Cold Snap (11 page)

The two men were not discussing a
battlefield, but this did not diminish the subject in Ari's eyes.
He could never recall an Iraq free of violence. Even between wars,
death was omnipresent. Saddam Hussein's claim to success was to
centralize tribal violence and put it to the service of his
government. This was an improvement on America, where the violence
was more scattered, but came in a wide variety of forms, some quite
unexpected. Saddam would have known how to deal with those highway
snipers, for example: set up hundreds of checkpoints, torture a few
hundred people, and those two jokers would have been on the rack in
no time. Such was Ari's opinion, at least. The violence committed
by the leadership itself was tamed, to some degree, by the media,
which took glee in exposing the foibles of the government. But it
was an imperfect instrument. What little news that had been
released about the events in Cumberland was comically
inaccurate.

"Mr. Ciminon, were you in the military?"
Lawson asked.

Startled by a question on a subject already
on his mind, Ari paused before answering. "I was with the Esercito
Italiano in my younger days…before it became an all-volunteer
army."

Lawson grunted.

"What is that address you mentioned?" Ari
asked.

"You have a pen and paper?" Lawson asked.

"Yes," said Ari, who had only his phone in
his hand.

Lawson gave him an address. Still unfamiliar
with the city and the surrounding counties, Ari had no idea where
it was. But everywhere he turned, in gas stations, drug stores,
quick-stops and tourist centers, Americans were selling maps. There
seemed to be a prevailing terror of getting lost. Even worse, being
inconvenienced by a superfluous turn.

"These people are guaranteed Grade A
dangerous, my Arab friend."

"I'm pleased to remind you that I'm—"

"I know one when I see one. Iraqi?
Afghan?"

"The majority of Iraqis and Afghans are of
lighter complexion, as I'm sure you noticed."

"You sound like one of the bro's talking
about a skinny."

Hmm, Ari thought. Had Lawson been posted to
Somalia?

"And what are these dangerous people
suspected of doing?"

"You mean besides being dangerous? They're
into crash for cash, big-time. That may sound small-time, but we
think they're part of the Kkangpae Gang. That's South Korea's
equivalent of the Mafia. We call them the Kkangpae Puppets. Some of
my investigators have been known to...put it this way, Ethan was
the only one of my operatives willing to get close to them. Even if
I had insisted, no one else was willing, even if I threatened to
fire them—and I didn't."

"And you yourself are not inclined to
investigate?"

"In the old days, I would have gone in and
busted their chink asses on my own."

"The perpetrators are Chinese?" Ari
continued.

"Uh...no. Korean. Forgive my lack of
political correctness. Every time I walk out the door I get a dose
of shit, so I'm not inclined to be sympathetic. Believe it or not,
I'll wish you good luck."

Lawson disconnected.

CHAPTER FOUR

Ari wanted a cigarette badly, but he did not
want to look like Sam Spade on a stakeout. In the past, he had been
able to go without a smoke for weeks on end while hunting down
insurrectionists and smugglers in Iraq's northern mountains. But
the anxiety stirred up by his task and the harsh environment
combined to sweep aside petty addictions. In the luxury of his xB,
if it could be called that, Ari found the blandishments of the
Winstons in his pocket almost irresistible. We know how bored you
are. That little itch in your lungs could be so easily satisfied.
Take a puff. Just one. No one will notice.

But the man at the warehouse door who had
looked twice in his direction might notice if the small white car
became a veritable smokestack. A short walk up the street would
have confirmed that the building was, indeed, under observation.
But so far, the glare of the sun off the windshield and the blatant
insignificance of the vehicle had convinced the man there was no
threat.

As an alleged hub of criminal activity, the
single-story warehouse was in a surprisingly active part of the
city. Traffic from the Downtown Expressway off-ramp squirted
through the narrow side streets before debouching on Broad. Cafes
carved into the monotonous umber blocks catered to local businesses
and state employees from the Seaboard Building. The police would be
hard-pressed to see any sinister goings-on at a glance. Ari's
attention was drawn to the two garage bays facing an alley. Cars
damaged in staged accidents might be repaired there. And yet, even
facing away from the street, they still seemed too open to outside
scrutiny. He could clearly see the white van parked in the alley,
both cargo doors open. It was filled with black plastic bags and a
young man was laboriously adding to the van's load, hauling more
bags across the narrow lane and dumping them in the back. His task
was made all the more arduous by an older man who slapped him
upside the head every time he brought out a new load. Cracking his
window open, Ari could make out "Jotbab!" and
"Ttong-koo-mung!"—meaning, respectively, 'weak piece of shit' and
'asshole'.

Many years ago, Ari (as Colonel Abu Karim
Ghaith Ibrahim) had accompanied Saddam's weapon's negotiator, Munir
Awad, to Syria to negotiate a partial refund of the $10 million
downpayment he had made to North Korea for Rodong missiles. The
$1.9 repayment was intended as a penalty for North Korea missing
the first installment. The Iraqis, quite hopeless in certain
matters, did not realize Kim Jong-il was conning them. The Rodong
was a paper weapon that had never existed beyond blueprints. The
Iraqi negotiators did not retrieve the $1.9 million, or any other
portion of the deposit. In the meantime, however, Ari picked up a
few Korean words, not all of them suitable for diplomatic
missions.

The man standing at the building's entrance
finished his cigarette and tossed it in the gutter before going
back inside. Ari opened his window a little further.

"You played stupid" something-something "you
do the work!" the older man shouted. "They could kill you"
something-something "for this! I might still kill you!"

The older man faced away and his words shaded
off into something-something-something. The young man never raised
his head, never answered back. Could he be the man's son? If so,
his lack of response was understandable. Children raised in the
proper manner were well-advised to suffer rebukes in
silence—especially when the elder threatened to kill the wayward
child.

After receiving a final slap, the young man,
shivering in shirt sleeves, closed the cargo doors and stood
contritely before the older man.

"Chesonghamnida, Keun-ah-buh-jee! Joung-mal
mee-yan-heh!"

The older man was the young man's uncle. He
was wearing a jacket. He reached inside his pocket and took out a
knot of keys. With a great show of avuncular malevolence, he sifted
through the keys, found the one he was looking for (as if he had
not already known its exact location) and pulled it off. He held
the key in front of his nephew and seemed to lecture him on its
proper use, as if it was a holy icon worthy of extravagant care and
solicitude. In many places, a car key was exactly that.

Like a man whose hand was strapped to a mule,
the uncle stretched his arm forward and planted the key in the
young man's hand. He added another slap for good measure, then
pointed at the end of the alley.

"Gguh juh!"

The young man raced to the front of the
van.

Ari had originally intended to brazen his way
into the warehouse with the usual barrage of lies and half-truths.
But he was still far too ignorant of what he was getting into. The
contents of the van, and their destination, might give him a better
idea of what he was dealing with.

He followed the van as it negotiated the maze
of side streets before coming to Broad and turning west.

Ten minutes later, Ari was northbound on
I-95. Whatever doubts he had about the Scion's esthetic appeal and
roadworthiness were allayed by its anonymity. A single medium-sized
car was all he needed to avoid the rear-view glances of the van's
driver. An added bonus was the traffic, heavy enough to blend into
but moving steadily.

But when the van turned off at the
Hanover-Ashland exit, Ari was exposed on a country byway. It was
now headed east on a narrow road short on buildings and long on
empty stretches. Ari was forced to fall further behind.

He did not know if the U.S. Marshal Service
tracked him in real time, but sooner or later Karen Sylvester would
know he had strayed at least thirty miles outside of Richmond, a
distance that promised to increase with each minute. He was busily
concocting lies to explain away his behavior ("I am enamored with
the scenic Virginia countryside," "I heard the best coffee is
available at bucolic mom-and-pops," "I read the Spanish searched
this area for the Fountain of Youth...") when he suddenly
discovered the van was no longer ahead of him.

He used a dirt driveway to turn around and
slowly backtrack. Marking another dirt road was a sign: Beacon
Corner Junk & Salvage. The road was wide and heavily used. The
trees bordering it were powdered from years of dust thrown up on
dry summer days. He swung the xB onto the packed rocks and drove a
short distance. The woods opened up on a scene that was reminiscent
of Fallujah after the Marines had finished with it.

The white van was parked at the main office,
an oversized shed that looked as if it should have been condemned
along with everything else around here. The young driver was
standing at the back of the van, cringing with fear before a worker
armored in overalls and a sour-face. The young man opened the cargo
bay doors. The worker dumped the contents of one of the plastic
bags on top of the heap and rolled bleary eyes up at the overcast
sky, as though calling upon the gods to witness earthly idiocy. The
worker emptied another bag, then another. Ari drove past slowly and
glanced through the gap between the two men. The van was filled
with desktop computers, laptop computers and computer peripherals
tumbled together in an angry heap.

Ari parked at the other end of the shed and
stepped out with purpose, like a man with a train-sized checkbook
in his pocket. He did not know what it was he was supposed to be
buying, but in questionable situations it was best to appear as if
one was on top of the world. It was also good to look modestly
threatening. In his Vittorio St. Angelo's full-length coat, Ari
looked like a sleek bear. A mild adjustment in his expression could
make the bear look hungry.

He surveyed the stained and tattered exterior
of the shed as though scrutinizing a work of modern art for
meaning, or at least monetary value.

"They can't be recycled!" the young man was
complaining, his thick accent coiling liquidly around the 'r'. His
voice was exquisitely girlish and rose in pitch as he argued, as if
he had just stepped out of a cold shower to find the towel missing.
"They have to be destroyed in the flames of hell!"

The worker took a step back and stared down
at the young man, temporarily mesmerized by the extreme analogy. Or
perhaps the boy had inadvertently exposed the real purpose of his
day job as a satanic destroyer.

Ari was less than charitable when it came to
the linguistic malformations of foreigners and stifled a laugh. His
own blunders he immediately forgave—usually.

The worker decided he had to take control of
the situation. Obviously, his imposing size and the fact that he
was standing out here in the cold in shirtsleeves did not
sufficiently intimidate this occidental sprat.

"I got regulations to follow. You know,
laws."

"Laws?" the young man squeaked.

"Those damned Democrats have shoved all sorts
of environmental hoo-haws down our throats."

"Democwats?"

"Yeah, the people who let people like you
into our country. Those computers got all sorts of elements like
uranium and kryptonite in them that'll melt down to China if we
nuke them here. 'Course, that would be one way for you to get back
home!"

Each burst from his "Ha! Ha! Ha!" shoved the
young man further into his Asiatic shell.

"You can't be hauling much in that
thing."

Ari had sensed the approach of a second
worker but had been trying to ignore him. With a sigh, he turned to
the man—also shielded in fierce blue overalls—then turned a
disparaging eye on his xB. He needed to buy a car more suitable to
the image he wanted to present. After recent events, he could
certainly afford one. But Deputy Sylvester might look askance at
the idea of him motoring around town in an unmonitored vehicle.

"Alas, my Linguini is in the car shop for
repairs."

"Huh?" the man barked a laugh. "You mean
Lamborghini? Ha! I'll have to remember that one!"

Shit, thought Ari, shrinking into his Asiatic
shell and turning a baleful eye on the young Korean, as though he
was somehow responsible for the slip. Fortunately, he was too busy
cringing before the first set of overalls to notice Ari's
howler.

"What's your business, Mister?" the second
pair asked, neither friendly nor unfriendly, but not sounding
particularly interested in Ari's business. "Or are you two
together?"

Conflating an Arab with a Korean was a
stretch even for the most backward of backwoodsmen. But since Ari
could scarcely tell the two workers apart, he let the suggestion
pass without comment.

"I'm entirely on my own. But you are correct;
I wouldn't be able to pack much in my little car."

"You work for a contractor?" the man asked, a
little more interested now. Perhaps contractors provided the bulk
of his business.