated. America, so transparent you couldn't see beyond the clouds of money. Except, of course, for that one day. The whole world saw, then.
And then the clouds closed in again.
"You're not supposed to know me," repeated Ghaith flatly.
"No, sir," said the sergeant, looking puzzled that the interpreter would even bring up such a bizarre topic. "Come on, we have to clear out of here."
"You will...soon enough."
"Sir?"
Captain Rodriguez came storming up. "You want to explain yourself, mister?"
Ghaith nodded at Dalash, who had been pulled out of the shit. A combat medic was applying a temporary splint to his leg.
"Él debe ser ejecutado inmediatamente."
He could not bear the gape of the captain, a reaction so extreme he might have just heard a donkey talk. Could an Iraqi not be educated? Could an Iraqi not have a mind? Ghaith pulled away from Rodriguez and the sergeant and faced the drab, windowless wall of the house across the street. An ugly house in an ugly city in a country universally reviled as the ugliest nation on earth.
Ghaith ripped off the balaclava.
"Here I am!" he screamed. "Here I am, the godless one!"
He stormed down the street, raising his fist at invisible watchers.
"You know me!" he shouted at a suburb stoked with former Shia prisoners. "You know me! I have ripped out your hearts! I have guided the demons to your doorstep! Forget the Americans! Look at me and see what it is to be truly godless! Burn your prayer rugs! Come join me! All of you are godless! Face the truth! Look at me!"
"Sir, we got a serious death wish here," said the sergeant, watching Ghaith, then glancing up nervously at the rooftops. He could not understand a word of what the Iraqi was saying, but he sensed Ghaith’s behavior was making the place more dangerous by the second.
Sphinx shifted position during the night. When Ari awoke he found the cat curled next to his head, like some foreign agent trying to smother him in his sleep. Having collected several hours' worth of cat dandruff in his lungs, Ari gave a mighty sneeze. He watched in dismay as Sphinx jumped up and shot out the studio door. This was not what he had planned.
Rolling over, he punched the button on the computer tower, then stood and stretched. He leaned down and picked up the Tec-9 that he had prudently kept at his side, in anticipation of a visit from 'Mother' and her two boys. He did not consider it likely that they would come after him, but one never knew. He went to the bathroom, slipped the gun under the towels in the closet, and stared at his face in the mirror just long enough to foment a mild disgust at his appearance. He went back to the studio.
The log-on screen had just popped up on the monitor when Sphinx sashayed back into the studio and took up a position on the heat signature Ari had left on the mattress. After giving him a cagy look, the cat stretched, licked its anus, and folded itself into a near-perfect ball before falling asleep.
Ari slipped down to the garage and took the bag of flour out of the xB. He went back upstairs and checked to make sure Sphinx was still on the mattress. He then descended to the basement and broke open the bag. Pinching out small clumps, he sprinkled flour around the utility room doorway and along the wall. He walked backwards up the stairs, spreading flour on several steps. Mentally gauging the stride of a frightened cat, he laid a five-foot-wide band of flour at the head of the stairs.
He went to each room on the first floor, creating a band of all-purpose along the walls. In the kitchen he was generous around the cabinets and on the counter top. By the time he had repeated the process upstairs, the five pounds of flour were fully distributed. Back in the studio, he tossed the paper bag aside and smiled down on his sleeping visitor.
“Itla! Itla!" he yelled, stamping his feet. Get out!
He took his time following the trail. There was no need to rush. The cat's pawprints were as clear as if it had been running in snow--and flour on polished wood proved to be almost as slippery.
Down the upstairs hallway, down the steps, through the living room...and into the kitchen. The tracks suddenly disappeared in the gap between the counter and the base of the stove.
"Ah..."
Retrieving the flashlight he had taken from the kayakers, Ari went down on his stomach and turned the beam down the dark tunnel. He saw nothing but the kitchen wall and yellow furballs that attested to Sphinx's frequent use of the passage.
He sat up with a grunt. Ignoring the flour covering his pajamas and arms, he puzzled over the cat's disappearance. Was there a hole behind the counter? Ari opened the bottom counter cabinet and peered past one of the few pots Sandra had provided him. No hole and no cat. He grunted again and closed the door.
Still seated, he leaned forward and grasped the edge of the stove's bottom access panel. He lowered it on its hinge and angled down for a peek underneath.
A yellow comet blasted past his face. Ari just managed to avoid getting his eyes clawed as Sphinx howled out of the gap and across the kitchen floor, vanishing in a cloud of flour. After catching his breath, Ari rolled back onto his side and held the flashlight under his chin.
More fur, some greasy dirt, and the shiny, flexible tube of the stove exhaust. He swore at himself. How could he have been so stupid? The futile sucking of the Jenn-Air fan and the resulting houseful of smoke should have given him his answer.
Maybe I didn't spend enough time in field operations.
Reaching in, he slid the tube off the exhaust outlet. It dropped with a soft rattle, the end of the tube facing him. He poked his hand into the wide opening and immediately found what he was looking for. He pulled away and rolled up in a seated position, laying the pouch on his lap.
It was identical to the waterproof pouches used by the kayakers. No doubt they had given it to Moria, perhaps as some kind of bonus, like a credit card company handing out a cheap digital travel clock to anyone opening a new account. Unzipping the pouch, Ari found it stuffed with small Ziploc bags--quarter gram, half gram, gram. But why so much? Ari judged there to be fifty grams total here, or more. Moria Riggins must have been anticipating some brisk trade in product to build up such a hoard. Or had she bought it all at once? Ari had no idea of the street value of cocaine in this country, but what he held in his hands must have involved a substantial capital outlay. Jerry Riggins could not have been pleased. He had not been pleased, in any event.
No money for Christmas gifts for the boys? Because you bought all this shit?
But Jerry, with what I make at The Shamrock, we'll be able to buy them--
Ari quickly terminated the imaginary conversation between husband and wife. Although it led to the expected conclusion, it was insufficient as a motive. But it certainly provided Jerry with all the motive he needed to threaten the kayakers with a gun.
Which reminded Ari that the day's labors had only started. And he comprehended there were other home necessities he had neglected, such as a broom and dustpan. Better yet, a vacuum cleaner. He still had twenty-five hundred on his credit card. And now, courtesy of Mother and her kayakers, nearly three times that amount in cash--even more, if he could locate a proper fence.
He knew just the man, if he could only find a secure way to contact him.
He tucked the pouch under the counter and carried one of the kitchen chairs into the living room. Placing it against the wall under the register, he was about to step up when he spotted the cat peering around the corner at him.
"Ah, Sphinx, merci beaucoup." When he tried to approach, Sphinx retreated to the front door and crouched. "You stay home for a bit. Come in here."
His feet sliding across the flour, Ari went back into the kitchen. At the sound of a can being popped open, Sphinx appeared and emitted a meow of complaint and anticipation. While Ari was scooping food into its dish, Sphinx sniffed at the opening next to the stove.
"I forgive you for keeping secrets from me," Ari said convivially, putting the dish on the floor. Sphinx shook off some flour and held its nose near the turkey giblets with gravy. First it licked, then began devouring the cat food.
"Excellent. Don't forget where your poop box is."
In the living room, Ari stood on the chair and raised his arms to the register. He did not see any screws. Working his fingernails under the rim, he gave a tug. The register parted easily from the duct opening. Ari flipped it over and noted the spring clamps that held the register in place. No need for a screwdriver.
Taking up the magnet he had gotten at Lowe's, he tested it against the side of the duct. It did not stick. He tied the magnet to the end of the rope and lowered it into the ductwork.
He had played out about ten feet when there was a knock inside the wall near the foot of his chair. He pushed the rope a short way and it slackened. That was as far as he would get. Was it enough?
He drew the rope back slowly. For a moment it seemed heavier than when he had lowered it. Then it suddenly lightened at the same moment he heard the distinctive knock of metal against the ductwork.
It was there, all right. How far was it from the basement duct junction? Several feet? Or mere inches? If he toyed with the magnet any more, the gun--and he was positive now it was a gun--might drop through the gap. He did not know if that would make his task easier or harder, but for now at least he knew where to cut through the sheet rock if he was forced to adopt that option.
It was obvious the magnet was not up to the job. He tied a bungee cord around the end of the rope, with the hook extending. For the next hour, without a break, he worked the rope back and forth and sideways, trying every conceivable angle as he perched on the chair, like a bell ringer searching for the perfect, almost unachievable pitch. He had resigned himself to battling his way through the wall when, while pulling gently, the rope resisted ever so slightly. He paused, trying to work a kink out of his back, then began to haul in his catch. Mild thudding and scraping accompanied the ascent, but there was no abrupt slack, no violent crash of the gun falling back to the L-joint. When the bungee cord came in sight, Ari stretched as far as he could to catch the gun as it slid out of the cut. An accidental discharge could put a ludicrous end to all his labor.
He pulled. A moment later, he was holding a .38 with a gaudy red handle, identical to the one he had taken from the kayakers--with one exception. This gun contained four spent cartridges—and evidence of drawback effect. He was sure the flecks on the barrel were dried blood.
It was almost noon, but Ari was content. Having considered the possibility that he might have to pound a hole in his wall and cut into the duct, he had reserved the entire day for this task. Now he could focus on other matters.
Upstairs he found Sphinx curled up on his mattress. In the process of cleaning itself off, it had left traces of flour on the blanket. Ari was confronted with the necessity of doing a wash, a domestic chore as mysterious to him as cooking a decent meal.
He sat at the computer and juggled the mouse to bring up the screen. He logged on and checked the news. There had been a particularly costly attack in Baghdad. A suicide bomber had rammed a fuel tanker at a gas station. The resulting explosion had killed over a hundred people. The number of wounded was as yet unknown. Ari imagined the suffering, the ghastly burns. But what pained him most was how the insurgents imposed a kind of complicity upon innocent bystanders. Iraqis killing Iraqis made the victims as guilty as the killers because they were being used to enforce a vision of futility. Without the dead, there was no cause, only the same meaningless babble that one got from around the globe. And babble could be easily dismissed.
There was no idle babble in the Riggins house. On a scale of one, one individual's death was all that was needed to invoke a cause. Ari had four voices calling to him.
And when he checked his email he found yet more voices calling to him, these from halfway across the Atlantic.
They came via an attachment in one of Sandra's emails. There was no question it was from the deputy, although she did not sign the message and neither the user name nor domain included anything about the U.S. Marshals Service--or any other government entity.
"Baskin-Robbins, Forest Hill, 2 PM. Have what you want, but hoping this will alleviate your boredom. I asked for a better picture, but this was all that was provided."
He clicked on the attachment and drew in his breath.
"My husband, your son is doing well. He is working as a translator for our small community here. He is also taking many classes. You know how eager a student he has always been. As for myself, I am doing well. They have asked me to write this in English. I have never been as adept at languages as yourself, but as you can see, I still have some of my wits left. They treat me well, here. There is no fear. I have been asked to provide a picture. Here I am. Your wife."
He stared at the picture.
His roar of grief and rage sent Sphinx flying. It took every ounce of Ari's willpower not to smash the computer to the floor.
She hasn't forgiven me....
He sent the office chair crashing against the studio wall and stormed blindly through the house, bedroom to basement, flooding the vacant spaces with his despair. He slammed his fists against walls, ripped down the thick curtains of the living room, pounded the kitchen table into a rickety hulk.
It was only when he found himself in Joshua's bedroom that he found the control for his rage. His eyes narrowed on the spot where the boy's bed had been.
Joshua, why were you awake at that late hour? Was it fear that kept your eyes open? Or something else?
He would not know until he saw Sandra.
Downstairs, he found Sphinx crouched next to the front door. Apparently it realized its hiding place had been permanently compromised and understood the only safety lay outdoors. Ari had never paid much attention animal emotions, but Sphinx's terror was painful to see. He leaned down to pet the cat, but it drew back. He nodded, and opened the door. With a keen sense of loss, he watched the animal rocket away into the woods.
At two o'clock, Ari was seated in a strictly functional plastic chair watching a mother two tables down trying to control the ice cream dripping from her four-year-old's cone. He appreciated the friendly, apologetic smile she gave him as she wiped a green blob off the bright red Formica. It was all the more appreciated for being offered to a lone man, a foreigner, who seemed very much out of place.
What he didn't find so friendly were the wary glances of the high school girl manning the counter. What was he doing here? Why wasn't he ordering?
He studied a bulletin board loaded with 'Have You Seen Me?' flyers. Nearly half of the children pictured had been 'kidnapped' by their own fathers. Ari could not bring himself to take these seriously. Why shouldn't a man take charge of his own children?
For half an hour Ari twisted in the plastic chair. He had noticed similar buttock-cups in many of the American eating establishments he had visited so far. After going to great lengths to attract customers, some restaurants seemed to go out of their way to make them as uncomfortable as possible. He realized this was entirely subjective. The woman and her son did not leave prematurely, nor any of the others who came in, ate and departed while Ari sat mute near the entrance.
Sandra entered breezily, a large courier pouch under her arm.
"You ate already?"
Ari placed his hands on the table. "What you see."
"You don't like ice cream?" Keeping the pouch under her arm, she went to the counter and gazed lovingly down upon the containers of ice cream under the display glass, like a pilot trying to locate a landing field in the fog. She finally chose an off-white ice cream with thick caramel seams. She cocked her head and carried her dessert to the back, out of sight of the counter. Ari stood and followed.
Laying the pouch on the table, Sandra sat and immediately planted her tongue in the ice cream, following it to the crown with the sensuous innocence of a child.
"You don't know what you're missing," she said, smacking her lips.
"I'm not hungry." Ari gave her an impatient look. "If I