Cold Snap (46 page)

"Oh shit," said Ahmad. "What's your last
name, again?"

"Torson," Ben responded with a puzzled look,
"T-o-r-s-o-n."

Ahmad alt-tabbed out of the DVD files and
opened the next directory.

"This is another Excel spreadsheet..." He did
a search. "And there's Mr. Torson."

Ben leaned down. "That's my old address. What
are those other numbers?"

"Your credit card number," said Ahmad,
grinning. "Isn't that—"

"No, it isn't 'cool'," Ari admonished. "It
isn't even acceptable. How did the number get here?"

"Stolen, obviously. Maybe the Koreans bought
a batch from some Russkie hackers. They're good at this sort of
thing."

"No," said Ari, perusing the list. "These
match the gallery. They were very specifically absconded."

Ahmad switched back to the gallery. "You're
right. That answers one of your questions, then. How did the
bombers know where the bombees lived?"

"How recently were these credit card numbers
acquired?" Ari asked.

Going back to the Excel spreadsheet, Ahmad
went into properties. "Summer of 2006, all on the same day."

"I was still in Iraq," said Ben. He had taken
out his VISA and was staring at it in astonishment, as though only
now discovering he had been carrying a barracuda in his pocket. "So
stupid. I could have used Eagle Cash. But the guy in the kiosk was
moaning about all the trouble he had gone to get his credit card
swiper approved."

"Then it was approved by idiots," Ahmad
asserted. "These numbers were taken at source. It's called
'skimming'."

"Which sort of begs the question," said Ben,
jamming his card back into his wallet. "What the hell is that
hidden video doing on the disk in the first place?"

"I have a speculation," Ari said. "I think
this was intended for the Americans."

"Well..." Ben looked doubtful.

"If it was intended for the insurgency, would
they be propagating these videos in the Green Zone?" Ari shook his
head. "Anyone cooperating with the Americans risked death, usually
in the most horrible manner."

"I guess you'd know about that," Ben
said.

"Whoever inserted these videos was hoping an
American, or someone working for the Americans, would do what Ahmad
here has done: watch it on their computer. They would see the
strange file—"

"WMV isn't strange," Ahmad informed him.

"Very well. They would see these oddities,
open them, and be introduced to this nuclear horror."

"Not really a 'horror'," Ahmad observed.
"What we saw in the video isn't fissile. It's all low-grade, for
research."

"Salt that radioactive material on a bomb,
place it on top of a building in a large city..."

"Well...horror," Ahmad nodded.

"And out of almost a hundred buyers...no one
saw it?" Ben's expression was remorseful. "All the guys laughing
through this thing, without even guessing..."

"This is four years old," said Ahmad, his
eyes bright with adventure. "The 'whoevers' must have the stuff by
now."

"Then why are they killing with such
extravagance?" Ari said. "I think the volatile material is still in
Mosul. Dr. Shkara was bluffing about the U.N. inspectors. They
never saw those drums. The insurgents want to keep the Americans
unapprised of them."

"Colonel?" said Ahmad tentatively. "When are
you going to start talking normal English?"

"I will alert your uncle to your
rudeness."

"Aw—"

"So the guy at the kiosk—" Ben began.

"Is probably dead," Ari said. "What do you
expect? He was trying to help the invaders."

"Hey, we're liberating your country—"

"From a fate worse than Saddam," said Ari. "I
think you will learn that his removal is a mixed blessing."

"Tell that to the people he's tortured and
oppressed all these years," Ben shot back.

"Ah, the Shia, the disaffected intellectuals,
the renegades," shrugged Ari, who possessed a substantial mean
streak.

"You mean you're not glad he's gone?" asked
Ben warily.

"To put it honestly..." Ari began honestly.
"...I don't know."

"You're crazy," Ben asserted.

"Yes, I'm honest."

Ahmad was shaking his head.

"What?"

"This guy was warning the Americans with one
hand and stealing their credit card numbers with the other? Kind of
a mixed message, there."

"Ah," said Ari. "A hole in my theory."

After a brooding pause, Ben said, "So, what
now?"

"Now we have to arrange it so that you do not
have to move out of your lovely new house, to the detriment of your
mental health."

"Which is precarious, right?" Ben sneered. He
continued, "OK, Sherlock, who's the next victim?"

"These people are ruthless," said Ari

"So I gathered."

"They almost killed a Korean importer because
he had accidentally betrayed the list of immigrants."

"Jesus, so you were mixed up in that?"

"That list included many of the names on this
credit card spreadsheet."

"You mean...they're snipping off all the
loose ends."

"When it comes to nuclear surreality, I
believe such an action would only be prudent."

"OK..."

"Ahmad, are those people in the gallery also
listed among of those whose credit card numbers were stolen?"

"I haven't had a chance to look at all of
them, yet."

"Is Elmore Lawson listed?"

"You're talking about an American, right?"
said Ahmad. "He wouldn't be on the immigration list."

"Forget the immigration list for the moment.
Don't forget, your uncle's picture is in the gallery. He left Iraq
long before the war. There are others here targeted for other
reasons. Our only connection—"

"Immigration list?" said Ben.

"I think some of the intended targets were in
this country illegally, under assumed names."

"So the credit card list would be useless,
right?" Ahmad asked.

"But they would still be in the photo
gallery. How many credit card names are listed and how many photos
are there?"

Ahmad checked. "Thirty-eight credit card
numbers, forty-one photos." Shaking his head, he continued, "But
there's a thousand names on the immigration list. How would they
pick the three they're looking for?"

"You are alarmingly unobservant," Ari
frowned.

Ahmad went back to the immigration list. "Oh
crap...there's two columns for names."

"Exactly. One for their current alias and one
showing their real name. Mr. Rhee kept this information to threaten
his customers, in the event of non-payment of his fees."

"Blackmail."

"Sayid Mohammed Al-Rafa'ee and his group used
the list to justify their need for assistance. They were put off by
the gunfight at A-Zed."

"Help from the Chaldeans," said Ahmad.

"Who I think are no longer a threat. They are
busy racing off the compass."

"You mentioned this immigration list before,"
Ben frowned.

"I'll supply details later," Ari said
hastily. "The insurgents saw Lawson last night. They won't be as
quick to give up as the Chaldeans. Besides, they're American
citizens."

"American insurgents?"

"A nefarious breed." He speed-dialed Lawson's
number. After four rings, he was transferred to voice mail.

"Why do you think Lawson is next?" Ben
asked.

"Because they have already planted the bomb."
He placed a hand on Ahmad's shoulder.

"Rouse your uncle. We must make haste."

Ben donned his coat. "Yes, it's about time we
brought the police in on this. I'm not sure why we ran away so fast
last night."

Abu Jasim's eyes popped open and he sat
straight. "Flics?"

"If that's Arabic for 'cops', I say sure. We
take this database to them, let them send in the bomb squad, the
SWAT teams, whatever else—"

"That would not be a good thing," Ari cut him
short. "Some of those illegals would certainly have their throats
slashed if they were returned to their homelands."

"Judging from those thugs we saw in the motel
parking lot last night, I can't say that would be all bad," Ben
said grimly.

"Those were the rotten eggs all in one
basket," Ari responded.

"So we leave the immigration file off," Ben
suggested. "Give the police the credit card list—"

"Which also includes illegals," said Ari.

"Then the target list! We have to protect
those people. You know, people like me and my wife! You don't think
this is the only copy of that file, do you?"

"No. But once again, you would be replacing
the frying pan with the fire. I recognized some of those people in
the gallery. If they are sent back—"

"I get the picture," Ben said, irritated and
frightened. "But how many of these 'American insurgents' are there?
If you think this is something we can handle alone, maybe you're
due for a re-think."

"No time for that," Ari said, buttoning his
coat. We must go to Lawson now."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Second Battle of Fallujah

SPC Roger Newell frowned at the crumpled form
in the road, about twenty feet beyond the barrier where he and
Ghaith were crouched.

"I don't like dead bodies."

"Indeed," said Ghaith.

"I don't like new dead bodies, or old dead
bodies, or anything in between. I don't even like to visit
graveyards."

"Then you have chosen a very inappropriate
profession."

"Yeah, I especially don't like the idea of my
dead body." He eased back down to a seated position. "But it's a
family tradition. One of my ancestors was killed at Gettysburg,
another killed in Cuba, another in Korea, another in Vietnam, and
an uncle in the first Gulf War. I don't visit their graves."

Ghaith almost told him that he, too, was the
beneficiary of a long military tradition before prudence zipped his
lips. His father had been a high-ranking officer in the Iraq-Iran
War. He had survived, only to die of cancer a few years later.

"Americans believe in peace," Newell.

"As evidenced by your family history..."
Fortunately, the disguise Ghaith was wearing hid his doubt. But he
despised the headgear. It was like a portable oven, and it retained
the smells of battle: smoke, gunpowder, corpses. All combined with
his own festering body odor in the stewing fabric of the
balaclava.

Newell tore open a small envelope of jalapeno
cheese sauce and sucked it empty. "God, I love this stuff."

"I thought that was supposed to be dispensed
on crackers," Ghaith said.

"Tortilla chips, or something like that,"
Newell nodded. "But it's just too good by itself..." He scrounged
around in his battle pack. "Shit, all gone..." He looked back at
the rest of the squad. "Anyone got some jalapeno sauce they don't
want?"

"You already took it all," another crouching
infantryman complained.

"You sure? No one has any left from their
MRE's?"

A loud grumble barely recognizable as human
came from a nearby alley.

"Eat some real food for a change," another
grunt advised in a loud whisper.

"Yeah, and you'd better shut up before the
Turge gets you."

Too late. Sergeant Turgeson emerged from the
alley, running at a crouch behind the barrier the Marines had
captured from the insurgents. The sniper in the apartment building
at the end of the block could not get a clear shot.

Turgeson threw a handful of condiment
envelopes at Newell. "There, I got these out of the Cougar. Now
shut the fuck up!"

"Hey, Sarge, this is mayonnaise and pickle
relish!" Newell protested, scooping up the envelopes and perusing
the labels.

"Suck on them, soldier. Come on, man up. Just
imagine a hot dog with that relish.

Newell scowled and began to toss the relish
away.

"Hey, don't feed the enemy," Turgeson said.
He turned to Ghaith. "I'm trying to get serious here. Most of your
people can't shoot worth a damn, so when we came up against someone
who knew what he was doing...well, we were careless. Or at least
your predecessor was." He nodded in the direction of the dead Iraqi
translator on the other side of the barrier."

Ghaith bristled at the assumption: 'his
people'. Well, they might be his people, but they weren't his
tribe. Not that he had a tribe, anymore.

"Maybe it's Juba," he said, knowing this
would send the Marines reeling into the realm of second
thoughts.

Newell froze, his teeth braced against an
envelope of hot sauce. Juba, the Baghdad Sniper, was already a
legend to his enemy. He had so far killed 37 US troops, videotaping
each attack and posting them on the internet. It was said he
meticulously recorded each kill in a diary, including weather
conditions, distance and the unit the victim belonged to.

"What would he be doing in Fallujah?"
Turgeson said.

"The same thing he was doing in Baghdad,"
Ghaith shrugged.

"They say he uses a Tula with a scope," said
Newell, his teeth still closed on the tip of the envelope. He was
referring to a Russian-made rifle favored by many marksmen. Ghaith
had heard the sniper shooting at a target away from the barrier and
thought it sounded more like an Iraqi-made Tabuk, but he held his
peace.

"Ugh," said Turgeson when Newell succeeded in
tearing off the end of the envelope and squirted mayonnaise into
his mouth.

"Yeah," Newell admitted. "It ain't jalapeño
cheese. But like the Corps motto says, 'improvise'."

Turgeson pressed his headset to his ear,
listening. He glanced up at Ghaith. "The FO wants to know if you
want to try talking to the sniper before he begins flattening that
apartment building and all the innocent bystanders inside. All our
air and drones are tied up." When Ghaith didn't answer right away,
the sergeant added, "You can use the bullhorn. Your predecessor
tried going mano-a-mano. He didn't get very far."