The 56th Man (39 page)

"Accident?" said Ghaith bitterly.

"That hospital’s in the Green Zone!" the
colonel exclaimed. How did you manage that?"

"He's our employee," said the ambassador.
"And your son? He is well?"

How rude of you to ask.

It was a good thing Ghaith was not
superstitious. Many Iraqis would have been offended by the
ambassador's inquisitiveness. To ask of the health of a man's son
or daughter was to invite the Evil Eye. But perhaps, under the
circumstances, the question was unavoidable.

"He is well. He is watching
over his mother." Ghaith offered up his most ingratiating smile.
"Mr. Ambassador, if this proposal isn't feasible for myself, I
would invoke the privilege of
Melmastia
for my wife and son."

The ambassador's face
reveled in a mix of emotions before going blank. Observing the
colonel's perplexity, he enlightened him on the Afghan code of
honor.
"Melmastia
is one of
the concepts of
Pashtunwali.
A
Pashtun is obligated to show the utmost hospitality to anyone under
his roof. The guest could be his worst enemy. It doesn't matter.
The code is supreme."

"Isn't that a little theoretical?" the
colonel inquired politely.

"The Pashtuns are famous for their
hospitality."

"All those guys who are killing each other up
in the mountains?"

"I'm sure 'those guys' weren't guests." The
ambassador studied Ghaith with his sleepy eyes. "The hospitality
extends only to those directly under one's roof."

"Isn't the United States your 'roof'?" Ghaith
asked.

"In any event, we are still confronted with
how to present this to the Iraqi government. For us to be harboring
informants would be intolerable--"

The siren went off.

"The Q36!" the colonel jumped. He looked at
the ambassador. "Mr. Ambassador, if you would please get under my
desk."

"The insurgents are not only tardy, they are
notoriously poor shots." The ambassador didn't move.

The colonel did not press the matter, nor did
he extend the invitation to take cover to Ghaith. He remained
seated, wincing, annoyed by the noise if not the danger it was
alerting them to.

There was a bright flash, followed
immediately by an explosion somewhere on the grounds.

"One-twenty-two millimeter," the colonel
observed. "Sounds like it hit one of the tent cities." He clucked.
"Killing their own people."

"Didn't your people kill your people during
your civil war?" Ghaith asked.

"One-oh-one again," said the colonel. He did
not elaborate, because the alarm was still wailing. "Christ,
another radar hit."

The next blast shook the room.

"That was closer," the colonel observed.

The ambassador did not comment on this. He
watched Ghaith for a bit, then drifted off into thought.

The alarm stuttered, then went off again.

"Three Q36 hits," the colonel shook his head.
"Those Fedayeen can't last much longer. The Apaches will be zeroing
in on them."

The colonel and the ambassador lurched
forward when the next explosion created a shower of falling
plaster. Ghaith did not budge. He took out a cigarette and lit up.
The colonel shot him a warning look.

"I thought even in your country the condemned
man is allowed a final smoke."

"Smoking's banned in most prisons," said the
colonel.

"Ah...masters of torture."

The siren kicked in again.

"Colonel," said the ambassador. "Is it
possible someone is directing this attack from inside the compound?
Perhaps by this Bedouin that he was speaking of?"

"You can't walk rockets in like
artillery--"

Wham!

There were shouts in the hallway outside the
office.

"Jesus, did they hit the South Wing?"

"Colonel."

"Yes, Mr. Ambassador?"

"As soon as the all clear sounds, may I
suggest you immediately put this man onto a rhino bus and get him
out to the airport?"

"I'll need clearance--"

"General Casey has already cleared this,
pending my approval." He turned to Ghaith, exposing his broad
teeth. It could have been a smile. It could have been a grimace.
"And I approve."

The dark Lexus was parked next to the
driveway entrance when Ari arrived home after his visit to the
library. Carrington got out and followed while he drove the xB up
to the garage. Ari knew there would be trouble when the detective
glanced towards Howie's house, then the river, as though to verify
no one was watching. Ari decided there was nothing he could do
about the trouble he saw brewing beyond turning his back on
Carrington and opening the garage door. He drove inside, parked,
and got out. He smiled and nodded when he saw Carrington aiming a
P226 at him.

SIG Sauer, holds 12 to 15 rounds, depending
on the size of the ammunition. A pistol designed for the U.S. Army.
A favorite with Navy SEALS.

"
Ma sha'
Allah
, Detective Sergeant Carrington."

"That doesn't sound Italian. Flat on your
stomach, hands behind your back."

"But this is a new jacket."

"Flat on your stomach, put your hands behind
your back."

"Look at that oil on the concrete. I really
can't. Why don't I lean against the car while holding my hands over
my head, then place my hands firmly on this little car's roof, and
then spread my legs in the approved manner?"

Ari knew this was perilous behavior.
Carrington had the gray, cold look of someone who wanted to share
the death of his soul. But he had dealt with men far more
dangerous. Men who had had no soul to begin with. He was familiar
with the lines that could be crossed.

Carrington nodded. "Do it, then."

Ari complied. The detective came up behind
him and closed one end of a pair of handcuffs around his left
wrist.

"Reach behind with your hand," Carrington
grunted. "No, your right hand, goddammit!"

Once the cuffs were on, he pulled Ari back
from the car and waved him towards the inner door. He marched to
the base of the steps.

"Stop."

Ari stopped. Carrington stepped around him
and opened the door, then drew aside, the gun still aimed at his
prisoner.

"Okay."

Ari stepped up into the narrow hallway
leading to the kitchen. A glance at the back porch door revealed a
curled piece of tape. He'd had a visitor. Carrington? Howie
Nottoway? He had been wondering if Jackson or Mangioni had let drop
the inconsequential detail that Ari had cooked up a lot of smoke
while preparing his
masgouf
.
Carrington might have made the connection between the air vent's
poor performance and the prize blocking the tube.

He intended to look at the stove when he
entered the kitchen, but his attention was drawn instead to an
envelope on the table. The return address was Ted's Custom Lawn
Care & Landscape Design Service. His name was handwritten
across the front, along with a crude smiley-face flourish.

Two
visitors?

What time had they arrived? Had they met?
That would have been interesting to see. Effervescent Fred and a
terrified Howie. Or had Fred, or even Ted himself, come through the
back door?

"Sit," Carrington ordered.

Ari sat facing the rear of the kitchen. The
tape he had stretched between the Jenn-Air’s bottom access panel
and the oven door was broken. Two visitors, then--unless the U.S.
Marshals Service was investigating Richmond's drug trade, which Ari
doubted. He was beginning to think of his house as a sieve that
allowed in any passerby, including gun-toting detectives.

Carrington looked at the chair across from
Ari and recalled how uncomfortable he had found it on his previous
visit. He leaned against the counter.

"Ever hear the phrase, 'you in a heap of
trouble'?"

"No, but I can guess its import," said Ari
with unnecessary and risky snobbery.

"You assaulted three civilians. That may be
an everyday thing in Godfather-land, but it's a crime here."

"I wasn't aware of that. Obviously, you must
arrest me."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Carrington's
eyes seemed to borrow weight from his heavy brow. They sank into a
deadly scowl. "We're going to cut the crap here, right? You think
I'm a cop on the take. That you beat up on some lowlifes who had
done you no harm and that you can get away with it by blackmailing
me. Am I right?"

"I was only trying to find out--"

"Yeah, well you found out the wrong thing.
Make that double. First, you interfered with an ongoing
investigation of illicit drug trafficking, then you interfered with
an ongoing murder investigation. How about them apples?"

Apples? Ari didn't inquire. The ghost of his
beloved foreign language instructor had a few educational gaps to
answer for. Ari's slang was obviously not up to par. He made
himself as comfortable as he could with his hands bound behind him
and worked on the problem of what to do if Carrington opened the
envelope.

There had always been a thespian element in
the detective's behavior. It could be sarcastic. It could be
menacing. But it had provided a kind of levity that was totally
absent now. Carrington looked as heavy in mood as he was in body.
Gravity had dragged him down to basic elements. Ari could tell it
was not a pleasant situation for him. At heart, Carrington was not
a cop who enjoyed a good wallow in human muck. Mother and the Kayak
Express were bad habits left over from his lost youth. Ari, too,
had known the consummate pleasures of family life. He had lost
those pleasures early. Carrington had come upon them late. Both of
them could become deadly if that lifestyle was threatened.

"Mind if I smoke?" said Ari.

"Be my guest," Carrington answered without
humor.

Ari flexed the cuffs behind his back and gave
up on the idea.

"Detective Sergeant Carrington, you look very
tired."

"And the fun's just begun. Where is it?"

Ari thought a look of innocence would be
futile, but tried it on, anyway.

"I mean everything. What you took from those
boys, from Black Mamma. And what you found here. Just hand it over
and we'll be squared. I mean it. I won't lay a finger on you or
your...whatever the hell it is you do."

"I don't have access to those items now.
However, I do have $127 and some change on me. I'd be glad to give
it to you, if that's the required fee in this country."

"Fee?"

"The fee for doing business, for not being
harassed by the authorities, for just getting on."

"You think I'm a grafter? This is the best
goddamn country in the world. We don't have that kind of
thing."

"What would you do if I laughed?"

"Knock the shit out of you."

"Then I won't laugh."

"You don't have the shit here? Or the money?
I could search the house again. But like you said, I'm tired. I
might just save myself the trouble and shoot you."

"I've hidden it away. Quite far away. It
would take over an hour to get there. And by then it would be dark
and I probably wouldn't be able to find it. Even if I did, you
would still probably shoot me, because that's not the real reason
you're here."

"Why am I here?"

"To preserve your daughter's good name."

"So..." said Carrington. And nothing
else.

"I'm sure you've tried to run a background
check on me. I'm aware that you've run into unexpected obstacles. I
saw your lips move when you looked at my credit card in the
restaurant the other night. You were memorizing the account number.
What were you able to learn from that?"

"Bank of Nova Scotia my fucking ass."
Carrington was stirred up. He had been thwarted professionally, a
far sharper pang than having his peccadilloes exposed. "Yeah, I
tried to run it. Got all sorts of bogus crap back about
international law and Canada wouldn't release that kind of data to
a shit-ass American cop. It's a fucking Visa, for Christ's sake.
They don't
have
a country.
Which reminds me...where do you keep your wallet?"

"Inside jacket pocket."

Carrington came over and took it out. He
eased painfully into the chair across from Ari and opened it up on
the table. "I'll be damned. One-hundred and twenty-seven dollars.
Not many people know the exact amount in their wallets." He gouged
through the wallet's inserts with his thick fingers, pulling out
plastic square by square. He held up Ari's driver's license. "Now
this is interesting."

"Is it not in the approved format?"

"It's a Virginia license. It's got your
address on it. I mean the address here, on Beach Court Lane."

"Yes?"

"You've been here hardly a week. You realize
that you have thirty days before you have to title. Your car has a
two-year state sticker and a Richmond sticker. And insurance, too!
Getting all that would take a day. Have you been to the DMV? Have
you been to City Hall?"

"Obviously."

"Then tell me, which Division of Motor
Vehicles office did you go to?"

"The main one."

"And where is that?"

Ari had no idea.

"Asshole." The detective took out another
card. "Hey, Henrico County Library, issued today. Didn't take you
for a bookworm, Mr. Ciminon."

Lynn the Librarian had suggested Ari get a
permanent card at the circulation desk if he planned on using the
library frequently.

"I try to improve myself," he said.

"Check out any books? Any movies? No?
Interesting." Carrington slipped out a small white envelope that
bore the seal of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. He
removed the card. "You got a helluva magnetic strip on here. I can
see myself." He turned the card over. "Permanent Resident
Card?"