The 56th Man (25 page)

"The tubes will be long gone, sir," said one
lieutenant doubtfully.

"You never know. They start hitting the FOB
again and we haven't looked..."

"Yes, Sir."

“
Crap, that’s Sadr City,
sir,” said the other lieutenant.

"Yeah. I hate these Mahdi assholes who fire
into a crowded city blind. They don't give a shit who they hit. And
I can't lay the fist of God on them."

"Well, we could--"

"Flatten a city block? What would 60 Minutes
make of that? And the real reason we're going out isn't the Q36
grid. I've got 5,000 in greenbacks, and 50,000 dinars for anyone
who doesn’t think the dollar’s almighty, all for the hearts and
minds and pockets of those shopkeepers we put out of business last
week."

"You mean those buildings--"

"But those were high-value targets," the
other lieutenant protested.

"Tell it to Dan Rather."
Rodriguez's face went grimmer still. "And watch us end up
flattening another mom and pop while we're paying for these. I hate
this MOUT crap. Give me one of the provinces, where I can cut loose
with the counterfire. If we could
fire up
Baghdad with white phosphorus, we’d see some improvement." He
looked at Ghaith, obviously wondering how much he had
understood.

Some, but not everything. The U.S. Army's
love affair with acronyms put a haze over everyday operations. No
doubt a bloody, godawful mess sounded better when it was referred
to as a BGM. But to Ghaith's thinking, the intensive use of
acronyms was, in addition to being deceptive, hugely
counterproductive. He had no idea what MOUT meant. It might be
important, but how would he know unless someone spelled it out for
him?

"I was with the captain when he laid out the
mission to his platoon leaders," Ghaith told Ropp and the others as
the Bradley slowed for another of the power lines that drooped
across the street.

"Hey, your English is all right." Tuckerson
nodded his approval. "We've had some real goofballs, but you're
A-OK, Haji."

The other squad members chimed in, also
nodding. Ghaith thought they looked like a bunch of village idiots.
But there was a charming sensibility to their reaction.
English-speakers stranded in a linguistic desert, the interpreter
offered the cup of communication with the locals. A good translator
was worth his weight in gold. Ghaith wondered if he would live long
enough to spend any of the $500 the invading army had paid him to
sign up.

The Bradley stopped. The driver
asked...actually begged...for permission to open his hatch. Seated
up next to the engine, which added its own cruel heat to the steady
blast of the sun, the driver suffered more than anyone else in the
vehicle. Ghaith had learned it was usually a new man assigned to
the position. A hot introduction to the cradle of civilization.
Ghaith also suffered from the heat. The balaclava was
unbearable.

The ramp dropped and the squad debouched.
They spread out while infantry from Humvees and Bradleys further
down the column dragged themselves up the street to join them. In
their impenetrable wraparounds, they looked like bug-eyed aliens.
Sunglasses were good at hiding fear, Ghaith noted, but somehow
emphasized boredom.

Captain Rodriguez removed his CVC helmet and
replaced it with his K-pot. He pulled himself out of the turret and
negotiated his way down the armored slope of the Bradley, past the
numerous kits slung so thickly on its flank that the captain had
complained about it looking like a gypsy wagon.

A group of Iraqi men ran up and immediately
swamped the captain with unintelligible complaints. He removed his
shades and glanced over at Ghaith, who went to his side. The men
fell silent, as spooked by his mask as the Americans, but quickly
recovered. There were five of them, and they all spoke at once.
Ghaith held up his right hand, fingertips touching, and moved his
hand up and down while bending his head. A request for
patience.

"Tell them I'm here to compensate them for
the incidental damage to their stores that we caused last week,"
said Rodriguez

The 'incidental' part lifted the message into
a mildly abstract realm that could be time-consuming and futile,
and was sure to raise plenty of shouts.

"We're here to give you money," he told the
shopkeepers in Arabic.

The noise level went up anyway. The captain
had attended a seven-week immersion course in Arabic, but only a
little bit had stuck. He shot Ghaith a wary look.

"They must first produce the IOU's I gave
them during our last…uh…visit…before I can compensate them."

There was no need for Ghaith to translate.
They all understood 'IOU'. Five chits from the captain's receipt
book immediately appeared.

Further up the line a group of men and
children gathered around the woman translator sent down from
battalion. She and some other soldiers were handing out candy. But
when the captain took out a waterproof pouch and unzipped it, a new
crowd magically appeared, pushing forward.

"We need a hovering angel," the staff
sergeant called down from the Bradley turret. He wanted someone on
a rooftop for a better view of the street. This was a nice fat
target for a suicide bomber.

"We shouldn't be here long," Rodriguez
answered.

Ghaith was looking at the fifth shopkeeper.
Abdul Ibrahim bin Omar al-Ahmad. Another one from the mass release
of prisoners before the war. Convicted, more or less, of stabbing a
man in a fight over a jar of spicy walnut spread. Had he really
turned shopkeeper? Ghaith edged around the captain and approached
the former prisoner. He would risk a few informal words. He had
never met the man in person.

"Al-salamu ‘alaykum,
Abu Khalil."

Abdul Ibrahim turned his eager gaze away from
Rodriguez and stared at the interpreter.

"Did you really run a shop here, or did you
tear that IOU out of the owner's hand? I hope you didn't kill him
to get it."

The other four men stopped shouting and
turned to look. Rodriguez was startled. He had never seen the
locals go quiet when there was money around. The only voices raised
now came from the growing crowd of children that bubbled around the
captain, as though he was the main course in a boiling pot. He
signaled to Staff Sergeant Henley, who disappeared in the turret
and reemerged with handfuls of jawbreakers. The kids shifted away
from Rodriguez as the candy rained down from the Bradley.

"Ho-ho-ho!" Henley bellowed. A look of
concern crossed the captain's face. Could Santa's signature tune be
misinterpreted?

"Hey, Abu Khalil," Ghaith continued, his
dental work outlined by the balaclava’s mouth slit. It was a sign
of privilege, those fine teeth.

Former privilege. A privilege that was not
only out of date, but dangerous. Like an antique car without
brakes.

"Are you going to let these shopkeepers keep
their money after we've gone?" Ghaith gave Abdul Ibrahim a belated
hug, and whispered into his ear. "You wouldn't cut their throats
for a few measly dinars, would you?"

Rodriguez had taken out his flash roll and
was trying to shove the compensation money on the shopkeepers, who
seemed suddenly reluctant to accept it. A young boy jumped up,
trying to snatch a bill out of the captain's hand.

"Hurry it up, whatever it is you're doing,"
he said fretfully to Ghaith, who had not let go of Abdul
Ibrahim.

"If I hear that anything has happened to
these brothers," Ghaith was whispering, "I'll track you down, cut
off your manhood, and let the camels suck on your balls."

Abdul Ibrahim had begun to shake so violently
that he had no strength to break away.

"The Godless One..."

Ghaith was not aware that he had a moniker.
Perhaps Abdul Ibrahim was mistaking him for one of the prison
guards who had tortured him. But he had a nickname now. And he
smiled. It did not sit badly with him. Not at all.

On Riverside Drive Ari stopped and asked a
jogger where the Fan was. He was told he had only to drive up to
Huguenot Road, turn left, cross the bridge, and keep going
straight, past Windsor Farms and Carytown. While speaking, the
jogger gave the Scion a narrow, jaundiced eye.

"Hey, aren't you the one who's been speeding
through here--"

"Thank you," said Ari, and sped off.

The Shamrock turned out to be only four doors
down from Ali's Mediterranean Market. There was a handwritten sign
in the window that announced, "Yes We Have Halal." Halal meat and
poultry had a reputation for quality that was usually
well-deserved, and Ari was disappointed to find the shop closed. It
didn't matter. While it would have been pleasant to pass some time
browsing Ali's aisles, he did not want to miss happy hour.

Inside the Shamrock a waitress invited him to
take any unoccupied seat he liked. Ari found this congenial and was
immediately at ease. He slid onto a barstool and ordered tea. The
bartender began wielding bottles of vodka, tequila, gin, rum and
triple sec. Ari assumed he was fixing a drink for the man at the
opposite end of the bar. First come first serve. When the bartender
stood a tall glass in front of him, it took a certain amount of
self-control to keep from gaping.

"What is this?"

"Long Island Tea. Isn't that what you wanted?
Oh, here’s the lemon slice."

Ari stared at the highball glass. "I'm still
not used to drinking alcohol in public."

The bartender gave him a double-take, then
tried to make light of the inference that Ari only drank in
private, like all good alcoholics:

"I wouldn't have thought you drank at
all."

It was intended to be a friendly observation
and Ari took it in that spirit.

"I like a good whisky, just like my
master."

This was nonsense to the bartender. But he
was used to non sequitors and shrugged it off. "You want something
different?"

"That's all right." Ari handed over his
credit card.

"There's a buffet against the wall there.
There's...uh...some meatballs. I think there might be pork in
them."

"Dreadful. Is it free?"

"Happy hour," said the bartender.

Wonderful. It must be one of the bonuses of
being a super power.

Ari lifted the glass. Wafting it under his
nose for a sniff might be gauche--this wasn't wine, after all. So
he took a sip.

Sour. But not bad. Quite strong, though.

He eased back and ran his eyes over the
booths, half of which were occupied. He went to the buffet and
plopped a half dozen meatballs and some cheese cubes onto a
Styrofoam plate, returned to the bar and began eating them with his
fingers. The meat sauce was a bit messy. The bartender seemed
relieved when he began using a toothpick.

Italian! What were Sandra
and her idiotic crew thinking? There isn't a man on the street who
doesn't see me for what I am. And oddly enough, all those men on
the street are wrong. Maybe Sicilian wasn't a bad choice, after
all. A dangerous Mafioso
...

The two vampish employees of Moria's Notions
had said Moria and Tina went to Andy’s or the Shamrock on Tuesday
and Friday evenings. Did Tina keep up the habit? Or had the death
of her business partner--and presumably friend--put her out of
sorts for after-hours socializing?

Ari had a fifty-fifty chance of finding out
that night. In fact, he admitted to himself, the odds were far
longer than that. If Tina just happened to skip this Friday, or if
Friday was the day she went to Andy’s, or if she varied her
routine, the odds grew longer by far. But Ari was familiar with
luck in all forms, and knew the good could strike with the same
ineffable certainty as the bad at any moment. Even then, it was
open to interpretation. His presence at the Chinese grocery had
been bad luck for Ari, very bad luck for the would-be robbers, and
splendid luck indeed for the store manager.

Good luck struck for Ari twenty-five minutes
after he entered the Shamrock. Bad luck struck for Tina Press at
precisely the same moment, when Ari saw her walk languidly through
the tavern door, nod knowingly at the waitress, and settle in at
the booth nearest the entrance. She did not see him, well-hidden in
the shadow of the overhead glass rack in a bar that was already
dimly lit. He watched.

Unfortunately, if he went to the buffet she
could not fail to spot him. The Long Island Tea had stirred up his
appetite. He had to satisfy himself with pretzels from an oval dish
near the speed rail.

"You want another?" the bartender asked when
he had emptied his glass.

An immense glow filled Ari’s limbs, as though
he had stepped into a Jacuzzi. He had a long night ahead. "Do you
have something...?"

“
Unleaded?”

“
I’m not sure…”

"How about Ginger ale?"

"Is that a Fanta?"

"Now I'm the one not sure..."

"A soda?"

"Well yeah."

"Then I'll have that."

It was a lot to pay for a soft drink, but the
seat with the view came with it.

By his second Canada Dry he had seen enough.
First a man, then a woman, then a couple came and sat with Tina,
conversing with her and sharing a few laughs before departing. In
between the hellos and good-byes some discreet commerce took place
behind propped menus. Ari realized what he had in mind might prove
more difficult than he had anticipated. The bar owner must be
taking a cut from these transactions, which were not so furtive as
to be invisible. Every fifteen minutes or so, the bartender handed
the waitress a drink for Tina's table. She did not take advantage
of the free buffet.

Ari took up his glass and sauntered over to
the buffet. Tina might be satisfied with her liquid diet, but he
was famished, even after six meatballs. He filled up a plate, then
slid into the front booth, across from Tina.