The Godless One (9 page)

"But it’s your house."

"All the more reason for you to be
seated."

Observing the impasse, Grainger
shrugged and reseated himself. Howie and Ari continued to
stand.

"I try to stay in shape," said Ari,
finally answering the pastor’s question. "It’s getting harder, I
have to admit."

"You might consider joining our group.
You know, for encouragement. We’ve merged with the Christ Church
Jogging Club. We’ve also teamed up with the local harriers, for any
of our members who prefer the long haul." A gleam came into his
eye. "And you don’t have to be a Methodist to join. Many of our
members come from other denominations. I think some of them aren’t
even citizens of this country, although I’ve never
inquired."

"I’ll bear that in mind." Ari frowned.
"You mean, you go hawking?"

"Oh, no!" Grainger laughed. "’Harrier’
can also mean cross country running." The pastor thought a moment,
and laughed again. Howie laughed, too, although Ari doubted he knew
anything about harrier eagles, or harrier hounds—or, for that
matter, cross country running.

Grainger seemed ready to speak, but was
taking a moment to pack a delicate matter in soft words. "Howie
told me that your furniture never arrived."

"It was lost in shipment," said Ari.
"It’s of no importance."

"We have a crisis assistance ministry
that could help," said Grainger. "We could have a few things
trucked here, just to hold you over."

"I apologize that there are so few
places to sit," said Ari, again trying to nudge Howie to the empty
chair with his eyes. "In fact, there’s no need. I have learned to
enjoy the echoes of an empty house."

There was a pause in the conversation.
Ari braced himself to reject yet one more religion.

"We also have a mountain biking club,"
said Grainger. He gave a small cough. "Ari, we’re not here to
dragoon you into the church…" He glanced at Howie,
waiting.

"Right," said Howie, coming awake. "We
were just wondering…I know you’re from Italy and all,
but…"

"My church has an outreach program that
serves inmates in the state prisons," said Grainger, a little
impatiently. Howie was beating about the bush, the tree and the
forest. "One of those services is to provide translators for those
with poor English skills."

"No English at all," Howie interjected,
as though commenting on lepers.

"We have several Spanish speakers in my
church. And, up to a couple of weeks ago, one who spoke
Arabic…"

Ari nodded and smiled. What was coming
was obvious, but he did not want to commit himself.

"Okay," said Howie, shifting his
stance. "I hope you don’t mind me bringing this up. But you told me
one day that you were of Arab descent."

"Ah," said Ari.

"We were just wondering if you…well,
like Mrs. Silva. She’s from Brazil, but she still speaks Spanish
she learned from her parents."

Pastor Grainger gave a small
cough.

"Oh, right. She still speaks Brazilian.
So we were wondering if you knew any Arab, from when you were a
child." Howie worked his mouth as if he had little hairs caught on
his tongue.

"My ancestors arrived in Sicily about a
thousand years ago," said Ari courteously.

"Oh. Then I guess that
means…"

"I guess that means we’ve wasted your
time," said Grainger with equal courtesy. "You see, there is this
inmate at the Powhatan Correctional Center who comes from…well, the
Middle East, so far as the authorities can tell. There is suspicion
that he arrived in this country from Canada, but the immigration
people up there are not being cooperative."

"I thought Canada and the United States
were good friends," said Ari.

"Canada and the United States are the
best of friends," agreed Grainger. "However, Canada and the
Commonwealth of Virginia are a different matter."

"Yes?"

"The gun laws in this state are, I’m
personally sad to say, very liberal. People from out of state can
buy guns here by the bushel. Actually, many bushels. The mayor of
New York has publicly complained about the number of guns used to
commit crimes in his city. And he’s not the only one. Many of those
guns also show up in Montreal."

"Ah," Ari repeated, thinking of Abu
Jasim and the guns he was selling on Ari’s behalf.

"The state thinks Canada’s
unwillingness to cooperate is something of a smack at Virginia for
its laxity. In any event, they have been unable to get much
information from them about the inmate. The previous translator was
one of my parishioners. Mustafa Zewail. He was making slow progress
with the prisoner…inmate…but he has suddenly stopped…"

"Stopped?"

"Coming to church. He hasn’t answered
my calls. I went to his house, but no one answers." Grainger gave a
helpless shrug. "Perhaps he’s gone back to Egypt, although it’s
very dangerous for Christians there right now."

"He’s an architect, just like you!"
Howie blurted.

Ari shot him a look. "Yes?"

"He works for those Brown and Stern
people downtown." Howie pressed his brain against his chin. "I
wonder if they’re working on that ball park, too—"

"I’ve contacted them," said Grainger.
"He’s missed work for two weeks. I’m very surprised he left without
telling anyone."

Howie’s silent disappointment seemed to
hollow out the man; he sagged back against the countertop. Ari
spent a moment balancing moral necessity and practical need. He
could only count on Howie’s guilt being useful but for so long.
Guilt had a way of, over time, becoming resentment, and Ari wanted
no neighborly warpath leading to his front door.

"In fact, I have some Arab
friends in Grammichele. I picked up quite a bit of their language.
Enough, I think, to serve your purpose." This was, in a roundabout
way, true. But the Arabs he was speaking of lived in Hamilton,
Ontario and spoke
Sicilianu
.

Pastor Grainger brightened and Howie
went supernova.

"Would you be available tomorrow,
then?" asked the pastor. "I could pick you up around eight. You
could drive yourself, of course, but you don’t know the way
there."

Ari thought of the tracker in his car.
"That would be fine," he said. "I look forward to it."

Another lie.

CHAPTER THREE

"Close the fucking door,
man!"

The three prisoners were huddled behind
the bars of the gatehouse with no protection against sharp bursts
of frigid air whenever the main door was opened. Ari smiled
agreeably and closed it behind him.

"Can we have your ID, please?" a guard
said from the small office opposite the cell.

Ari raised a brow. For an instant he
thought of his Special Republican Guard ID.

"You mean my passport?"

The guard's face contorted. He
conferred with another guard. All of the foreigners they dealt with
were illegal and did not carry that essential document. Ari tried
to tell them that his passport was, in fact, back at his house. But
the two guards seemed to have turned off their hearing for
everything but each other. Once the highly arcane debate was
concluded, the first guard turned back to the barred window.
"That'll do, we guess. So long as we can understand it. Have you
filled out your Visitor Application?"

Pastor Grainger, who had fallen into
conversation with the three prisoners, suddenly saw what was up and
rushed across the gatehouse.

"The application is unnecessary…I‘ll
see to that. But you need to give them your driver‘s license. I'm
sorry, I forgot to mention that before we left." He turned an
anxious eye on his newest translator. "You did bring it, didn't
you? I know I drove…"

But Ari was already removing two
documents from his wallet. He handed them over and the guard at the
window studied them closely.

"What is this?"

"An Italian driver's license and an
IDP."

"What’s an IDP?"

"International Driving Permit," Ari
answered. "Basically, it's a translation of my Italian permit. Is
there a problem with it?"

"I can vouch for him," Grainger said
with a trace of desperation, which increased when the second guard
took up a phone and punched a number.

"Just a little delay," said the first
guard with courteous menace. "T's and I's have to be crossed and
dotted."

Ari wanted to scratch his head on that
one. Many times he had heard American troops stationed in Iraq
refer to T&A, the meaning of which he discovered soon enough.
But how would that apply in this case?

The second guard lowered the phone.
"Finley is coming."

Seeing Grainger's consternation, Ari
asked in a low voice, "Is there something wrong?"

"Deputy Warden Finley and I have had
some disagreements," Grainger said, trying not to be overheard by
the guards. "They have educational programs here for the inmates
which he disapproves of."

"You mean..." Ari hunted for the proper
word. "Indoctrination?"

"Well, we try to show them how to be
good, productive citizens, of course. That's why we teach them
various academic and vocational skills."

"Oh?" Ari said, amazed.

"Don't they have similar programs in
Italy?"

"Quite honestly, I have no idea. I've
never been involved with a prison system."

"That's good to hear," Grainger smiled.
"Anyway, if Finley had his way, he'd lock these people up and throw
away the key. I've actually heard him say all they're good for is
mowing grass and cleaning toilets."

Ari ventured an appropriate response.
"Horrible..."

"Isn't it?"

There was a buzz and the inner
gatehouse door opened. A man with short blond hair and wearing
wraparound sunglasses stepped inside. He wore only a dark blue
sportsjacket against the cold. The walk across the prison courtyard
had been short, but the cold had added a glow to his
face.

"Reverend..." he said, taking
Grainger's hand.

"Deputy Warden," the pastor responded
briskly. "Let me introduce you to Mr. Ciminon."

"Ciminon? I saw the name on the visitor
list. That doesn't sound like a Middle Eastern name." He shook
Ari's hand.

"He picked up some Arabic in Sicily,
where he grew up," Grainger explained.

The guard handed Finley
Ari's license. He studied it closely, as though peering through a
microscope, then read out loud some of the lines on the pink card.
"
Patente Di Guida, Repubblica
Italiana…Siracusa…
"

"That's my Italian license," Ari
repeated. "The IDP provides the translation."

Finley flipped over the second card.
"'International Motorist Qualification and Permit.'" He raised his
head and looked at the guards. "Have either of you ever seen one of
these?"

Neither of them answered.

"Have either of you been overseas? Do
you know if this is the norm?"

"I went to Poland with the Mrs. a
couple of years ago," said one of the guards.

"Did you drive?"

"Uh…no. One of her relatives came over
from Germany and—"

Finley cut him off with a raised hand.
"Unfortunately, I haven't had a chance for any long vacations. Too
busy with…this…" He spread his arms, as though displaying a crowd
of dummies who could not be left alone for a single
minute.

"I can vouch for him," said
Grainger.

"Member of your church?"

"No...we only met yesterday. But a
member of my congregation is his neighbor."

"And how long has
he
known
him?"

"A couple of months."
Guessing, and probably agreeing, that Ari's
bona fides
were weak, he added:
"He's a member of his local Neighborhood Watch."

Finley barked a laugh, as though
commenting on the stupidity of farmers who hired a fox to watch
their chicken coop. "Well, any other time..." He handed the license
and IDP to the guard, who put them in a drawer. "But I've got a big
pain in the butt with this Arab prisoner. Transporting stolen
property across state lines usually lands you in a BOP, but the
Feds are refusing the transfer unless we can fill out the
paperwork, and right now there are just too many blanks in
Mohammed's history."

"I told him about our trouble with the
Canadians," Pastor Grainger said in a tone that suggested the fault
lay with militant knuckleheads like Finley.

"Stolen property?" Ari
inquired.

"Yeah." Finley's grin was accentuated
by the sunglasses, as though his mouth was his primary tool for
conveying emotion. "You'll appreciate this. He was driving a stolen
Lamborghini." He drew out the car's name with a mock Italian
accent.

"Amusing," Ari said.