SEVEN
When Omar called him earlier that evening, and Ghaith asked how he had gotten his private office number, Omar explained that a mutual friend, a leading member of a prominent shura, had given it to him in strictest confidence. All hell had broken loose in the country, but the Ministry was well-protected from looting. Americans stood guard outside the complex in Central Baghdad, just as they had sent their army to fend off plunderers at the Ministry of Oil. Ghaith had not been forced to relocate, and under the Multi-National Security Transition Command – Iraq, the old phone numbers were still operable. It was quite possible that Omar had formed an odd allegiance to the imam, a well-known Twelver Ghaith had met years earlier. Just to be on the safe side, Ghaith called up someone he knew well, an assistant imam. He confirmed that Omar was a follower of the moderate cleric.
Omar showed up in a white Toyota pickup—only borrowed, he told Ghaith, but the policeman riding shotgun in the back added a kind of official sanction to the mysterious proceedings. The circle seemed complete. Omar's youthful craving for martyrdom had been defeated by the younger Omar's craving for sweets. When Ghaith opened the truck door, Omar held up a bag of lu'mat al-adi, laughing.
"Remember?"
For a moment, they were boys again. Omar removed one of the sticky pastries from the cellophane bag, took a bite, and handed the remaining half to Ghaith, who grinned and finished it off in one bite.
If Ghaith had known that Minister of Interior Falah al-Naqib (Sunni, and a bit of a media hound) was being ousted to make way for the more silent (and sinister) Baqir Jabr al-Zubeidi, a Shia, he would have been infinitely more circumspect. If he had gone with Omar at all, he would have arranged for an armed escort. But who would have accompanied him? The MNSTC-I didn’t have enough men to do more than hold their ground against the looters. And local Iraqi alliances had radically changed overnight. Ghaith had been caught flat-footed. It was someone in the Ministry who had supplied Omar with his phone number, of that Ghaith was now certain. And the assistant imam Ghaith had called must be in on the plot, must have been waiting for Ghaith to contact him so he could confirm Omar's legitimacy.
After all that's happened, it's only to be expected...one can only be so clever, so lucky, before history gravitates towards the overabundance of good fortune and smashes the game....
"Come on, Ghaith. Rifle through that file cabinet of yours." Omar tapped Ghaith on the side of the head, then pointed at the unhooded man kneeling on the ground. "Who is he?"
Ghaith did not answer.
"I've told my brothers about your photographic memory. Don't make me look like a fool."
Akhee. 'My brother'. Always 'my brothers'. Brothers in arms, band of brothers, blood brothers, daisy chain brothers. There is as much blood relation here as between an ox and an eel. Doesn't matter. Plumbers, beggars, jihadists--all brothers in kind. The U.S. Army’s motto is more accurate. 'An Army of One'. That's it. You're on your own, with only your own sweet ass to kiss good-bye.
Omar smiled tensely. He was not concerned with looking foolish. He was, Ghaith decided, screwing up his courage.
The little rat-mouth can't still think of me as an old friend, can he?
"Hey! You! Asshole! I'm talking to you!"
Ari had no doubt that the man was speaking to him. He had been discreetly urinating in the bushes when this rude madman burst through. Not believing in putting off business, Ari continued to pee.
"Do you hear me!" the man screamed. "I can't believe it! There are children around here!"
The last child Ari had seen had been over a mile back on the main trail. He had chosen a narrow, half-overgrown side path to empty his swollen bladder. Even then, he had stepped half a dozen yards into the undergrowth to guarantee privacy. Back in his homeland, where a man found the nearest convenient corner to piss in, he was considered a bit of a prude because of his delicacy in this matter. It had nothing to do with timidity and everything to do with public hygiene. The city and outlying villages stank enough without him adding his few ounces to the mess.
The woods seemed a perfectly reasonable venue for relieving himself, screened off from women and little girls, and a perfect absorbent for natural human waste. It was just his bad luck to encounter a lunatic. He finished peeing and rolled up the front of his jogging pants.
The lunatic retreated a short distance as Ari stepped through the brambles and onto the path. He only now saw Ari's face, and was busy reassessing the situation.
Foreigners were more common in the outlying counties than in Richmond proper, Ari had noted. Sometimes, in a checkout line or on a street corner, he saw the same flicker of uncertainty or outright fear--and occasionally loathing--that made Americans overseas so disruptive, if sometimes amusing. But most of the locals seemed to accept the presence of Chinese and Indians and (above all) Hispanics in their midst. There weren't that many Arabs yet, though, not this far south. Perhaps a few thousand in the immediate area. Ari wondered if the outraged jogger would conclude he was Punjabi. Or Sikh. Or a member of that relatively new race: a Terrorist.
Why not? We all look the same to them.
"You don't do that here," the jogger admonished, no longer screaming, but scolding. "There are public toilets."
Ari had tried to use the facilities at a nature center further up the trail, only to find the building locked. Peering through a plate glass window, he saw a marine turtle moping in a fish tank and some fanciful children's drawings of various animals on a bulletin board next to the entrance. Otherwise, the interior was dark. Ari had encountered this manifestation before. Americans were very good at stockpiling material in great abundance, then locking it all up. Everything for the record, none for use.
The jogger was into the second phase of his assessment, his eyes running up and down Ari's baggy jogging pants and sweaty gray shirt. They compared poorly with his own natty outfit. The logos on his shirt and striped shorts matched, while his immaculate running shoes appeared to have an inch of cushion. He was a brand name. He belonged. Whereas Ari (and his renegade penis) was fraught with anonymity. Was he homeless? Or that worst of all conjunctions: foreign and destitute--with nothing to lose? In other words, was he dangerous?
"There's a shelter for..."
Ari raised his brow inquiringly.
"They have toilets. You can even take a shower." He chose to interpret Ari's silence as a query. "It's three or four miles from here, across the river. Next to the city jail...I hear."
"I am not a peasant," Ari said with grim civility. Feeling a twinge in his calf, he braced his hands on one knee and stretched out his leg. When he straightened, the other jogger was gone.
It was his own fault, he thought. He had been living in a state of semi-savagery, sleeping in his jogging suit, eating junk food, neglecting his appearance. He had neither showered nor shaved this morning, putting off his toilette until he'd taken his morning run. Which only made sense, but which also helped explain why the man treated him like some alien cast-off.
But it did nothing to alleviate Ari's sense of outrage. He had done well in his country, so well that there was an assumption among some that his good fortune was simply that, plums that had fallen out of the sky into his lap. True, luck had been involved. But few understood how hard he had worked, the risks he had taken, the fragility of the thread from which he dangled. And with the final toss of the dice, he had lost all. Not that he had had much choice. Nor was he by any means the only one to have found a desert where, only a day before, there had been lush pastures. Which made the man's reaction to his uncovered presence all the more galling. He had reprimanded Ari out of ignorance. He had screamed out of ignorance. And Ari wondered, as he jogged the several miles back to Beach Court, if he should have broken the idiot's jaw.
No. You did well. Doing something like that might draw attention.
An unpleasant odor greeted him inside the house. It seemed to be coming from upstairs. Going up, he found his thin blanket balled up at the end of the mattress. A nudge of his foot exposed feces and a large wet patch that could only be urine.
The cat must have predicted Ari's reaction, because it was nowhere to be found. What a clever beast, to find a hiding spot where none existed.
Only we both know that's not true, don't we?
His wrath slowly receded, like a slow-moving thunderstorm disappearing over the horizon. After all, he reasoned, the cat was only guilty of a cultural misstep similar to the one Ari had apparently made in James River Park. Locked inside the house, it had used the nearest thing at hand that approximated loose soil.
His primitive bed was now unusable. The mattress was thin and folded easily, along with the blanket, in the large trash can (Waste Management Systems grandiosely stenciled on its green flank) sitting outside the garage.
He took a quick shower, shaved.
He dressed.
His suit looked rumpled in the bathroom mirror.
A major shopping spree was called for. He had a $3,000 credit limit. Prudence dictated limited expenditure. How much would, say, $600 buy?
As he raised the garage door a pickup truck pulling a trailer entered his driveway. The driver saw that Ari was about to leave and backed away to the street. After parking at the curb, he hopped out and walked up the slight rise.
"Mr. Ciminon?"
Ari nodded. "You must be Ted. It says so on your truck."
"Actually, I'm Fred." The young man stuck out his hand. "I just work for Ted."
"I received an email--"
"All taken care of."
"I don't understand."
"I tried calling ahead, but no one answered."
"I went jogging."
"And didn't take your cell phone with you," Fred clucked, as though Ari had committed a major faux pas. His second that morning. "That's all right. I'll just run my little Toro around here a bit and trim a few hedges and I'll be out of your hair."
"I never requested this service," Ari said.
"It's all under contract," the young man answered with an annoying combination of servility and confidence. "You just go about your business. We'll do fine."
"Uh, Fred," Ari called out as the man turned and headed back to his truck.
Fred turned. "Yes?"
"Your uniform."
Fred, puzzled, glanced down at his carpenter jeans, then tucked his chin for a look at the name stitched on his shirt pocket: Fred, in flowing cursive. He raised his head. "I'm sorry?"
"It's quite...immaculate."
Their eyes met. Fred held his gaze a fraction too long. He grinned broadly and chuckled, looking away. "It's under contract, too!"
Ari smiled, nodded, and returned to the garage. As he backed his Scion down the driveway, Fred waved for him to stop. Ari lowered his passenger window and Fred leaned down.
"About these," he said, nodding at the flowers and wreath clustered around the mailbox post. "You don't want me to get rid of them, do you?"
"You can leave them," Ari said.
Fred gave him a sad smile and turned away.
"Uh...wait!" Ari called after him. "I've changed my mind. You may get rid of them. All of them."
Ari brushed off Fred's dismay with a wave of his hand. "There will be more, soon enough. Fresh ones."
Fred gave him a long look, then said, "Nice car!"
Ari glowered and pulled away.
America, Land of Shops and Shoppers. Ari had been astonished when, only a few days after 9/11, the President of the United States had stood before the people of this great land and announced the sure cure for global terrorism:
"Go shopping."
Ari had gone barely a mile down Midlothian Turnpike before he spotted a men's clothing store and negotiated a turn into a strip mall parking lot.
"Ah, yes," a salesman said appreciatively as Ari walked in. "Just the shark for my sharkskin."
Ari gave him an 'I beg your pardon' lift of the brow.
“I have a real bargain from Vanetti, just the thing for hot summer days,” the salesman said, guiding Ari to a rack near a fitting room and a trio of mirrors. He looked the prospective customer up and down and removed a gray three-button suit, holding it up to the side of Ari's chest. “Polyester and rayon blend, very cool. Classic center venting, with pleated pants. Of course we have this style in wool, too. It will be getting chilly in this neck of the woods in a month or so.”
Ari fingered the material. Adequate. He noticed the chalk marks on the unfinished pants cuffs and sighed. “I need something right away.”
The salesman sighed, too, as though forming a duet of disappointment with his client. "That limits our options somewhat." He hesitated, then said, "I hope you won't take offence, but...your English is very good."
"Cambridge," Ari said.
"Ah! I thought I detected a trace of English English."
Ari smiled.
The salesman tapped his lower lip, then held out his hand. "Do you mind?"
"Please."
The salesman pinched Ari's pinstripe jacket and rubbed the fabric between his fingers. "This is very fine."
"This? I wore it at work.”
“This?”
“At the Casino du Liban.”
“That's…” The salesman's eyes widened. “In Lebanon? Beirut?”
“Actually, it's in Jounieh, about twenty kilometers outside the city. They're famous for their Maronite Catholics.”
“Those Catholics love to gamble!” the salesman barked--then closed his mouth. “I'm sorry. You aren't by any chance…” Then he frowned. “Didn't all the casinos close down? I thought I heard something about that…”
“Casino du Liban reopened years ago, after the civil war. But because of the recent troubles with Syria, there's been some readjustments in the staff.”
“Hard times?”
Palm down, Ari brought his hand up to the salesman and the inch of pinstripe still between his fingers. “As you can tell, this has seen better days."
"Yes, but…the thread count must be tremendous. Barbera? Piana?"
"Marzotto."
"Oh my," the salesman wailed lowly. "I'm afraid we don't have anything like that here. You would have to go to New York to find something like this. Or Rome!”
"I certainly don't have time for that."
"Of course not, of course not." Making a sound that combined a snort with a laugh, the salesman said, "You could take a look at Macy's Donald Trump Collection."
The salesman showed Ari a few more suits and combinations, but his attitude was halfhearted. It was like showing the Queen of England a collection of Tupperware. When Ari made it clear even these modestly priced items were beyond his current means, he dropped all pretense.
"I suppose you'll be wanting Wal-Mart, then. This is as low as we go."
Ari had seen at least a dozen Wal-Marts, or signs directing shoppers to Wal-Marts, during his drive south. He had concluded that it was some kind of department store chain.
"They sell suits?"
"Allegedly." The salesman was courteous, but obviously put out. "Chinese suits, strictly off the rack. You'll probably need a tailor, to take out the shoulders."
"Can you tell me where the nearest Wal-Mart is?"
The salesman told him. Then, his sense of self-promotion completely shattered, at least for what remained of the morning, he added: "Too bad, too bad. My suits would have looked so good on you. You put my mannequins to shame."
Ari glanced toward the display window. All of the mannequins were blue.
Two hours later Ari unloaded his wardrobe. The George suit and slacks (Bulgarian, not Chinese) went onto new plastic hangers, as did his three new shirts, an additional pair of pants, a dark blue sports jacket, and two ties. On the overhead shelf he placed underwear, socks, a fresh jogging suit, and a proper pair of pajamas.
He then pumped up the inflatable mattress and pillow that he had gotten from the sports department. Hopefully, it would prove more resistant to the cat's whimsical bladder. He would bring out his new blanket at bedtime.
The cat greeted him in the kitchen, as though it knew Ari had gone to additional expense on its behalf.
"Sphinx," Ari said before knocking it off the counter. The cat began to run away, but stopped when it heard Ari pop open a can of Special Kitty. "That's your new name. Get used to it."
He put several scoops of Mixed Grill into a plastic dish decorated with paw prints. Sphinx came forward, its tail whisking the air. Ari knew dogs well, certain types of dogs, but they had been handled by men whose training was every bit as specialized as that of the dogs in their care. Of cats he knew next to nothing. He had no idea if he was giving Sphinx too little or too much. His first inclination was to give nothing at all. Pushing his cart through the Wal-Mart pet department, he was left to wonder if any of these American pets earned their keep. With so many varieties of pet food available, would any cat feel inclined to expend energy on a mouse?
"And I have something else for you," he told Sphinx.
After setting the dish on the floor, he pulled out a kitty litter box. He'd had a bit of luck at the store. A woman had spotted him putting the box and cat food in his cart, and then a bag of cedar shavings on top. She asked him if he had a hamster.
"What's that?" Ari asked.
"Something like a rat."
"Certainly not!"
"Then I think this is what you want..." And she had directed him to the kitty litter.
Ari filled the kitty litter box and took it to the downstairs bathroom. Returning to the kitchen, he swept the cat away from the dish, carried it to the bathroom, and dropped it in the fresh litter.
"This is your toilet. You will use it. You will not--"
Sphinx fled.
Ari had seen the slip of paper on his kitchen table when he first entered, a receipt from Ted's lawn service, stamped PAID. It confirmed what he already suspected, but he doubted 'Fred' was the same person who had come in through the back door last night. Fred was advertising the fact that he had been in the house.
Ari learned the meaning of the implied message when he went upstairs to switch on his computer. A flash drive had been inserted in the USB port at the back of the screen.
'Time to get to work,' could not have been spoken more plainly.
The folder on the flash drive was full of jpg files--over a hundred of them. He clicked on the first one and his image viewer opened automatically.
Ari put aside the bag of Fritos he had brought with him and turned the mouse wheel, bringing up the second digital photo, then the next. At the sixth picture he stopped.
“Ah, Abu Yaqoub…. When did you start playing with sharp objects?”
There was no need to zoom in, but he did.
No mistake.
He paused to consider his next move. According to his new job description, he should immediately shoot off an email. But when the opportunity presented itself--and God knew he had plenty of empty hours on his hands--the wise course was to sit back and calculate. What would be the consequences if he sent the email? If he didn't? Who benefited, who lost?
But in this case, the ramifications were plain and simple. Nor was this a time to make outrageous demands of his employer, on only his third day in the franchise. He sat up, opened a second window, and logged on to his email account. He had only to type in the letter 'u' for the complete address to drop down in the address box.
He wrote:
'Picture No. 6, third from right. Abu Khalid Yusuf al-Kayid. Mid-thirties. No distinguishing marks. Arab. Thief. Part of the mass release of 2002. The last I knew of him, he had apparently come up in the world. He had moved to Kadhimiya, near the Shrine of Imam Musa al-Kadhim. Used to be a safe neighborhood until you kindly improved it. Work history unknown, but has obviously acquired a new job skill.'
Ari paused. This last was a bit of editorial sarcasm that exceeded the parameters set out for him. He decided to leave it. His employers having little sense of humor, they would undoubtedly ascribe it to an ineradicable cultural deviation. He continued:
'Religious affiliation: cannot recall. Probably none. He did not do this out of conviction. No doubt was paid by parties unknown. He would also make a first-class alassa. He would rat out anyone--I believe that's the phrase. Cannot recall details about his family, but this kunya should give you a clue. He was known to associate with Feisel al-Amiri, a well-known businessman (I believe you would call him a 'fence') near the gold market. Yusuf was not known to be particularly dangerous before. As you can see, that has changed. Just as Kadhimiya has changed.'
The cursor hovered over the Send button for only a moment.
"So much for Abu Yaqoub," Ari murmured, and clicked.
He returned to the images. As he scrolled through the files, his face began to sag. The loss. The enormous loss. Was it necessary? Inevitable? Even preferable?
He froze. Ghostly voices were calling to him from down the hallway. That they were summoned by his own imagination did not make them any less real.