Cold Snap (12 page)

"I have a great deal that needs to be
discarded," said Ari in a sad, 'such-is-life' tone. "Buildings,
monuments, cement plants, the Sword of Saddam...an entire
civilization."

Overalls #2 gloved the exaggeration easily,
as no more than a negotiator's curve ball. A building by itself was
a highly lucrative prospect. He held out a thick hand, indicating
the wide open field gouged in the forest.

"You got the buildings, we got the room."

Deciding he had been too grand, Ari fell back
on a personal chestnut. "You know that baseball field they want to
build in downtown Richmond...?" He touched the side of his
nose.

"Say no more," Overalls #2 nodded, slapping
his nose with a fat finger. The proposed park was so fraught with
political consequences that the need for discretion was understood
by everyone within a hundred mile radius.

"You're the man with the plan, eh?" Overalls
#2 stage-whispered.

"We're not ready to commit ourselves, yet,"
Ari said.

"'Course not." Overalls #2 leaned back
against the shed, the bulk under his overalls jumbling out of shape
for a moment before resuming its natural form. "And we understand
you'll have to share out some of the load with SWAM dealers." When
Ari looked puzzled, he continued: "Don't act innocent. It's the
law. Government has to use a percentage of woman and minority
businesses."

He said this with casual frankness, as if he
had not noticed that Ari might belong in the last category. Then he
noted with a trace of alarm that his co-worker and the Korean had
dropped their voices and drawn closer together behind the van. If
Ari was a government representative, he might look askance at an
illicit transaction taking place under his nose. After the
browbeating the young man had taken from his uncle, it was obvious
he would resort to all means available to consign the computers to
hell. He might catch another tongue lashing if the bribe he was
offering Overalls #1 proved too steep, but that would be mild
compared to what could happen to him if the job didn't get
done.

The shed wall shuddered as Overalls #2 pushed
off and took Ari by the elbow, guiding his innocent eyes away from
the building. "I know your people will want to dole out some of the
job to our runt competitors, but for the big macho stuff you'll
have to come here."

Ari nodded compliantly, as though agreeing to
a transparent truth. Then he glanced back at the conspiratorial
couple next to the van. "I couldn't help overhear something about
computers..."

"We dispose of electronics in an
environmentally safe manner," Overalls #2 said as though quoting
from an EPA manual. When Ari sniffed, he quickly added: "Don't mind
that smell. Just the compactor warming up. Sometimes smells like
burning rubber."

The young Korean's girlish laughter drew
Ari's attention. Overalls #1 was stepping away from the van and
pointing at a side gate. The young man slammed the cargo bay doors
shut and hopped in the driver seat. He waited for the worker to
open the gate, then drove through. The gate wobbled shut.

"I'm just doing a survey," Ari said. "I'll
have to get back to you."

"I understand," Overalls #2 conceded, both
dismayed and hopeful. "I know how the government works."

"It is troublesome," Ari acknowledged. "After
all, your government allowed me into your country."

CHAPTER FIVE

The head was freshly severed. The stark
terror of the victim's final moment was strongly etched in his
grimace, in the deep draws on either side of the nose and, above
all, in the wide-open eyes.

That's exactly how I'll look if they ever
catch me.

Who 'they' might be was arranged in a long
list of enemies Ari had made over the years. Even now that he had
hustled Uday Hussein into the loving embrace of the Iraqis, that
list did not diminish. In fact, it was quite possible Ari had
raised the ire of some powerful American entities. In an attempt to
lure Uday out of his Cumberland hideout, Ari had called what he had
assumed was a direct line to Saddam Hussein's heir apparent. But
the man who answered had said 'ISAF'—International Security
Assistance Force. Even if ISAF was based in Kabul, this strongly
suggested that Uday had been living here under the auspices of the
U.S., and that Ari had unintentionally trod on some very important
toes. While Deputy Karen Sylvester might be appalled by the
possibility that her country could be harboring a war criminal,
this only betrayed her ignorance of international realities. The
domestic scene could get pretty dirty, but not so dirty as to
absorb a character like Uday Hussein.

The man holding the severed head on Ari's
computer screen was obviously pleased with his trophy. Ari
recognized neither him nor the newly departed. The percentage of
men he could identify for CENTCOM was growing smaller. This was
only to be expected, since so many of those Ari remembered from old
police and SSO records, or whom he had met personally, were now
busy enjoying the rewards of Heaven. It might not be long before
Ari would not be able to finger critical players in the shifting
chaos. What would be his fate when he was no longer useful? The
fate of Rana and his son?

He skipped to the next photograph on the
flash drive Karen and her partner Fred had left on his kitchen
table. It was almost identical to the previous one. Same rocky
field in the background. Same idiot flashing a toothy grin at the
camera. But a different head. Ari immediately recognized the
victim: known as 'Razor' by the police because that happened to be
his weapon of choice. It appeared his namesake had been applied to
his own throat, in spades. Ari sighed in relief. Still useful,
after all. He sent an email to CENTCOM, including the victim's
name, the possible killers, and the tribe they associated with.

There, more countrymen sold down the drain,
more enemies Ari would have to add to his list if Razor's
executioners somehow found out he was responsible for their arrest.
Hopefully, Special Forces would just shoot the entire batch on the
spot.

Ari felt no remorse. He put torturers and
beheaders only one notch below cat-killers. He clicked on the next
image—which turned out not to be an image but a video. It opened
automatically in Realplayer. A covered Wide Bongo 4X4 was shown
racing up a dirt road. According to a caption the video was taken
in Nineveh Province, about twenty kilometers from Mosul. The
billowing dust gave it the appearance of being rocket-powered.
Maybe the driver had guessed at what was about to happen and was
desperately trying to outrace his fate.

The flash-bang of the roadside bomb sent the
vehicle into a violent fishtail that ended when it flipped and
landed in the ditch. The image began to shake as the cameraman ran
forward, preceded by three men carrying AK's. They reached the
truck as the injured driver managed to open the passenger door and
climb out. He fell to the ground, gasping, his face bloody, one arm
dangling.

"Kalet!" the first man swore on reaching him.
He planted a foot on the man's neck.

"No!" the man cried, grimacing in pain—and
horrified surprise. "What are you doing here? How did you get here?
Are you working for the Americans?"

"Working for the Americans!" the first man
snorted.

"It's full of Army rations back here," said
one of the bombers from the rear of the truck. "Nothing else.
Nothing from the university."

"A pig feeding the pigs," said the first man,
an odd emotion undercutting the insult. "You've been back for all
of two months, and this is as far as you've gotten."

"I don't understand," the driver gasped. "I
never harmed you. I hardly know you."

The apparent leader of the group murmured
uneasily, his words indecipherable.

"Someone sent you? Who? How did they…find
out?"

"Give me the sword," the leader said to the
man behind him.

The driver screamed. He yanked his head out
from under the foot and pushed himself up on his haunches with his
good arm. He turned and his amazement grew. He was staring straight
into the camera. No. At the cameraman. "You! How could you be here?
How could any of you...?"

There was a sound of consternation from one
of the bombers. "I forgot it. The sword."

"You fucking idiot," said the apparent leader
of the group—in English.

Ari grunted, as surprised as the victim by
the leader's identity, the front of whose kaffiyeh had fallen to
the side to expose his face. Ari knew the man could speak English.
But did he really expect his words to be understood by the other
two men, the cameraman and the victim?

The man who had surveyed the back of the
truck was carrying a 20 liter NATO jerrycan. He mumbled something,
incomprehensible to Ari but perfectly understandable to the leader,
who gave the suggestion a moment's thought, then nodded. The second
man opened the can and began tossing gasoline on the driver, who
was tripped up when he struggled to his feet. He began rolling
away, but soon he was soaked. The cameraman focused on the match in
the leader's hand.

"What you intended for the world will now
happen to you," said the leader. "It's no worse than you
deserve."

Oblivious to the driver's pleas for mercy, he
flung the match.

Ari moved the cursor to the fast-forward
button. A comet swept back and forth across the screen in
high-speed silence. Then the flames subsided and Ari returned to
normal view. The three killers stood before the camera, strangely
somber. Even more strangely, the other two killers had unwrapped
their kaffiyehs, revealing their faces. Ari froze the image and
leaned closer to the screen. He had seen the files of all three men
at SSO headquarters. And none of them should have been in Nineveh
Province, or anywhere else in Iraq.

For once, the identity of the victim was
known. The caption read: Abdul Ghafour al-Mutlaq of Baghdad. And
this perplexed Ari even further, because that name had also shown
up in the files of Special Security. He backed the video ten
minutes and paused. The driver's muted face was covered with blood,
but now that the man had been matched to a name Ari understood his
error. He had first mistaken him for yet another hapless fellah
trying to earn a bit of bread by working for the Coalition. But no,
he did not belong there, either.

The truck had not been the target. This was a
straightforward assassination. That three of the four killers (if
one included the cameraman) did not try to hide their identities
suggested this was intended as a personal message, either to
terrorize the recipient of the video or to reassure him that this
particular mission had been well and truly accomplished. Only the
video had been intercepted by U.S. intelligence.

Ari wondered if this was merely one of many
copies.

Vexed, he was having difficulty formulating a
description that American MI would swallow when his cell phone
rang. He looked at the small LCD screen and took a deep breath when
he recognized the number that had been given him at the end of
Tracy's brunch. He opened the phone.

"Bonjour?" he said, forcing his force into
calm amiability.

"Bonjour?" came a woman's voice that was
tentative in a strangely assertive way. "This is Monsieur
Ciminon?"

"Ah, oui, Madame Mumford. I am so pleased you
have returned my call."

"Pas du tout," said the Frenchwoman with the
same stern demureness Ari had noted at the Mackenzies. "I happen to
have a free hour this afternoon. If we are to discuss the
arrangement you were speaking of, I believe we should do so in
person. You do agree?"

Ari found it hard to tell if she was asking
him if he agreed or if she was telling him he agreed.

Elated, he did as he was told: agreed
wholeheartedly.

"I live on Beach Court Lane," he began.

"Yes, next to Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie, I know.
We only live ten minutes from you."

Afraid of putting her off—terrified,
really—Ari said, "Yes, yes. You can come right away."

"We'll see you soon, then. À bientôt."

"Au revoir, Madame! Bless you."

He winced as she rang off. He wanted to
repair her first impression of him and had not intended to sound
desperate. 'Bless you'? Those were words of sheer desperation. But
his chagrin was quickly replaced by panic. How could he be so
stupid as to consent to her visit without adequate preparation? He
ran into the bathroom and looked in the mirror.

"Merde!"

His eyes were bloodshot, as was only to be
expected after putting himself into a dismal semi-slumber with a
half bottle of Jack Daniels. Before seeing his wife, it had been
almost a bottle a night. Or more.

He slashed his cheek as he hurriedly shaved.
He slipped in the shower and nearly broke his arm. The only
blessing was that he had a clean shirt and pressed trousers in his
closet. His visits to the dry cleaners on Forest Hill were almost
demonic in their intensity.

With three minutes left he raced downstairs,
his mind rampant with last-minute domestic chores. But there was a
knock at the front. He glanced at his watch. The three minutes were
gone. How had that happened?

There was no question of not answering the
door or of cracking it an inch and begging Madame Mumford to be
patient for a minute, or five minutes...or however long it took. It
was obvious she had planned this quick strike in order to see Ari
au naturel, so to speak, giving him very little opportunity to
disguise the true state of things. Any delay on his part would be
seen as trickery.

He checked his fly. He had recently opened
his door to a little girl who had almost immediately observed this
particular wardrobe mishap.

Properly zipped.

With a sigh of defeat, he opened his
door.