The 56th Man (44 page)

"I don't think you should envy the Iraqi
policemen of the past," Ari said.

"Sure as hell don't envy them now,"
Carrington chuckled meanly.

"An Iraqi policeman had to toe the line. He
had to close his eyes at his own doings." Ari grimaced at his
awkward syntax, but Carrington did not notice.

"No different here," the detective said. "You
don't produce, you get the ax."

"You also seem proud to be as evil as the
Iraqis."

"I never said that."

"But you're proud of being dangerous."

"Being dangerous is good. It keeps the bad
buys off your back."

Ari shook his head. "Then you behave no
differently than we do."

"Hey, I boned up a little on your fearless
leader," Carrington said heatedly. "Saddam Hussein is one of the
sickest sickos to ever live, let alone run a country. Can you see
Bush inviting Rumsfeld to his office, then calling him outside and
shooting him down because he'd gotten too popular?"

"I don't think Rumsfeld has to worry about
that," said Ari.

"You miss my point. It's a matter of degree.
Point to anything in your country, and you'll find the same thing
here in one form or another, except maybe the President snuffing
the Secretary of Defense. But we don't do it as bad as you do, if
you know what I mean."

"You're a remote people," Ari countered. "You
torture remotely. You kill remotely. From what I've seen on the
internet, you even make love remotely."

"Crap."

"You threaten my relatives in Iceland. And
how? Not by going there and doing the job yourself. You're willing
to expose them to the media. It's guaranteed death."

"I have to protect myself," said Carrington.
"And my family."

"So also I."

The atmosphere in the car became rank with
suspicion and recrimination. Both of them loathed the others'
presence and the circumstances that had brought them here. Ari
felt--and sensed the same feeling in Carrington, if not for the
same reason--that he would have done almost anything to avoid this.
The Riggins family had imposed this on them. Dead, stretching out
for anonymous infinity, they had attached themselves by a final
ethereal thread to these two unhappy men. But the thread stretched
much further than to Beach Court Lane, and they knew this as
well.

Ari pushed back in his seat. "I have to go to
the bathroom."

"I hope it's a whizz," said Carrington in a
tired voice. "I don't have anything for a dump in this car. Or
don't you use toilet paper?"

"Just a whizz," Ari said, automatically
attaching the new word to his vocabulary.

"Don't go far. In fact, just stand right
outside there and do it. But don't get any on the Lexus!"

Ari opened his door and swiveled his legs
out. He leaned down.

"Hey! Not that close."

"My shoe's untied."

"Christ..." Carrington gripped the wheel and
stared out ahead. "Just hurry it up. She should be here any
minute."

"I can't see..."

"You can't tie your shoes in the dark? You
raised in a zoo or something? I don't want to turn on the lights
yet. Sometimes the park rangers come sniffing up this way."

"Just a moment...ah, there." Ari stood. There
was a mild thump on the roof.

"Hey, don't lean on the car! I just had it
waxed!"

"Very well."

The sound of Ari's urine striking the leaves
chimed in with the rush of streamwater under the footbridge.

"I hear something," Ari said, zipping up.

Carrington turned on the power long enough to
lower his window. He listened. In the distance an engine was
starting up. It was followed a moment later by the roar of tires on
gravel. The sound of the racing car faded in the distance.

"Spotlighters?" asked Ari.

"Chased off by the rangers?" Carrington
thumped the steering wheel. "That would be just my fucking
luck."

Carrington heard Ari move behind the car.
"What are you doing?"

"Stretching my legs."

"Well come over here and stretch them where I
can see them." Carrington shifted the gun on his lap as Ari came up
on the driver's side.

"Detective Sergeant, I can barely see my own
legs at the moment, and I believe they're still attached to
me."

"No lights until I'm ready. I'm telling you,
a ranger shows up, we're out of here."

"Very well."

"And whisper. Sound carries out here."

Sound carries
everywhere
.

But the long silence spooked both of them.
Carrington coughed. Coughed again.

"Are you all right?" asked Ari.

"Just a scratch in my throat."

"You should have brought something to drink.
Do you have a cup? I could bring some water from that stream."

"Don't tell me you can drink out of the Nile
in your town."

"No," said Ari, not bothering to correct him.
"It's too polluted."

"Same here." Carrington shifted in his seat.
"So...what made you decide to become a cop?"

Ari peered into the dark. It was like looking
into his own mind.

"I lied to you," he told the detective.

"Yeah? Which lie was that?"

"Krav Maga. That's Hebrew for 'close
combat.'”

“
So?”

“
It's taught to Israeli security
forces. I used that training to disarm the first robber--I didn't
mean to kill him. After that, it was simply a matter of shooting
the other two."

“
Simple…”

“
My point is that in Krav Maga it is
assumed at the outset that no quarter will be given. If one of
those young men had thrown down his gun and raised his hands, I
would have killed him.”

"I knew it. Congratulations." Carrington's
voice carried a nervous trill. “But you say you didn't mean to kill
the first guy?”

“
Or perhaps I did. The training took
over. Perhaps I was no longer myself.”

“
So what are you, Ari: Jew, Arab,
Italian or Nova Scotian?”

“
A mongrel.”

“
And the Israelis are kind enough to
teach mongrels hand-to-hand combat?”

“
Years ago, a Palestinian who worked
for Shabak--“

“
Which is?”

“
Israeli internal security. This
Palestinian was found out and captured by Hezbollah. He stayed
alive by passing on his training to other Arabs.”

“
All right.” Carrington dug his
fingernail into the top of the steering wheel. “Any other
confessions you want to share?”

"Al-Amn al-Khas. It is not an organization of
clerks."

"No kidding."

"You could translate it as ‘Special Security
Service’. Our primary duty was to protect the president."

“
The way you’re talking, I guess that
goes beyond just providing bodyguards.”

“
I was with the Amm Al-Khass Brigade, a
branch of al-Amn al-Khas. Their specialty was suppressing
rebellion. I killed my first man when I was twenty-three, during
the attempted coup by the Jubur tribe, in 1990. I infiltrated the
Republican Guard and eliminated undesirable elements. I helped
suppress the Shiite rebellion of 1991. Remember the Marsh Arabs,
the people you abandoned after the First Gulf War? But my personal
specialty was the Kurdish enclaves. I killed suspected rebels. The
Kurds never caught on, because I carried no weapons.”

“
With your bare hands…” Carrington said
in a tight voice. "You're one hot potato, Mr. Ciminon."

"Abu Karim Ghaith Ibrahim. My last assignment
is the reason I’m here. Saddam Hussein released tens of thousands
of prisoners before the war, in the belief that they would cause
the Americans endless trouble after the inevitable conquest. I was
transferred to the Ministry of the Interior to be of the screeners.
When I say I’m just a cop…in effect, that’s what I ended up
as."

“
What, keeping tabs on those who went
out?”

“
No. Making sure that certain inmates
were not released by accident. What you would call politically
significant prisoners.”

“
And that’s what you call a ‘clerk’…”
Carrington shook his head. "Maybe I should shoot you here and save
the world some grief."

"I wonder…” Ari slumped against the car. “I
did what I did for my country. And now my country no longer exists.
Does that mean I no longer exist? Detective Sergeant...I mean to
say...I am deeply ashamed. The things I have done...and now I have
paid the price."

"You could...uh...you could join the Peace
Corps...or something. You could...you know, like Oprah says, bring
some good into the world--"

"Listen..."

Carrington fell silent. There was a soft
jingling, followed by a creak of pressure.

Turn on the
lights
.

"Is someone on the bridge?" Carrington
whispered.

"I'm not sure..."

There was the distinct sound of ropes rubbing
against wood, followed by a palpable, hollow footstep.

Turn on the lights! I have to be able to see
you!

"How big is this Sylvester girl? She must
weigh a ton."

"We'll know soon enough if she falls off the
bridge," Ari said tensely.

"What, she can't use a flashlight?" But
Carrington could not stand the suspense. He turned the key and
switched on his headlights. And froze. "What the fuck?" he said in
a voice so tight it broke.

He heard movement and twisted around to see
Ari standing at attention.

"What the fuck? What is this?"

A man was standing about a fifth of the way
across the suspension footbridge, shading his eyes against the
sudden glare. When he lowered his hand, Carrington said, "No.
You're fucking me. This is a joke."

Ari did not speak.

The man resumed crossing the bridge, using a
peculiar, gliding step that prevented the span from shaking. His
lower body vanished gradually as he neared the center, where the
bridge sank down, but began to appear again as drew nearer to the
embankment.

"Fuck me," Carrington hissed, ogling the
vision. "Jesus, it really looks...Jesus, it can't be."

"It is," Ari said out the side of his mouth.
"Show some respect."

"You're trying to pull a fast one."
Carrington leaned forward. "This can't..."

Lean forward a little
more
....

The dark beret, the olive-green uniform, the
red epaulets and ridiculous red holster. Everything Carrington had
seen in the news.

"Fuck me...fuck me..."

The man neared the end of the footbridge, his
hand gently floating along the rope handhold. He was having
difficulty seeing the car, having been spotlighted--which had no
doubt been done on purpose, though with Deputy Sylvester in
mind.

Not Saddam Hussein.

One shot only. It can't be
more
.

Hussein stopped at the end of the bridge and
slowly raised his arm, pointing at the car. His expression was
canny, amused, menacing.

"Fuck me." Carrington pressed up against the
steering wheel, peering through the windshield. Then a flicker of
awareness came to him, and he said, "Loafers--"

But Ari already had the gun off the roof and
against the detectives head. One fluid movement. He fired.

Blood and brain matter spattered against the
seat and the passenger window. The body slid sideways across the
shift.

"Done?" Saddam Hussein called out.

"Hold on."

Ari could see Carrington's face by the light
from the dashboard, a blue, ghostly visage. He was still breathing.
Tough old buzzard.

"Did Mahmoud put the stuff in the trunk?"

"Hold on!" Ari repeated peevishly. "And stay
where you are! I don't want any more tracks around the car."

"Okay, Colonel."

Even if he was found alive, the detective
would never speak again. But on this above all, Ari wanted
certainty. And he could not use another bullet.

Come on, come on, don't make
it harder than it has to be
.
You want that pension for your wife and kids, don't you? And
if the police refuse them the money, for one reason or another,
there's always the widows fund for the End of Watch
list
....

Blood dribbled out of Carrington's nose onto
the passenger seat. One drop, two drops, then a trickle of red
tears. Then he heaved a sigh, and the breathing stopped.

"Bring up--" Ari stopped and turned. Saddam
Hussein was running back across the bridge. Ari frowned. What was
he up to? He took a pair of thin latex gloves out of his pocket and
squeezed his hands inside of them. Then he reached inside the
driver’s window and lifted Carrington's SIG Sauer off his lap.
Good, no blood. He eased the detective's jacket away from the stout
belly and slid the gun into its holster.

Hollow footsteps on the footbridge. Saddam
Hussein had returned, a rifle in each hand.

"Look at these!" he exclaimed, looking like a
mustachioed child as he held them up. "Beautiful! Stupid jackasses
dropped them when they wet their pants. They're, uh..."

"Tac-50 sniper rifles, produced by McMillan
Brothers Rifle Company. Bolt action, .50 caliber."

"Think they're worth a lot?"

"I would imagine," said Ari. "So you didn't
have any trouble?"

"Got the drop on them. They were up on that
ridge. They turned around and there was Saddam Hussein standing
right behind them."

"I'd probably wet my pants, too," said Ari,
walking around to the other side of the Lexus.

"The .38 helped," Saddam admitted. “By the
way, they looked like someone had roughed them up not too long ago.
That your doing?”

"Go get the van. Pull up to the foot of the
bridge over there."