The 56th Man (8 page)

Omar, nearly forty, was an exception. It was
hard to jibe him with the scruffy kid who screamed laughingly at
incoming rockets during the Whirlwind War, somberly declared he
would kill a million Iranians with his bare hands, then cried in
outraged misery when his favorite shop ran out of sweets.

But how many of them hadn't changed? Ghaith
doubted he would have recognized young Ghaith, that astonishingly
skeptical boy who took luck and disaster in stride, unconvinced
that fear should be a ruler of souls. Only years later, on the
Highway of Death, while American tank-busters roared with impunity
overhead and men were roasted by the bushel all around him, did
Ghaith finally have it beaten into his head that fear, on some
occasions, was a valid guiding principal.

Ghaith had missed the key
moment in Omar's transition from a pint-sized hellion to a
dour
takfiris--
one of those
self-appointed assassins (who had formed a kind of club of the
self-anointed self-appointed) who took it upon themselves to decide
who was righteous and who was not, with the intention of inflicting
the ultimate penalty upon those found wanting.

Omar had been arrested and
tortured under the old regime, but no more than anyone who wanted
to wipe out most of mankind deserved. Ghaith had been in a position
to check the file on his old chum, who had not exactly flourished
as a killer of lukewarm Muslims. But he had a big mouth (hence his
arrest), and when the new chaos came and all the restraints were
thrown off he was ready to settle down to business and discard hope
for his immortal soul. The
takfiris
understood that destroying people on a large scale
might be misconstrued not only by their victims, but by the One
True Power, as well. So be it, if that meant the salvation of
humanity--or what was left after they were done with it.

Unfortunately, Ghaith had not understood any
of this until Omar told him about the power shift in the Ministry
and pulled a gun on him.

He arrived home at midnight--an iconic
moment for this house. After placing a kettle of water on the stove
he changed into the jogging suit that served double duty as
pajamas, switched the computer on, then returned downstairs.
Packing a small wad of black Assam tea into his steeper, he dropped
it into a coffee mug (
should I invest in a
proper tea cup?
), and relished the brownish red swirls
of infusion. He looked slightly devilish as lowered his head over
the cup to savor the aromatic steam.

He rested the cup on the kitchen table (still
the only furniture in the house aside from the computer desk and
two smallish chairs), went to the back door, and studied the strip
of clear tape he had stretched between the top of the door and the
frame.

Broken.

With a satisfied chuckle he sat at the table
and sipped his tea.

His complacency was disrupted by a
faint thud. Upstairs, perhaps, but he couldn't be sure. Was it
possible that he--or
they
--was
still here? Lowering the cup onto the table, he rose and moved
silently to the front of the house. Turning the corner to the
living room, he saw a large yellow cat descending the
stairs.

Ari bellowed with outrage. The cat stopped,
as though amazed, then took off, squirting through the banister
rails and vanishing into the den. Ari gave chase, racing into the
den only to see the cat flitting into the kitchen, running into the
kitchen only to see it scoot down the hall, taking the hall only to
catch the briefest glimpse of it popping into the living room,
arriving in the living room to see it complete the circle, bouncing
up the stairs and disappearing from the top landing.

Ari followed. He stopped in the upstairs
hallway and looked both ways. The doors to the Riggins boys' two
bedrooms were closed, as were all the closets. That left the master
bedroom, the bathroom, and what Ari thought of as the studio as
possible escape hatches. There was no furniture beyond the computer
desk and office chair. No place for the animal to hide. It should
be an easy matter to locate and evict it. Or strangle it and toss
it in the garbage.

A single glance told him the master bedroom
was clear. He went in anyway, to check the windows. Then came the
bathroom and the studio. All the windows were closed, but where was
the yellow devil? As he came out of the studio he saw the flick of
a tail as the cat whipped downstairs and back into the living
room.

Ari swore loudly and pounded down after it.
He circled the rooms, then saw the door to the basement standing
open. He hesitated at the top of the stairs, breathing hard. With
another oath, this one lower, he went back into the kitchen and
dropped into the chair. He would deal with the beast in his own
good time.

After a few more sips of tea he was able to
regain his equanimity. He dwelled on the possible identity of his
unannounced visitor. He was fairly certain all the first floor
windows were closed. There was an outside chance the cat had
sneaked into the garage while Ari was pulling in, but he was
certain he would have seen it spurt past his legs as he entered the
kitchen hallway. Unless there was a large hole in the wall
somewhere, the cat had to have entered with the intruder.

He had been sitting at the table for over
five minutes when the cat appeared at the entrance of the kitchen.
Ari restrained himself from leaping up immediately. He watched.

The cat stepped out cautiously onto the
linoleum floor. It glanced at the refrigerator, then stopped when
it spotted Ari. Having decided to wait and see what it did next,
Ari did not move. It backed away very slowly, then stopped again,
watching him. After another minute, it sat and took a few long
swipes at its fur with its tongue, shifted its front legs, then
watched him some more. Seeing no more threatening gestures, it rose
up and walked a few feet into the room before sitting back down to
watch him some more. Once or twice it met Ari's eyes, after which
it would look away, almost as if out of shyness--or insolence.

Ari nearly lost his self-control when the cat
rose and leapt on the counter. He found it revolting to have the
animal tread on the cutting board he used to divide his chicken.
But he waited.

The cat sat on the cutting board and stared
at the refrigerator. It obviously knew this was a place where food
was stored. This was no feral animal but one wise in the ways of
humans. A pet.

It meowed once, a short, almost harsh sound.
Rising on its rear legs, it pressed its front paws high up on the
side of the refrigerator and meowed again. Then it sat back down on
the cutting board and stared at Ari.

"Don't tell me you haven't eaten in nine
months."

On hearing a voice far less dangerous than
the one Ari had used while chasing it, the cat rose, lifted its
tail, and emitted a pigeon-like trill. It seemed healthy enough, in
no way underfed. Ari drew out a Winston and lit up. He was still
using the ash tray from the car.

He no longer felt so keen on throwing the cat
out. It belonged here as much as he did. More so, maybe.

It jumped to the floor and put a prudent
distance between them when Ari went to the refrigerator and took
out the milk. He poured some into a saucer and placed the saucer on
the floor. The cat did not come. Ari reseated himself at the table
and took up his cigarette. The cat approached the saucer, sniffed
at the milk, then crouched and began to drink.

Ari finished his tea and smoke. The cat
backed away when he stood and walked past the saucer.

"Smart cat," Ari nodded.

He stopped in the center of the dining room,
then called out over his shoulder. "Hey cat, do you think they
found what they were looking for?"

He had planned to do this the next day,
opening the thick curtains and letting sunlight assist him in his
search. But the chase had shaken off all trace of evening lethargy.
He did a quick tour, looking for anything amiss, registering
possible hiding places for future investigation. At first glance,
in a house without furniture, there appeared to be few options.

Back in the living room, he took up the same
speculative stance he had assumed on his first night, next to the
invisible easy chair in which the body of Jerry Riggins had been
discovered. The scene sprang to life--or death--in his mind. But
there were too many gaps in his mental reconstruction. The
Christmas tree--had there been gifts underneath it? Often
Christians who celebrated the season put lights on their trees. Ari
had seen this in pictures. Had there been lights on Jerry's tree?
Had they been switched on? Had there been a fire in the fireplace?
And there was the blood. How much was there? What was the splatter
pattern like?

He looked again at the fireplace. Something
was hanging down in the back. Ari had a reliable memory, and he
didn't recall seeing that when he last stood here. Resting on his
haunches, he saw it was the chimney’s damper handle. Ari went down
on his hands and knees and leaned inside the hearth. Twisting his
head, he tried to peer past the open damper and smoke shelf. Too
dark. He reached inside as far as he could and encountered nothing
more than the cool lining.

Pulling out, he began to knock his hands
together, then stopped. They were still clean. Everything about the
fireplace was clean. Not so much as a smudge on the log rack, the
brass andiron, the little black poker, shovel and broom. He looked
up to find the cat watching him from the bottom of the stairs.

"Ah. You're wondering, too. Why would the
damper be open if the fireplace has never been used?"

Weariness overtook him. He went up to the
studio to find the computer humming loudly in the bare, enclosed
space. In the heat of the cat chase he had forgotten he had turned
it on. Dropping into the chair, he went online and checked his
email. He did not find it surprising to find a message in his
inbox, but the heading startled him:

A FRIENDLY REMINDER.

He opened the message.

‘
Ted's Custom Lawn Care & Landscape
Design Service wants to remind you that you will soon be due for a
lawn manicure. Thank You!’

Ari glanced at the sender's address:
tedslawncare.net.

Junk mail? Spam? Or some form of American
humor?

He spent a few minutes perusing the news, the
gruesome mayhem of bombings, shootings and beheadings in the Middle
East. Then he logged off and lay down on his mattress, his bones
settling in with a slight ache as he stretched out.

He was just drifting off when something
tucked itself in the crook of his knees. He controlled his reflex
with the memory of Carrington's glower as he read his text message
in the restaurant. Was someone telling him that he had been unable
to find the secret buried somewhere in the Riggins' house? Or could
the message have been:

"The cat got in."

The cat was kneading the mattress, purring
softly. Ari let it stay, accommodating himself as best he
could.

SEVEN

When Omar called him earlier
that evening, and Ghaith asked how he had gotten his private office
number, Omar explained that a mutual friend, a leading member of a
prominent
shura
, had given it
to him in strictest confidence. All hell had broken loose in the
country, but the Ministry was well-protected from looting.
Americans stood guard outside the complex in Central Baghdad, just
as they had sent their army to fend off plunderers at the Ministry
of Oil. Ghaith had not been forced to relocate, and under the
Multi-National Security Transition Command – Iraq, the old phone
numbers were still operable. It was quite possible that Omar had
formed an odd allegiance to the imam, a well-known
Twelver
Ghaith had met years earlier.
Just to be on the safe side, Ghaith called up someone he knew well,
an assistant imam. He confirmed that Omar was a follower of the
moderate cleric.

Omar showed up in a white
Toyota pickup—only borrowed, he told Ghaith, but the policeman
riding shotgun in the back added a kind of official sanction to the
mysterious proceedings. The circle seemed complete. Omar's youthful
craving for martyrdom had been defeated by the younger Omar's
craving for sweets. When Ghaith opened the truck door, Omar held up
a bag of
lu'mat al-adi
,
laughing.

"Remember?"

For a moment, they were boys again. Omar
removed one of the sticky pastries from the cellophane bag, took a
bite, and handed the remaining half to Ghaith, who grinned and
finished it off in one bite.

If Ghaith had known that
Minister of Interior
Falah al-Naqib
(Sunni, and a bit of a media hound) was being ousted to make way
for the more silent (and sinister)
Baqir
Jabr al-Zubeidi, a Shia, he would have been infinitely more
circumspect. If he had gone with Omar at all, he would have
arranged for an armed escort. But who would have accompanied him?
The MNSTC-I didn’t have enough men to do more than hold their
ground against the looters. And local Iraqi alliances had radically
changed overnight. Ghaith had been caught flat-footed. It was
someone in the Ministry who had supplied Omar with his phone
number, of that Ghaith was now certain. And the assistant imam
Ghaith had called must be in on the plot, must have been waiting
for Ghaith to contact him so he could confirm Omar's
legitimacy.

After all that's happened, it's only to be
expected...one can only be so clever, so lucky, before history
gravitates towards the overabundance of good fortune and smashes
the game....

"Come on, Ghaith. Rifle through that file
cabinet of yours." Omar tapped Ghaith on the side of the head, then
pointed at the unhooded man kneeling on the ground. "Who is
he?"