Cold Snap (55 page)

Ari looked at him blandly.

"You almost clipped that dump truck!" Lawson
complained.

"He was fiddling in second gear and moving
much too slowly."

"Hey, 'xB versus dump truck'. Guess who
wins?"

"We are alive and I, personally, am quite
well."

"That remains to be seen. So, these American
terror-brats…they're Sunni? That's what Saddam Hussein said back at
the motel."

"Abu Jasim, please," Ari corrected.

"How's he doing, by the way?"

"He's safely in his farm in the Quebec
countryside, being attended to by one or more wives...I'm uncertain
of the exact figure. He informs me that winter in Canada makes
Richmond feel like a tropical resort."

"He gives me the willies," said Lawson.

"He makes that impression on many people,"
said Ari. "But he's a harmless teddy bear."

"A teddy bear with a grenade launcher."

"Alas, teddy bears must defend
themselves."

"All right...now, about these American
kids..."

"You have heard, of course, of the Mujahideen
Shura Council."

"That one must have slipped my
attention."

"It's a loose coalition of Sunni groups with
grand aspirations."

"Such as?"

"The usual...taking over the world,
establishing a universal Caliphate. They have a few advocates in
the States."

"And they found some impressionable
'kids'."

"These matters are beyond reason," Ari
admitted. "They looked with envy at the Chaldean Mafia, which even
in its current dilapidation is far stronger than any jihadist group
here. But since most of the Chaldeans are Shia or Catholic—"

"Catholic?" Lawson exclaimed.

"Chaldean Catholics. Well, it's obvious the
jihadists wouldn't want to associate with a bunch of pimps and drug
dealers—I mean the Chaldeans, not Shia and Catholics. The
mujahedeen brush their teeth with holy scripture. But the Chaldeans
have strong contacts in the Middle East, and the jihadists thought
they might make use of them. Sayid Mohammed knew about Rhee's
organization through the Chaldeans. Hence the intersection of
jihadists, the kids…and another party."

"How do you know all this?"

"I have some access to local law
enforcement."

"I would ask how you managed that, but I know
you won't tell me," said Lawson.

"My lips are peeled."

"Be that as it may," said Lawson, "some of
the story can be guessed. You want me to begin?"

Ari's condescending nod roused his ire.

"All right...so these kids, these same kids
who tried to blow me up, and who were raised for the most part in
America—well, they became anti-American."

"There are many disaffected Americans," Ari
said. "I think you call them Democrats."

"There's a point to that," Lawson said.
"Democrats want to trash the system. Republicans want to clean up
the mess they make."

"They both want improvements."

"You could say that."

"The way America is improving, for example,
Iraq."

Lawson gave Ari a suspicious glance. "Not
exactly. Anyway, those disaffected Americans don't all want to blow
things up. More specifically, they have no desire to blow up me.
Not most of them."

"But the kids were not…what's that awkward
word? 'Radicalized'?"

"Oh no?" Lawson thought for a moment. "You
said something about another party at the 'Chaldean
intersection'."

"Yes…someone named 'Bill'. I believe this man
is acting on behalf of the Shura Council." Ari told him about the
stranger who had entered the lives of the four American-Iraqis, the
threats to them and their families. He left out any mention that
Bill might be a former member of Al-Amn al-Khas. "He did not want
Samad to get hold of the explosive material in Mosul."

"Right, the DVD showing the radioactive
garbage at the university research center. I asked some old buddies
of mine about that. The stuff in those barrels is all low-grade.
The UNSCOM and the IAEA knew about it. It wasn't worth considering.
You can't make a bomb out of it, and even if you salted it on a
normal bomb it would be less toxic than what our tank jockeys
absorb loading their depleted uranium sabots. What that stuff does
to your brain and kidneys..."

"That isn't why the American jihadists were
killing innocent purchasers of the DVD," said Ari.

Lawson waited.

"You watched the 'Scenic Iraq' video, am I
correct?"

"A few years ago. I'd forgotten I bought the
thing. My seabag was delivered to my house. When I got home from
the VA I found it jammed in with my stuff...kneepads, socks, spare
underwear, baby wipes...you'd be amazed how useful those are. In
the middle was that dumb DVD. I watched it just to remind myself of
what sand looked like. It was mostly scenic outdoor shots. No
sacred interiors that might cause a fundamentalist to go postal. I
never saw or guessed about that other file on it."

"And yet you saw the very thing that made it
worth killing you."

"The research center?"

"No. The caravan."

Lawson thought for a full minute as Ari
reached the intersection of Belvedere and waited at the light.

"I remember a long line of camels..."

"Exactly. Camels led by men disguised as
Bedouin. Camels laden with large, awkward containers that did not
look like a typical portage. Camels from the desert being guided
into mountains where they had no business going. From space, a
perfectly ordinary scene out of a travelogue."

"Carrying what?"

"You may not have noticed, but some of those
camels did not look very healthy."

"The few camels I got close to in the Sandbox
always looked and smelled sick to me." Lawson's hand tightened on
the crook of his cane. "You're saying they were poisoned? That it
was—"

"Radiation poisoning. The poor man who
produced 'Scenic Iraq' had no idea of the real meaning of the
images he was capturing. But someone else did…and did something
about it."

"Shit-a-moley," said Lawson. "WMD's."

"Your country's assertions were not entirely
farcical," Ari said. "The video was shot in 1999, not long after
your nation bombed Iraq for not complying with the mandates of the
UN Special Commission."

"Operation Desert Fox," said Lawson.

"I believe that was the cute name you gave to
the mission."

"You mean there's a load of fissionable
material in those mountains? In a cave?"

"Think of it. In 1998 the UN inspectors were
not getting anywhere. They departed in a huff, not to return until
2002. Saddam knew they would be back. He had to use the opportunity
to send his high-grade material somewhere else. It was very
secret."

Not even I knew about it, Ari thought
sourly.

"If the Kurds got hold of it, they could
become a nuclear power," Ari continued. "That would make some
people very unhappy."

"Man, that's messed up. The Turks..."

"But I suspect it has been dispersed beyond
the northern border."

"Which border?"

"Alas, that is beyond my purview. The
material will probably show up in some unseemly fashion in the near
future. I believe I have heard military men use the technical
phrase 'clusterfuck'."

"With bonus points. We have to tell the
authorities about this now, no matter what happens to me. Fuck the
license, I mean."

"The authorities have already been
advised."

"By who?" Lawson demanded. "You? Why should
they believe a paysan? And which authorities? This isn't something
you report to the local Cub Scouts."

"It just happens that I know someone in your
military intelligence operations."

"How would—"

"You will not be involved," Ari
continued.

"I'm willing to pay the price—"

"There is no need," Ari persisted. "The price
has already been paid. By someone of no consequence."

Ari had uploaded a copy of the travelogue
video to his CENTCOM contact, following it with a note as to its
meaning. He advised CENTCOM that the agency studio where the video
had been produced was bombed out of existence a number of years
ago, but did not add that he had been a near-witness to the event.
Being quite befuddled by his own twisted backstories, he did not
know if that information could be crosschecked against earlier
lies. However, he offered CENTCOM a guess as to where the caravan
was headed:

The camels would have been unloaded in
Sulaymaniyah, near the Iranian border. The Coalition would never
have anticipated the Ba'athists transporting their destructive
treasure into the enemy homeland. Friendly Sunnis would greet the
convoy of trucks and thread it through the mountains to the Caspian
Sea. Shipped to Turkmenistan, another long trek through
mountains…to where? Afghanistan? To Uzbekistan rebels further
north? At this point, it's your call….

He left it at this. No mention of a competing
military operation. Because if 'Bill' was not working for the Shura
Council after all, but ISAF…

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Second Battle of Fallujah (continued)

Battle in sandy grayness, smoke and gray,
flash and gray, blood and gray.

"Where are the mortars?" Ghaith screamed at a
prisoner, and when no one was looking sliced the truth out of him.
That was the look of Truth: gaping horror at the newly inflicted
wound, this guy isn't kidding, he'll cut out my tongue, OK the
mortars are in a courtyard on Jordan Street. Good man, says Ghaith,
the mujahideen respect the truth, now get back to the Americans and
scream about my brutality. Make sure they take pictures.

Runs to a Bradley making a tight turn and
grabs the tank's outside phone.

Not here! Go straight! The mortar's on the
next block!

Who is this? Why does the tank commander ask?
How can he recognize anyone's voice in this hurricane of noise? No
matter. Ghaith sees the man on the roof, the distinctive
silhouette, and shouts RPG! before leaping through an open door.
The rocket hits the tank but the Marines' luck holds, only
penetration is their eardrums. The Bradley driver abandons the turn
and roars straight ahead. Ghaith leaps out, thinks of grabbing a
carbine dropped by a wounded Marine and slinging a shot at the
insurgent on the roof, but knows the Marines themselves will down
him if they see this masked man toting one of their guns. Bad
enough to be wielding a K-Bar.

He checks the roof. Bare now, the insurgent
running for another rocket propelled grenade. He runs after the
tank, reaches for the phone but it's blown off. He's not about to
run out front and point the way. Even if the soldiers inside didn't
blow him into a million pieces, they were not about to follow
directions from some fucking mask-head.

Haji! What the fuck are you doing? Get back
here! You know better than to take point!

Ghaith grabs the lance corporal and tells him
where the mortar is. He runs to where the tank phone should be and
makes the same discovery as Ghaith. The RPG round has shattered the
phone. But he's not keen on running up front and pointing the way.
Rounds of every caliber are flying every which way. And like any
man in a war zone, he thinks most are aimed at him. And in this
case, most were.

The lance corporal's finger lay heavy on the
trigger. When three men ran out of a nearby building he whirled and
fired, dropping one of them instantly. Then the corporal swore and
stopped shooting. The men were running to retrieve a dead insurgent
in the middle of the road. Marine snipers happily polished off such
easy targets. A scorecard was a scorecard. But the average grunts
were less inclined to reward the enemy's courage with a fusillade
of bullets. None of the infantrymen behind the corporal and Ghaith
fired. The two remaining men dragged the dead man into a building,
and then came back for the one the corporal had killed. They had
just reached the doorway when a sergeant shouted, You dumb bitches!
and launched a grenade at the building. The Marines fell to the
ground, as much to avoid flying body parts as shrapnel when the
insurgents disappeared in a bright flash. Ghaith appreciated the
sergeant's sentiment. He would have done the same, if the situation
were ever reversed.

Enemies always had a way of coming back to
haunt you.

Aw, shit, cried a Marine, flinging an
insurgent's face off his arm like a swimmer tossing a
jellyfish.

The tank was halfway down the block. Rooftop
insurgents tried to take it out with rockets, but the infantrymen
on either side of the street put up an effective suppressing fire.
One insurgent was hit just before firing. The RPG round flew up and
up.

I shot an arrow into the air, said the lance
corporal. Ghaith couldn't imagine what he was talking about.

Finally the sergeant got the tank commander
on the radio and told him to take the next turn. The tank commander
said he would be glad to oblige, only he'd like more boots covering
the roofs ahead of him. It was a matter of etiquette, you see.

Suddenly the sky ripped open. Flames shot
down and a wild series of flashes lit the turn around the next
alley. The sergeant pressed his headset.

OK, forget the mortar. Slayer took care of
it.

She did it! the Marines laughed. It was
generally believed that Slayer's pilot was a woman. It might have
been true. Whoever it was did a damn effective job.

I love that gal, said one guy.

I'll never get in bed with a shooter, said
another. Not that kind of shooter.

He was accused of being chickenshit. Iron
maidens were all the rage. The sergeant told them to shut the fuck
up, this wasn't a party. They made faces behind his back. Total
fear and humor. Not a strange combination, thought Ghaith, who had
laughed his way through many a horror. He had also wept and shit
his pants.

Watch it, watch it...3/1 is to the right. No
friendly fires, got it?