Cold Snap (2 page)

"You didn't know? We couldn't find any
evidence of WMD's, but the DIA and spooks think we're nearsighted."
The colonel must have been from the north. His brow bled sweat like
an oversoaked sponge. His eyes narrowed on Ghaith. "I have nothing
but admiration for the cradle of civilization."

Ghaith bowed graciously.

"It's the perfect reminder of how far the
rest of us have come."

Ghaith tried to think of a way to retract the
bow.

"There's an MG in charge now, but I haven't
seen him around. To tell you the truth, I think the ISG knows
they'll come up bupkiss, but take a look upstairs. Saddam put all
of his best buddies in this place. And guess who's going to be
sleeping in all these empire suites?"

He sounded like a man who had been kicked out
of bed.

"That's too bad, sir," said one of the
guards, who added a growl when a kid in Keds bumped against
him.

"Sorry," said the kid as he hefted his box
and moved on.

"Now tell me how you can help this lot,"
Colonel Jones said with a doubtful leer. "They say you worked
here…"

"SSO. I know where some disks are hidden, the
passwords, where certain files are kept…"

Colonel Jones closed his eyes, which was
supposed to convey stoicism but only succeeded in exposing pain.
"What took you so long getting here?"

Ghaith had spent the last two months trying
to find a safe hospital for his grievously injured wife while
eluding enemies and eliminating those who got too close.

"Well," said the colonel, tired of waiting
for a response, "let the ISG figure out what to do with an SSO
agent. They're sending us to investigate 83 suspected sites on the
edge of the BTS."

"BTS, sir?"

"'Big Toilet Seat'."

The grunts, adept at absorbing ludicrous
acronyms, chuckled appreciatively.

There were two loud explosions in the
distance, echoing up the Tigris like Babylonian gods out for a
rumble, rattling the windows of Al Hayat.

"What the fuck?" said one of the
soldiers.

The colonel laughed and clapped him on the
shoulder. "On the other hand, maybe I'm getting out while the
getting's good."

Ghaith heard that evening that the source of
the explosions was only a block over from Palestine Street. Someone
had taken it into his head to blow up a tourist agency. At the
time, Ghaith wondered why anyone would bother taking out To the
Ends of the Earth Travel Bureau, which under the circumstances was
probably already defunct. But years later, when the agency's name
took on a more ominous meaning for him, he would amend it to:

The End of the Earth.

CHAPTER ONE

Richmond - March 2008

Ari Ciminon, formerly Colonel Abu Karim
Ghaith Ibrahim, glanced at himself in the bathroom mirror and
turned away in disappointment. It had been a month since he had
received a first-class beating. His would-be assassin must have
been ambidextrous, judging from the even distribution of the
bruises. That Ari was still living was due to his will to
survive—with some assistance from a slug from a Magnum that
transformed the would-be into a has-been. Ari had presented a
ghastly spectacle to the public for many weeks afterward. His
President Nasser physiognomy took on the aspect of a pestilent blob
battered by ranks of rabid highwaymen. Slowly, the swelling
subsided, the contusions healed, and he began to look more like a
human and less like a melon that had fallen off a flatbed. The
healing process was midwifed by Deputy Marshal Karen Sylvester, who
had insisted on bringing to his safe house a former Navy corpsman.
The medic's diagnosis was grandly minimalist: "You're a mess."
Admonished by Karen to keep patter to a minimum, the medic ignored
the patient's moans—until Ari very convincingly threatened to
emasculate him if he tugged on his arm a certain way again.

"He was only trying to help," said Karen once
the corpsman was gone.

"He was suicidal, pulling on me like that,"
Ari asserted.

"If anyone is suicidal..." said Karen, then
dropped the subject. Ari had refused to give her details of the
assault on him. Churlish behavior from someone she was assigned to
protect. She was having doubts about the safety of Ari's alleged
safe house, a simple rancher in a neighborhood aching with middle
class torpor. You would have thought civic highlights consisted of
weeding lawns and terminating moles, except the previous occupants
of Ari's new home had been gruesomely murdered, a lowlight
difficult to sweep under the carpet. Neighbors who caught a glimpse
of the bruised and battered Ari assumed the house's reputation was
sticking to form.

Karen's concerns about Ari's safety had been
legitimized over the last month and a half. That some of the
dangers were of his own making could not be denied. Ari had become
embroiled in a murder investigation that any sensible person would
have avoided. While Karen could not be certain, she suspected this
had somehow led him to the discovery that Uday Hussein had not been
killed by American forces in Iraq, but was residing with a
well-armed retinue in Cumberland. That was as far as she could
safely guess, but there was a good possibility Ari was mixed up in
the abduction of Uday and his sudden appearance, trussed up like a
turkey, in front of the Iraqi embassy in Washington. Ari's alibi
for the hours in question was airtight, with witnesses from several
law enforcement agencies attesting to his continued presence in
Cumberland. But Karen had always found Ari's persistent wide-eyed
avowals of innocence difficult to swallow.

This difficulty was now accompanied by a
grudge. Did he really think she was so gullible? She had more
insight into his identity than Ari's unwary neighbors. The United
States government had, not for the first time, absorbed a dubious
character into its defense network. Karen saw Ari as a shade of
Shalabi, a manipulative schemer who toyed with Americans for his
own fun and profit. And yet there was much to admire about the man,
not least of which was his almost supernatural love for his maimed
wife. In the end, though, she wondered if she had planted a human
bomb in the middle of this sedate Richmond community.

Ari's abruptly constricted world had its
modest diversity. Outside his front door was the James River,
sometimes rumbling, sometimes murmuring, but after so many months
practically unheard and unnoticed by Ari except when he sat in the
gazebo and opened his senses to its charms. Further up Beach Court
Lane were Howie Nottoway (the archetypical anal neighbor) and, one
house further, Rebecca Wareness and her daughter, Diane. Residing
with Diane was Sphinx, the only pet Ari had ever possessed. The cat
had been previously owned by the Riggins family, which had more or
less self-destructed in the very house Ari now occupied. Sphinx had
a poor sense of allegiance, splitting his indoor hours between Ari
and Diane. But recent events had demanded that Ari chase both girl
and cat away. An attempt to mollify Diane had resulted in a
mortifying rebuff.

Yet while he was now without a comforting
pet, he was not friendless. He was preparing to visit the
Mackenzies, who also enjoyed a riverfront view. Ari's first meeting
with Matt and Tracy Mackenzie had begun xenophobically and ended
with Mrs. Mackenzie giving him a Nelson Mandela-esque seal of
approval. This suited Ari, who found her something of an
architectural marvel worthy of sustained scrutiny. Disregarding
Howie Nottoway's protests about loud parties (which were only valid
when the weather permitted parties to spill outside), Ari had
accepted every invitation from the Mackenzies—at least, until his
recent indisposition. This Sunday's invite was slightly out of the
ordinary. Instead of an evening soirée, the Mackenzies had
scheduled a noon brunch. Rather than the usual frequently-refilled
shot glasses, Ari would be served mimosas. Having nothing on his
itinerary beyond reviewing the usual assortment of images of Iraqi
corpses strewn haphazardly across his homeland (delivered to him by
Karen, who acted as a courier for CENTCOM), Ari had gladly accepted
the invitation.

It was not the first time in history that
Iraq had become a charnel house. The Hay al Jihad, Qahtaniya and
Blackwater massacres combined could not hold a candle to the Mongol
sack of Baghdad, which had ended the Golden Age of Islam. But
modern weapons added a sordid randomness to the conflict. At least
with the Mongolians you knew who was going to get it in the neck:
everyone. Now potential victims and their collateral kin were at
your elbow, crossing your path, in the mirror; they were people you
nodded to on the sidewalks, the street vendors who handed you a
steaming gauss; they were the boys whose heads you patted moments
before their limbs were sheared off by a roadside bomb. It was
terror democracy. Anyone could be a killer or victim.

Ari should have thrived in such as
atmosphere. Trained to kill, talented in a host of languages, he
was the perfect infiltrator. But now, with the benevolent
assistance of the Americans, he had infiltrated America. Having
violated numerous laws and tacit agreements (including the murder
of a corrupt policeman), it could not be said his presence was a
great blessing. But his work of identifying terrorists and their
targets had saved dozens, if not hundreds, of American lives, so
that Ari felt he was due the balance—especially since his wife and
remaining son were being kept as quasi-hostages in distant San
Diego.

He was looking forward to a sociable
afternoon away from mayhem and misery. But even the lowest society
took note of battered faces. Did you see So-and-So? He looks like
he went through a giant garlic press. How did it happen? Did you
ask? Do you think he's telling the truth?

Once dressed, Ari studied his face again and
decided he could get by with telling his hostess and her guests
that he had had a bad night's sleep. Tracy Mackenzie had not seen
him since the attack at the boat landing. She might accept the lie.
Howie Nottoway and Rebecca Wareness had seen his facial cataclysm
up close, but it was unlikely either of them would show up for the
brunch, being embroiled as they were by personal turmoil or civic
vendettas.

A glance out the window told him a coat would
be necessary even over the short distance to his neighbor's house.
The Americans were keeping him on a tight budget, but certain shady
dealings on the sly had proved highly lucrative. The weather had
turned exceptionally cold, for Virginia or anywhere else, and Ari
had invested in a Vittorio St. Angelo's full-length coat. It went
well with his new suit. But this was to be a brunch. He understood
such occasions to be casual. With some reluctance he put aside his
pinstripe and donned a chenille winter sweater.

One step out his front door told him the coat
had been a good idea. A second step set him to wondering if it was
enough. Being this close to the river had its disadvantages, not
least of which was the wind blasting over the open water. There was
a time when he could take such weather in stride. But thirty-seven
years had somehow stripped him of an extra layer of protection. Or
perhaps the insouciance of youth was bidding him a chilly farewell
as he approached the diffident years of middle age. Or maybe it was
just cock-ringing cold.

He worked his way through the thin layer of
trees that served as a natural privacy screen between the houses
and hurried past nearly a dozen parked cars to the Mackenzie stoop.
He knocked a little harder than he had intended to and brushed
quickly past the stranger who opened the door.

"A little brisk," the stranger chuckled.

Ari responded with the traditional chatter of
teeth.

"Can I take your coat?"

Doffing his coat and placing it in the man's
extended arms, he smiled quizzically. "I had assumed this would be
informal." His eyes widened when he heard the echoed shouts of
children from the basement. The Mackenzies being childless, the
voices could only be assigned to the children of guests. Ari had
not expected this.

"Yes, informal with kids," responded the man
as he ascended the stairs with Ari's coat. "But I'm told this is
kind of a business event. No one is wearing a tux, if that's what
you're worried about."

"But...who are you? I've been here several
times, and there's never been..."

"A majordomo?'' the man grinned, pausing. "I
think Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie want to make an impression. Also, I'm
married to the cook. She needs me around to lend a hand,
sometimes."

"With the cooking?" Ari asked, alert to the
wonderful aroma permeating the foyer.

"I wouldn't dare presume," the man laughed
pleasantly.

"Do you mind if I visit the kitchen?"

"Uh...I don't mind. And she wouldn't, either.
As a general rule, the French are pretty sociable."

"Elle est de France?"

"Sorry, after all these years my French is
still limited. But you asked if she's from France? Yes…that sounds
right," the man nodded after a moment's thought. "I don't know if
the doorman usually introduces himself, but this isn't Windsor
Castle. My name's Bill Mumford." He came back down, switching the
coat to his left arm to shake hands.

"Ari Ciminon."

"Ah, the man who works for the Cirque du
Soleil! Mrs. Mackenzie was talking about you to her guests."

An inward moan accompanied Ari's
self-deprecating shrug of acknowledgement. Finding his anonymity
tedious, he had offered up a host of false identities to his new
neighbors. Bill took Ari's assumed career for granted. Really,
there was no point in lying if one could not look sincere at the
same time.

"You're Italian, though, right?" Bill
continued. ''That's what Mrs. Mackenzie said."

"Syracuse," Ari responded, dolefully
acquiescing to the single consistency of his cover story.