The 56th Man (42 page)

"Because of me? Four were killed in combat.
Four were executed by the Iraqi government. Five are in Abu
Ghraib."

"A place where you wouldn't want your worst
enemy. Thirteen out of twenty-seven. Not bad, and I guess those are
the only ones you know about."

"Yes."

"What do you suggest?"

"I want you to meet my handler."

"A U.S. Marshal?"

"She is a deputy. She'll be able to set your
mind at ease. After all, it would not be in your nation's interest
if my services were...nullified."

"Sounds like a sting."

"If you were arrested, you would expose me in
the courtroom."

Carrington mulled this over.

"You want to meet at her office?"

"I doubt Miss Sylvester would agree to that.
Security issues. Besides, I don't know where her office is. Perhaps
a restaurant...?"

"Then I choose the time and place," the
detective said abruptly.

"I need some lead time. I'm sure she has
other duties."

"All right. I'll give you a couple of days.
I've got your cell phone number. And by the way, we’ll use my car.
I don’t want any of that LoJack shit around."

And why should that matter if the woman we’re
going to meet is the same one who has been tracking me?

"Agreed," said Ari.

Carrington stood slowly, looking exhausted.
He tossed the key to the handcuffs on the table. "I know you've got
some guns floating around here. By the time you get those cuffs
off, I'll be gone."

EIGHTEEN

Ari stood in his driveway and bent over,
planting his palms flat on the pavement. He extended one leg, then
brought it back and extended the other. His muscles relished the
warm-up, though it had been a couple of days since he had
exercised. He adapted well to changes in scene and situation.

"Abu Karim Ghaith Ibrahim no longer exists.
Do you understand?"

Ghaith--no, Ari Ciminon--looked to the north,
where the World Trade Center had once stood. He felt a sense of
vacancy that had nothing to do with the missing towers.

"I understand that 'Ghaith Ibrahim' would be
a great embarrassment to the Great Satan."

"We're talking basic survival here."

"So am I. I am to become an erasure. I no
longer exist."

"Good, you understand."

As he jogged up Beach Court Lane, he
kept one eye peeled for Sphinx. There was no sign of the cat
lurking at the edge of the woods or in neighboring yards.
Enjoy your freedom, little
beast
.

He turned left onto Riverside Drive and the
straight stretch of road that ran between the river and the houses
situated high on the bluff. A car roared past at a blistering forty
miles per hour, twenty beyond the posted speed limit. Ari shouted
an oath in its wake.

‘
American History
101.’

'My country 'tis of thee,

Sweet land of liberty...'

Liberty. You had to crack a few legal codes
to find liberty around here. Like the driver of that speeding car.
He knew what it took: flagrant disregard of the rules. You might
have to pay a few fines, but there was plenty of liberty for those
who could afford it.

He passed the entrance to the Pony Pasture,
part of the James River Park System.

'Do Not Park Overnight. Unleashed Dogs Not
Allowed. Do Not Litter. Do Not Pick Plants.'

A loose dog ran into the trash-strewn parking
lot past an abandoned car. The dog's owner trotted up, a bouquet of
wildflowers in her hand.

"Good morning," she said.

"Good morning," Ari smiled without breaking
his stride. He avoided entering that section of the park, which
terminated at a private golf course prominently littered with 'No
Trespassing' signs.

'Let Freedom
Ring!
'

It wasn't about WMD. It wasn't about oil. It
wasn't a new hegemony. It was all about freedom. But Iraqis
understood 'freedom from'. Freedom from torture, freedom from
censorship, freedom from being spied upon, freedom from...well, not
freedom from want, Ari amended as he ran past two homeless men
under the Huguenot Bridge. That was a 'freedom to'. Freedom to
starve, freedom to be unemployed, freedom to hanker after the
unattainable.

'The bombs bursting in
air…
’

Peace-loving American loved war so much it
was incorporated in their National Anthem. But every society was a
bundle of contradictions. Look at the Baathists. So many good
intentions, all of them ending up on the chopping block.

In order to live you had to die.

In order to live in freedom you needed
chains.

In order to exist you must end existence.

Only by ending could you see the
beginning.

Ari wondered if he was turning Sufi. A good
mystical consensus to the nothingness around them. That was what he
needed.

But some practical measures had to be taken,
first. Did his message get through? Or did Sandra and her cohorts
intercept it? Who would be waiting for him at the end of his
run?

'
…one Nation,
under God…’

No, no, it's not about religion. Americans
are a secular crew. Don't begin each day at your new Shaabiya
Satellite TV station with a prayer to Allah, you foolish Iraqis.
That's too backward. Start it with—

Wait, who did I just pledge allegiance
to?

Ari's logical mind tumbled across the miles.
He detoured around Willow Oaks, used Forest Hill to cross Powhite,
and swung back down towards the river.

Am I a traitor? Am I savior? Am I like
everybody else—just trying to get by?

He crossed Westover Hills Boulevard and
returned to Riverside, continuing east until he came to James River
Park’s 42
^nd
Street entrance.
After crossing the railway tracks, he turned right at Reedy Creek
and headed up the broad trail. Birds flittered in the bushes.
Squirrels skittered out of his path. The dogs of joggers coming the
other way gave him passing nose jobs.

Am I Arab? Persian? Assyrian? Babylonian? Am
I all? Or none? Am I...human? It's not a frivolous question.

He climbed the steps of the
22
^nd
Street platform and
crossed Belvedere.

Rana. Rana. Rana.

He passed the massive, coldly precise
financial buildings on Riverview Parkway, then entered upon (how
appropriate!) the old Slave Trail.

'With liberty and justice for all.'

'Oh say can you see.'

'Mission accomplished.'

'By the dawn's early light.'

In the shadow of the Manchester Bridge, he
ran past the massive abutments and crumbled arches of its
predecessors, now used for climbing practice. Rappellers tossed
their ropes down, draping the old brick superstructure like scrappy
Rapunzels letting down their long scraggly hair.

Who will be waiting for me? Sandra, with a
bruised smirk? Carrington, with less than a smile, his hand filled
with a SIG Sauer? The FBI? The CIA? Die-hards from the Mukhabarat?
The Canadian Mounties? A hit squad from Amnesty International? Why,
I could end up in The Hague, right next to Slobodan Milosevic. But
wait, he died back in March. Wonder where he is now? Where do
atheists end up? No Heaven. No hell. Just sewage.

His crimes were not so very extreme...by
Iraqi standards. It was a sorry consolation.

He went down a rocky slope, then up a ramp
onto the southern section of the Canal Walk. Constructed by the
'Corps of Engineers'. Maybe they would be the ones waiting for him,
ready to haul him off on one of their cranes. The ghost of Jerry
Riggins at the controls.

'We hold these truths to be
self-evident...'

'I am not a crook.'

'Ask not, what your country can do for
you...'

Ari had asked what he could do for his
country. You couldn't do that sort of thing on your own. Could not
just build a school or kill an enemy or make a friend without
consultation. The country determined what was needed. He had been
told what to do, and he had done it...most of it. The secret agenda
of Nuremburg. Obey commands unless, no matter, not ever, on
occasion.

'I have a dream...'

Rana...

Ari zigzagged his way along the
floodwall, his lungs bursting. He almost fell down the steps at the
end. He noted a dusky, busy street, across which lay a railway
museum encrusted by chain link fences topped with barbed wire.
After only the briefest of pauses, he forged the
14
^th
Street traffic and
ascended the next segment of the floodwall.

Thought left him. Whether pragmatic or
drearily amorphous, facts and theories dissolved in a fog of pain.
There was nothing metaphysical about it. This was sheer physical
agony. He was only vaguely aware of the floodwall petering out
beneath his feet. After that came Manchester Road. Then Brander
Street. To his left was a massive stone levee that looked hot and
sterile, followed by a layer of trees that screened the river from
view. Then he saw the entrance to Ancarow’s Landing and staggered
into the parking lot.

He fell to his knees, sobbing for air.

"How far have you run?" a voice asked.

"I...I...about...six..."

"Six miles? Is that all?"

"Maybe...seven. Maybe...eight."

"The Ghaith I knew could run 20 kilometers
without breaking a sweat."

"That Ghaith...is dead."

"Looks like it."

Ari began to laugh. "Do you want...to
help...me up?"

"Of course, Sir."

A pair of arms descended. A moment later, Ari
found himself within inches of an astonishingly familiar face. Both
men embraced and kissed each others' cheeks, laughing.

"You look terrible."

"You look worse," the man answered in
Arabic.

They laughed and embraced again. They had not
seen each other in so long.

“
Et comment est Montréal
ces jours ci, mon ami
?”
said
Ari.

"Don't start that on me, again. My French is
my French, which is no French at all."

"Get any peculiar looks up there?"

"All the time."

Ari laughed loudly, as though the world had
come home to him. "You brought your son with you?"

"Mahmoud is in the van. I thought the fewer
faces out here, the better.

"A wise precaution," Ari nodded. "We have to
prepare.”

"That's what I'm here for," said the man. He
knew better than to ask about Rana or Karim. He also understood it
was pointless to ask if what they were about to do was dangerous.
He turned and looked across the river at the city. “Nice little
town.”

“
Yes,” said Ari. “Very
scenic.”

"Do the Abu Ghraib Shimmy for me," said
Carrington.

"I'm sorry?"

"Strip."

"I'm not concealing a gun."

"I'm more concerned about a wire. I'm taking
us to a place where only the bears have transmitters. But to be on
the safe side...strip."

"I have to make my call to Ms.
Sylvester."

"This first."

"If I refuse?"

"Then there's no agreement and it's every man
for himself."

Ari sighed and began to undress. The idea of
being naked before a stranger did not bother him unduly. As a young
man he had spent several years in an army barracks, where privacy
was practically nonexistent.

"You really want this meeting, don't you?"
Carrington said as Ari draped his jacket over the kitchen chair and
removed his tie. "If you asked me to strip, I'd drop you."

"There's nothing to like or dislike. It's a
matter of necessity."

"Some necessities are pleasant." The police
detective had turned his chair around and sat with his hands folded
over the back. He had finally discovered a comfortable
position.

"I suppose it all balances out."

"Yeah," Carrington agreed. "The trick is in
the balance."

"It's just as the ancient Greeks said,
moderation--"

"Fuck the Greeks. Come to think of it, keep
the trousers on. I don't think they'd use your dick for a
microphone. But take off the undershirt."

Ari obliged.

"So you're not wired."

"I can do the rest, if you want," said
Ari.

"You aren't acting like a man in a hurry,"
said Carrington, lifting his chin off his hands. "Get your stuff
back on, and hurry."

Ari dressed.

"Now make the call to your Federal girl."

Ari took up his cell phone and began to
dial.

"Wait. You don't have her number in speed
dial?"

Ari shrugged. "I haven't figured that out,
yet."

"You? Hang up and hand it over."

Ari disconnected and handed the cell phone to
the detective. He studied the buttons for a moment, then checked
the speed dial list.

"No numbers in Memory." He looked up at Ari.
"That could be a precaution on your part. You're not stupid."

"I'm not a technological genius, either."

"What's the number?"

"Ms. Sylvester's?"

"No, Saddam Hussein's. Who do you think?"

Ari reached for the phone.

"No, I'll dial."

Giving him a long look, Ari said, "She won't
recognize your voice."

"And I won't recognize hers. We'll be
even."

Ari began to recite the number. Carrington
held up a hand.

"Stop. That's not the U.S. Marshals local
office number. I checked."

"Then you also checked to make certain Ms.
Sylvester is one of their agents. I'm giving you her cell
number."

Carrington shook his head in disgust. "In bed
with the Feds. Makes me want to puke out my still-beating heart."
Carrington hesitated, then put the phone on the table. "Let me see
that jacket."