Cold Snap (29 page)

"I'm sorry, Ari."

"It was painful," Ari informed her.
"Surprisingly painful. And I've been tortured by some of the
best."

"Don't joke. My behavior was
unprofessional."

"I have seen librarians pinch ears before,"
said Ari, telling the truth.

"Not in this country. Someone else might sue
me!"

"Such is not my inclination."

"I'm relieved to hear that, although I
shouldn't admit it."

"In fact..." Ari rubbed his sore ear. "I
found it rather enchanting."

And he leaned down and gave her a peck on the
forehead. She smiled.

"Let's not both of us be rash."

"Someone must maintain standards," Ari agreed
sadly.

"Even if I love you," Lynn said quickly, then
darted around him for the library entrance. She stopped and turned.
"Just a bit," she amended before disappearing inside.

A terrible longing swelled inside Ari. It was
accompanied by a brief flutter of sexual interest. Dumbstruck over
the idea of lusting for his friend, he absorbed a gust of wind like
a cold shower. Before his marriage, Ari had occasionally approached
sheikahs (the Iraqi equivalent of madams) to procure a prostitute.
He thought such a thing more problematic in America, or at least in
his neighborhood.

He was crossing the parking lot when his
phone rang. Jumping into his car, he whipped off his gloves and
took out his phone.

"Abu Jasim! You must have been sitting at
your computer!"

"In a room without furniture in a farmhouse
without charm."

"You moved to the countryside? But all
farmhouses are charming."

"Not this one." Abu Jasim's voice echoed in a
distant, empty room. Ari was familiar with the scenario. "The
furniture will arrive within the week. The wife may never arrive.
She's not keen on country life."

"You've isolated yourself," Ari said.

"What do you expect after that last escapade
of yours? I couldn't walk down the street in Montreal without
people staring."

"You get stares wherever you go," Ari
observed to the spitting image of Saddam Hussein. "I would
recommend plastic surgery, but you might come out looking
worse."

"As if that was possible," Abu Jasim groused.
"What's this picture you sent me? How did you get it?"

"I got it in the course of my work. It's part
of a video. These three jokers were making a human bonfire on Route
12. Sayid Mohammed Al-Rafa'ee, Hasan Al-Jamil, Abu ibn Al-Quassim,
plus an unseen cameraman. The victim is Abu ibn Abd Al-Samad."

"Are they related to the editors at Risalat
al-Islam?" Abu Jasim asked. He was referring to a dissident Shia
newspaper shut down by Saddam in the 70's.

"Not the editors, but they were on the staff.
How did you know?"

"Saddam talked about their parents," said Abu
Jasim. "Some fled overseas after the clamp-down. Some went to
Syria. They were mixed up in some bombings. They hit the Iraqi
Embassy in Beirut in 1980, didn't they?"

"Nineteen eighty-one," said Ari. "But I don't
recall—"

"Saddam dreamed up some really interesting
tortures if they or their children ever showed their faces in Iraq
again. Not that they wouldn't have deserved it. They were a bad lot
to begin with. Did you know they—"

"I know their families' records," said Ari.
"It is true that they were not simple scribes."

"Oh. Right. Of course."

"But it is my understanding that they have
become sedate Americans,” Ari continued. "Saddam is gone, so the
children felt free to go back. But why would they be killing one of
their own?"

"Those idiots are always killing each other
off," said Abu Jasim, referring to the multitude of insurgent
groups operating in Iraq and beyond. "Someone fucks up, someone
questions their leader's authority and threatens to join another
group of idiots, and zip!"

"But why in Iraq? They were all here, in the
States."

"Maybe Samad began working for the Coalition
and the others didn't like it."

"They filmed the execution as proof that the
job had been accomplished," Ari said. "As if they had to prove the
job was done to whoever sent them there."

Abu Jasim's grunt conveyed all the ills of
the world. Everywhere one looked, evil triumphed. Big deal. What's
new?

"So what kind of trouble are you in now? Even
you shouldn't mix it up with these guys. You think they’ve…what’s
the word the Americans use? ‘Radicalized’? Then they would hate
everyone and everything. They'd castrate their mothers if their
mothers had balls. Which, considering the monsters they may have
given birth to—"

"An interesting notion," Ari cut him off.
"But why are you saying this? What more do you know about them?
There is no need for concern. Right now, they're in Iraq—"

It was Abu Jasim's turn to cut him off. "No
they aren't."

"Pardon?"

"Don't 'french' me. I get enough of that
around here." Abu Jasim paused. "The reason that picture in Nineveh
got my attention so fast…well, these might have been nice boys
growing up, but they've turned real bad—as you can see in the
picture. But there's more."

"What do you mean?"

"Remember those phony ID's I had, when I
bought my van? You remember my new van? The one so badly scratched
and dented in the woods?"

"Yes," Ari sighed, sensing a blackmailing
hand browsing through his wallet.

"You remember where I got those ID's
from?"

"The Chaldean Gang," said Ari slowly. "I
believe I suggested you stay away from them in the future."

"Hey, they're your kind of guys: Assyrian
assholes. But I wouldn't try to convince them that you were one of
them, if you know what I mean. Anyway, you also told me not to wet
my pants when the bombs are falling, and guess what?"

"Continue," said Ari briskly.

"I needed some...well, some papers..."

"What kind of papers?"

"Some Green Card stuff for a friend living in
the States. Nothing that would interest you."

"I see..."

"I had to meet the gang's document
manager—"

"Ha!"

"He's based in Detroit, but he was in
Milwaukee the other day. That's the beer place."

"Yes."

"He had some guys with him, Arabs."

"From here or from home?"

Abu Jasim understood he was asking if they
were born in America or newly emigrated from the Middle East.

"Both. They all came to stare at me...you
know how that goes."

"Maybe plastic surgery isn't such a bad
idea."

"When I saw your picture, I remembered seeing
Sayid Mohammed Al-Rafa'ee with the document guy. And Colonel…this
was just last week."

"You're saying he's part of the gang?" Ari
said incredulously. "They're letting Shia join their group?"

"Maybe they've all converted to the Chaldean
Catholic Church," Abu Jasim suggested breezily.

"I'm sure he knew who you were," Ari said
disconsolately. His friend was digging himself into deeper trouble,
with not a little help from Ari.

"Colonel..."

"Yes?"

"You just saw these guys in the video, right?
You haven't seen them in your neighborhood? Or anywhere else in
Virginia?"

"No. So far as I know, there's nothing to
connect them to me."

"Good, you won't be needing me then."

"Not at the moment. But be prepared to move,
soon."

"I'm already moving."

"I mean to come here." Ari ran his tongue
over a doubt, then shrugged. "And find out what your idiot nephew
is up to these days. I might need his assistance, too."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Mumfords had been bustling around Ari's
house for several hours when the first guests arrived.

"Deputies Fred and Karen!" Ari greeted at the
front door. "I am so pleased you could attend. Come in quickly.
It's as cold as a witch's bosom outside."

Taking their coats, he hooked them on to his
new rack with grand theatrical sweeps of his arms.

"Yes, it's very nice, Ari," Karen smiled,
rolling her eyes. "Gee, what nice furniture you have."

She was very fetching in a crisscross sheath
dress. This was the first time he had seen a hint of cleavage, or
even her calves. Meanwhile, Fred betrayed some fashion sense in a
suede blazer and dark pants.

"You make a stunning couple," Ari nodded in
admiration.

"Not," Karen amended, holding up a bottle of
wine.

"But I have much to drink already," Ari
said.

"I hope you don't mean you've drunk too much
already," said Karen, continuing to press the bottle towards him.
"Here, take it. That's what guests do. But you already knew that.
You have impeccable manners. Remember?"

"I was distracted by your radiance," he said,
graciously accepting the bottle.

"What's cooking?" Fred sniffed warily.

"One of your Eastern specialties?" Karen
chimed in.

"Alas, I think you are aware that my culinary
ability is..."

"Limited. Right. You wouldn't be testing out
some weird dish off the internet on us, would you, Ari?" She froze
when she heard the clatter of pans in the kitchen. "Who is
that?"

"Madame Mumford and her husband, Bill."

"You let strangers in the house? Didn’t I
warn you last week—"

"A good cook is never a stranger."

"Give me that bottle back so I can hit you
with it!" As usual, Karen's wrath arrived with damaging alacrity.
"You let a goddamn stranger in your house!"

"She's perfectly safe. A wonderful
Frenchwoman—"

"You let a goddamn alien into your house!"
She brushed past Ari and stormed through the dining room. Fred
offered a qualified smile of apology.

"There she goes. But she's right, you know.
Even if it didn't go against the rules, it's sort of on the unsafe
side. This is supposed to be a safe house."

Ari shrugged helplessly, as though the dinner
had been arranged by someone else. A stranger, in fact.

"I can't help but notice that your table is
set for more than three people." He touched his hand to his hidden
holster when Bill came up the hallway bearing silverware. "Who
the—"

"May I introduce you to Bill Mumford. A true
gentleman and a citizen of your wonderful country."

"Born and bred," said Bill, knocking his
heels together and producing a rather Teutonic bow. "I'd shake your
hand but..."

"Hey," said Fred, pushing a scowl in Ari's
direction as Bill finished setting the table. "There's such a thing
as procedure," he whispered.

"Thank you for reminding me," Ari nodded,
extending a hand towards the dining room. "As you can see, I am
proceeding."

Before Fred could criticize Ari's wordplay,
there was a knock at the door.

"My gracious, don't you look pipsqueak!" Ari
declaimed on seeing Diane and her mother on his doorstep. Rebecca
burst out in laughter, then nudged her daughter forward.

"I'm not a pipsqueak!" Diane protested,
standing firm. She was holding a bouquet of yellow roses. Ari's
heart leapt and fell and leapt again. They were identical to the
flowers he had presented to his wife at Richmond International
Airport. Roses originally intended for Diane.

"Get on in, my little pip," said Rebecca,
giving Diane a firmer nudge. "We know that Mr. Ciminon is our
friend now, don't we?"

Inside, the girl was reluctant to give Ari
her coat. She surveyed the living room.

"You've got stuff, now."

"Indeed I do," Ari said, shifting his
attention to her mother and taking her coat, then reaching back to
Diane and lifting the roses out of her arms.

"They are immaculate."

"Is that good?"

"My house has interior heating. You might
become too hot..."

With some additional prodding from her
mother, Diane handed over her coat with the air of a poor bystander
being robbed of her last article of clothing.

"I believe Madame Mumford has a special treat
for you."

"Madame Mumford!" Rebecca exclaimed. "You
didn't tell me! This will be a treat!" She paused, then cast
doubtful eyes on her daughter. "It will be a treat," she
commanded.

Having seen the main course at the Mackenzies
(although the children had been mollified with cheeseburgers),
Diane's face dropped in horror.

"Is that what stinks? That's like when
Marmaduke lived here and you didn't clean his box!"

Fortunately, the arrival of Mangioni
interrupted any further elaboration on this topic.

"Your partner couldn't make it?" Ari asked,
referring to Jackson.

"He said something about kebabs making him
fart firecrackers." Turning as he removed his coat, he saw Diane.
"Oh...sorry. I didn't say that."

"Yes you did," said Diane.

"But I emphasized that it would be a French
meal," Ari sighed. He had not specifically requested that Mangioni
come in civilian clothes, but was glad he had. He believed at least
one guest would be severely put out by a police uniform sharing the
same table with him. As for Jackson's absence...it was probably for
the best. His dyspeptic personality might have demolished a
gathering that, due to Ari's heavy-handed arrangements, would
already be strained.

"Mr. Mangioni...these are my neighbors, Mrs.
Wareness and her daughter, Diane."

Rebecca stuck out her hand. "I believe we met
last year, when your people were investigating..."

"The murders in this house," said Diane
brightly.

The little ghoul, thought Ari, thinking
someone should give her a good cuffing. He was grateful, though,
that Rebecca had diplomatically refrained from mentioning her
complaint against Ari.

Fred and Mangioni shook hands. They had
already met, too, in the woods of Cumberland. Mangioni wasn't
supposed to know Fred was a U.S. Deputy Marshal keeping a
protective eye on a safe house, and Fred was too courteous to ask
how things were going at the precinct station, so they exchanged
comments about golf.