The Godless One (13 page)

"I'd love to let you float off wherever
it is you want to go, but it's just not practical." Karen hesitated
a moment. "Just out of curiosity, where were you headed before I
stopped you?"

"To the residence of Mustafa Zewail."
He paused when she laughed. "Is that so amusing?"

"It sounds like you're going off to see
a French Muslim whale, that's all."

"Ah," said Ari.

"So who is this Mustafa? I don't recall
his name in your file."

"He was the translator before me...at
the prison."

The deputy's face dropped. "Uh-huh. I
hope you're having second thoughts about doing anything like that
again."

"Not in the least. According to the
inmate, Mustafa stopped providing his services when he began
receiving abusive letters."

Karen became alert. "Hate letters?
That's a Federal crime. I can report it to the FBI."

"Rather than 'report', why not do
something about it?"

"What did you have in mind?" Karen
asked warily.

"I only want to speak to
Mustafa—"

"No."

"I don't intend to—"

"No." Karen clapped her hand to her
head. "Be reasonable! First, you'll be making yourself known to
hostile elements."

"You speak like an American captain I
knew—"

"And second, you might run into someone
who might just fuck you up, which I can't afford. Let the experts
handle it."

Ari's expression told her all she
needed to know about his opinion of experts.

"Let me deal with it. The U.S. Marshals
and FBI aren't exactly in bed together, but...where are you
going?"

"I'm getting into my car because I
intend to leave," said Ari, backing towards the Scion.

"What did I just say?" Karen
demanded.

"You can ride along and...what is it
you say, 'ride shotgun'?"

"Mr. Ciminon, I think this conversation
needs to—"

"My real name is—"

"I don't know how to say
Ga-ga-th."

"Then I'll teach you. Get in beside
me."

"In that tobacco sewer? You really do
look sick. Let me take you home."

"Dear deputy," said Ari, standing at
the open door and preparing to lower himself into the driver seat.
"The woman who bought that house for me for the purpose of solving
the murder of her friend—"

"Blackmail," Karen hissed.

"Pastor Grainger gave me Mustafa's
address. I can—"

Karen took a step forward. "You son of
a bitch."

"Pardon?"

Without warning, Karen jabbed him in
the stomach. Ari 'oofed' and leaned forward.

"That's for blackmailing me!" Karen
said in a scouring voice.

She punched him in the stomach
again.

"That's for almost breaking my
neck."

She took aim one more time. "And this
is for almost breaking my jaw when you stole my gum."

Ari's hand came up when she lashed. It
was like hitting rock. Karen gave a burp of pain and dropped
back.

"Please, Deputy Sylvester," Ari gasped.
"Be aware of what you are doing. You are transgressing your
bailiwick."

"I'm
what
?" Karen laughed in pain. She
suddenly realized that others might be watching and took another
step back. She began walking in a small circle, trying to work the
agony out of her knuckles while surveying the parking lot. She was
relieved to see Ari had picked an isolated area next to the empty
pharmacy. As far as she could tell, no one had seen their
altercation.

When she looked at Ari again, she saw
him leaning glumly against his car, head down, apparently in
thought.

"Is this visit so important to you?"
she asked.

Seemingly tired but also indefinably
amused, Ari nodded.

"Hate crimes happen all the time, all
over the world," Karen tried to reason. "You can’t be the Lone
Ranger everywhere."

"Ah, a cultural reference that I
understand. And I know what you mean." His eyes slid onto a woman
struggling out of a car parked in a handicap spot. "I gather
CENTCOM has told you very little about me."

"Next to nada," said Karen, following
his eyes to the woman. Working her way to the rear door, she
manhandled a walker off the seat and began hobbling in the
direction of the Food Lion.

"All alone," said Ari.

"She’s doing OK," Karen
responded.

"Her sons should be helping
her."

"Maybe her sons are in Iraq." Karen
shook her injured hand, wincing. "You better not have broken any
bones."

"You’re the one who struck me." He
turned back to her. "The reason CENTCOM said so little is because
they themselves know little about me."

"What are you getting at?"

"In spite of the security concerns,
your people trust me…for all the risks that entails."

"Maybe they didn’t have any choice,"
said Karen cautiously.

"Of course they had a
choice. But they did not want to pay the price of
not
bringing me
here."

"The cost in lives?" Karen
asked.

"There are limits on both sides, yours
and mine. My limit is incalculable: I cannot see my family. Your
limit is less burdensome. You only have to refrain from chaining me
like a dog."

"I don’t think I trust you as much as
the Army does."

"And maybe you have reached your
limit," said Ari firmly. "I am going to visit Mustafa Zewail. My
reasons are my own, but they are cogent ones. It does not involve
your national security, so it’s none of your concern. Now…what is
it the girl at the checkout counter says? ‘Have a blessed day’." He
began to get into his car.

"Wait!" Karen seemed to combat an inner
tornado, fighting against what she was about to say. "Can I come
with you?"

His feet still on the pavement, Ari
gave her an inquiring look. "You mean, as a favor?"

"I don't believe in favors. You never
know what the end-cost will be."

"But without favors, and the attendant
responsibilities, there can be no tribal connection."

"We don't have tribes in the
States."

Ari cocked his head in disbelief. "That
is impossible. You have the tribes of Democrats and
Republicans—"

"Political parties."

"Which operate on the same principles,"
Ari observed. "And don't you and Fred belong to the same
tribe?"

"We're working associates," Karen
reasoned.

"How sad. But if he needed something
badly, wouldn't you, as his associate, feel obligated to do it for
him?"

"I will not get into the sack with a
married man," Karen said adamantly.

"I was thinking more in terms of
'taking a bullet' for him. I believe that's a common
phrase."

"Can't we just call this an ordinary
request for assistance? Listen, if this Mustafa is getting hate
mail, I’d like to see one of those letters," said Karen. "I can’t
just go to the FBI with the say-so of a jailbird. I’d like to give
them something substantial."

Ari considered this for a moment. Then
he said, "Get in."

"On second thought, let’s take my car,"
said Karen. "I’d rather not have a GPS log on this
trip."

"Prudent," Ari smiled. This was her
first open admission that she had bugged his Scion. He locked his
car and came over.

"Where to?" she said as they stooped
inside.

"He lives several miles beyond a place
called Regency Square. Are you familiar with it?"

"Sure." She grimaced as the turned the
ignition switch, then flexed her hand on the steering
wheel."

"It still hurts?" Ari
inquired.

"No, just the cold," she said. "That
was pretty good, by the way, hitting someone’s fist in
mid-air—right on the knuckles."

"Krav Maga," said Ari. "A style of
fighting developed by a Slovakian named Lichtenfeld."

"A Jew?" Karen asked.

"Yes."

"Now isn’t that interesting?" she
said.

She drove out of the parking lot and
made the short jump to Powhite Parkway. As they reached the bottom
of the ramp, a car shot out of the fast lane and nearly sideswiped
Karen’s Civic as she merged.

"Fucking asshole!" she
shouted.

"Why yell?" Ari asked. "He can’t hear
you."

"If he’s looking and reads lips, he
knows my mind."

"Then what is the car horn
for?"

"We don’t do a lot of honking in this
part of the South."

"Then drivers won’t learn they have
committed an error and will keep repeating it," Ari said
reasonably.

"OK, we’re stupid, but at least we’re
quiet about it."

"Not really," said Ari as a Cougar
blasted past them, booming rap. "I must say there’s an element of
‘the unscrupulous feeding upon the indifferent’ about this
country."

"What’s that?" Karen shouted, unable to
hear him over the music.

"Not important. Something one of my
professors once told me regarding the West."

"Do you get honked at a lot,
Ari?"

"Endlessly."

The Cougar moved ahead, removing the
need to yell.

"I don’t really understand why you want
to see this whale-man," said Karen. "Some redneck blowhard sends
nasty letters to an immigrant…where did you say he was
from?"

"Egypt."

"Actually, he could be from Mongolia or
the Alps, for all it matters. Someone writes hate letters to
anybody from anywhere else, he gets a new asshole torn."

"I’m glad you feel that way," Ari said,
reaching for his pack of Winstons.

"Hey, I don’t include smokers in my
sympathy pledge," Karen said vehemently. "Smokers are the scum of
the earth, by definition. Besides…"

She pointed at a yellow sticker on the
dashboard:

SMOKING IS FORBIDDEN IN GOVERNMENT
VEHICLES.

Ari considered violating this
injunction, as he did most frivolous restrictions. But he decided
he had already hurt Karen’s feelings enough this morning. Not that
he cared so much for her feelings; just their consequences. He
returned the pack to his overcoat pocket.

"Do you think the prisoner was lying to
you about the letters?" Karen asked after they had passed Huguenot
Road.

"No, I think there are
letters."

"U.S. Post," said Karen, making a
clicking noise with her tongue. "Like I said, Federal
crime."

"My concern is where those letters
originated."

"Like I said, some redneck asshole."
She slid around someone in the slow lane. "Hope it's not a vet."
Then quickly, said, "I mean a veteran."

"I understand," said Ari as he studied
the car's interior. No radio. The agents must depend on their cell
phones. "My interview with Samir Salman was very
problematic."

"Samir is the prisoner?"

"Yes. He is a devout Shia
Muslim."

"You being a..." Karen waited for an
answer that never came.

"He made a great to-do out of being
forced to eat prison food," Ari continued. "But the Koran forgives
eating the food of the infidel if none other is
available."

"KFC Baghdad, I can see it now," said
Karen.

"And there was the matter of his beard,
which the prison authorities rather callously shaved off." Finding
the Civic's heat too oppressive, he reached forward and turned the
passenger air vent away from him. "There was more, though.
According to the Deputy Warden, Samir was very talkative when
Mustafa first interviewed him. But during his next visit, Samir
wouldn't speak to him."

"You think someone told him to keep
quiet?" Karen asked.

"Possibly. Probably. The Deputy Warden
told me that Samir was the only non-English speaking Arab in the
prison."

"I can find out if there are Arab
English-speakers there," said Karen. "But they wouldn’t allow one
prisoner to translate for another when speaking to a
lawyer."

"Exactly. But I also think someone told
him that Mustafa is a Christian. Someone from outside the prison,
and who would know."

"Whoa, does that matter?"

"It does if Mustafa feigned being a
Muslim in order to get Samir to talk." Ari twisted in his chair.
"Think of it. In his eyes, Mustafa is a traitor to his land, to his
people and to his God."

"And he told Mustafa stuff he would
only tell another Muslim?"

"I believe so."

"Were you able to get him to
talk?"

"Oh, yes. But he talked to me through
fear. Mustafa tricked him."