The Godless One (15 page)

The enthusiasm of
novices
, Ari thought.

And pretty sick bastards, at that. A
series of serrations just visible beneath the bloodstains told Ari
how the job, after the first few swings, was finished. The killers
had used everything but the kitchen sink. And in fact, that was
where they had left their instruments of torture, piled shamelessly
in the sink like dishes left for the maid. Knives, a meat cleaver,
even a goddamn wood cutting hand saw, probably from the garage. Ari
imagined them chipping and slashing away at Mustafa’s neck like a
bunch of maniacal beavers. It began to unsettle even his strong
stomach. He looked at Mustafa’s bare feet again and decided there
was one question that needed immediate answering. Stepping
carefully across the linoleum, he found his way to the head.
Mustafa might or might not have been fair-skinned, but even in his
current condition it was obvious he had been no Omar Sharif. The
jagged cuts on the body were repeated here, around the sagging
remains of the jugular. But there were no wounds around the ears or
chin, which he would have expected on a struggling man. He looked
towards the door. The deputy was still outside. This was good,
because in the mood she was in now she would probably shoot him if
she saw what he did next. Which was to tip the head over with his
foot.

A gunshot wound to the temple.
Excellent. Mustafa had died before the hatchet job began. Having
investigated—or helped the Americans investigate—numerous
beheadings in Anbar Province, he was aware that there was not
enough blood here to match the atrocity. The arterial gush was
limited. Relocating the incongruous splatter pattern on the wall,
Ari concluded Mustafa had been shot by someone standing near the
sink. Tiptoeing close to the body, he studied the zip-tied hands.
It did not appear any fingers were broken. Aside from the obvious,
there had been no inordinate torture. He probably surrendered
whatever information they wanted from him within the first sixty
seconds of the home invasion.

What did Samir Salman tell
you
?

Oh, this and that and this and that,
Mustafa readily told them, never having suspected that his knowing
even this little bit was a death sentence.

Did he tell you the name
of the customer buying the Lamborghini
?

No! No! Yes! Yes!

There was no way of knowing, although
Ari thought Samir Salman was too cagey to give away unnecessary
information. But the killers had already gone too far, just by
showing up at Mustafa’s house. It was only a guess, but he thought
it a good one.

When he first entered the kitchen,
Ari’s attention had naturally focused on the headless man. The
second thing to catch his eye sat on the side counter. He took a
couple of steps across the kitchen and looked down at the bundle of
money. Without lifting it off the counter, he pressed the top of
the bundle with his index finger and ran his thumb across the edge.
There was at least $10,000 here. It was not unusual for that much
cash to be in the house. Like many foreigners, Mustafa had not
placed much trust in American banks. Poor Mustafa, trying to buy
his life. And it should have worked. But the killers had rebuffed
him and his bribe. That was part of the message.

Still...who could afford to snub that
much cash?

Someone who can afford a
Lamborghini
....

Next to the bundle lay a
trifold wallet. Ari took a pencil from a cup next to the phone and
used its eraser to flip the wallet open. A glance in the driver
license window revealed a valid Virginia permit. "No IDP, Mustafa?
How did you manage that?" The answer came when he began turning
over the clear center pockets. There was an assortment of credit
cards. "An AMEX Gold! Mustafa, you have done well for yourself."
Then came two car registrations, one for a Nissan Sentra, one for a
BMW Gran Turismo. And then he came to the reason why Mustafa had a
state license instead of an Egyptian one: a reduced copy of an
American Citizenship certificate. "What! Why not a permanent
resident card?" He turned to the headless Mustafa and waggled the
pencil at him. "You have some explaining to do. Have you lived here
five years? Akila isn’t a citizen, is she? So…you’re a real
American now." He paused. "Who was the first President of the
United States?" Another silent pause. "Ha! I didn’t think you
knew…" The last clear pocket in the center fold held an insurance
agency business card. Under the name of the agency was printed
‘Benjy Cosmos: Here to Serve You.’ On the back of the card was a
handwritten note: ‘
Claim #36MZ234. Nissan
Sentra
.
Candy
Red
.’

He used the eraser to close the wallet
and put the pencil in his coat pocket. Then he stared again at the
$10,000.

In any event, robbery
wasn't the motive
, he thought, pocketing
the bundle.
Until now
.

He wondered if the killers had argued
about the money. It seemed likely. Couldn't they just take it once
the job was done? Mustafa certainly wouldn't be needing it,
anymore. At least, that was Ari's own justification for taking it.
But there was a strong man among them, someone giving the orders,
someone the other two were afraid of. Could it be the same man who
had written the Sura on the wall?

He went to the edge of the kitchen and
looked down at the runner leading off to the dining room. No bloody
footprints. The killers had left as soon as they finished in here.
But the graffiti proved they had gone through other parts of the
house, beforehand.

And then there was Akila to
consider.

While he had managed to stay on thin
patches of blood already dried, Ari was not about to risk trailing
microscopic flakes into the other rooms. He took off his shoes and
entered the dining room. He studied the graffiti. Right to left, he
was certain. Jews and Arabs wrote in the same direction. Backwards,
according to Western pundits. Funny world.

He found Mustafa's wife in the upstairs
bedroom. The killers had been merciful to her. She had, after a
moment's startled confusion and fear, been shot in the
forehead—probably in front of Mustafa. Not very nice, Ari
conceded.

He paused outside what appeared to be a
home office. Seeing a computer, he stepped over to the desk and
gave the mouse a tap. The screen came up with a request for a
password. Ari’s scalp gave a little flip when he saw an Aegis
plugged in the USB port. But it was a common enough memory stick.
And Ari could not recall a single week where the U.S. Marshals had
not checked on his status, one way or another. Mustafa had been
missing for two weeks. Besides, wouldn’t Karen have done everything
in her power to stop him from coming out here if Mustafa was one of
her protected witnesses?

Unless it no longer
mattered.

A doubt was planted. Perhaps the
agency’s attention slackened when the witness’s services were no
longer needed.

He thought of taking the Aegis. But the
flash drive was encrypted. And if it was government property, its
absence would be noted.

There was no sign of the hate letters.
On the wall was a picture of Mustafa (which confirmed his
homeliness) and an Indian. He leaned forward to read the scribble
at the bottom: ‘Be the Best, Old Man! - Ramesh
Balasubramium.’

Ari looked for signs of pets, but saw
none. He returned to the kitchen and pulled on his shoes. He again
glanced at the smudges that betrayed the killers’ use of gloves.
Then his eye fell on an open bag of Alibaba roasted corn near the
toaster. He sighed. He would take the money, but he did not have
the heart to steal food from a dead man. He turned to the corpse
and gave a small wave.

"Peace be upon—"

Wait. Mustafa had not been a Muslim.
What would a Christian say?

"Have a blessed day," Ari said, then
went out the door.

"What the fuck have you been doing in
there?" Karen demanded when he emerged. "You have to get out of
here!"

Ari strolled down to the lawn, where
she was waiting. She charged towards him, ready to strike. Then she
caught a whiff of the stench of death caught in the folds of his
coat and backed away.

Is my coat
ruined
? Ari wondered with
dismay.

It looked to Ari as if Deputy Karen had
been crying. He hoped for her sake that she had maintained her
self-control while calling the police. It would not help her career
if it got back to her boss that she had blubbered an official
call.

"Did you find his wife?"

"Upstairs. Shot."

Tears welled in Karen's eyes. Ari lost
patience. Without really thinking, he said, "You’re a soldier!
Command yourself to stop, if you don‘t want me to."

Instantly, the tears stopped. She
stared at him. "What did you say?"

"You need to pull yourself
together."

"You talked like an army officer. Is
that what you were? I thought you were some kind of Iraqi
cop."

"I was that, also. Nepotism was
commonplace in that regime. It taught the leaders to be remarkably
flexible in some ways, even when those promoted weren't related.
Uday Hussein was in jail one day and Defense Minister the next. In
my case, I could be in the Army, I could be in the Security
Service, I could be operating overseas. What most interested your
generals, however, was that I was also a lowly clerk."

"But when—?"

"You said I needed to go?" Ari
interrupted.

She nodded as she drew in a calming
breath. "Right. You've had enough dealings with the Richmond cops.
We don't need to add the Henrico police to the list. They might
start comparing notes." She began working on her key ring. "I
called Fred. He's coming. Take the Civic. Here are the keys. Leave
them under the driver seat. I've got the remote. Park at the Pony
Pasture and walk home."

She was giving orders. Ari considered
this a very good sign. He wondered if this was her first murder
scene, but decided not to ask.

"Welcome to Babylon, Deputy Karen
Sylvester."

"So you're saying—"

But he was already walking towards the
driveway.

On the way home he stopped at the
Mediterranean Bakery and bought five bags of Alibaba roasted corn.
He paid with a hundred dollar bill.

CHAPTER FIVE

Ari was pleased by the American concept
of multitasking, but for reasons beyond his comprehension he found
it difficult to apply to everyday tasks. If he worked on his
computer while cooking couscous, the result might be something with
the look and consistency of oil spill residue. One evening, he had
hurriedly tossed some clothes in his washing machine before rushing
off to a party at the Mackenzies. The next morning, he found all of
his whites magically converted to pink.

Talking on a cell phone he had
purchased the day before should have been simple. Everywhere he
looked, he saw people yakking away blithely while negotiating
traffic. A red flag should have been raised when he learned that
speaking on a cell phone while behind the wheel had been outlawed
in some states, as well as in other countries.

He would not have done badly, however,
had the signal been clearer.

He was able to reach the insurance
agent’s office on two rings, and Benjy Cosmos with the first
transfer, but when Ari said, "I wish to discuss Claim 36MZ234," a
long silence was followed by, "Hello? Is anyone there?"

"I would like to discuss Claim
36MZ234."

"What? Is this Mr.Zewail? We
already—"

A horn blared. Ari was at the three-way
intersection of Forest Hill Avenue, Semmes Avenue and Dundee
Street. Cars were swerving and honking around him. Nothing out of
the ordinary. Ari turned his Scion up Semmes.

"Yes?" he said. "Mr. Cosmos? Are you
there? I wanted to find out if Mustafa’s Nissan is still undergoing
repairs."

"This isn't Mr. Zewail?"

"No, I am an associate of his. Gamal
Abdel Nasser."

"You're an architect?"

Ari smiled. "That's what they say I
am."

"Sorry?"

"Yes, I'm an architect. I'm working on
the new baseball field in Shockoe Bottom."

"Is that still happening?" Benjy said.
"Anyway, Mr. Nasser...are you driving at the moment?"

"Yes indeed. Would that be causing this
electrical interference? Hello? Hello?"

"—shouldn't be driving while on the
cell phone. You can get—"

Ari did not hear the rest of the
sentence. A van ahead of him had stopped to make a left turn. Going
55 in a 35 zone, Ari came up on him quite suddenly.

"
Coos okt al laglesh
!"

"What was that, Mr. Nasser?"

Ari barely missed
rear-ending the van as he cut off several drivers in the right
lane, who made their objections known. At the same instant, he
found himself confronting a traffic light that had just turned
red.
Plenty of time
, he thought, and sailed through the intersection.