The 56th Man (21 page)

"Don't make it so obvious," the woman said.
"I didn't hit you that hard."

Ari grunted.

"We need to sit down and talk, anyway," the
woman said. "There's a McDonald's in the back. It's lunch time. I'm
starving."

Ari glanced in her cart and noted a large bag
of Fritos.

"What do I call you?" he asked as he limped
behind.

"Sandra," she said over her shoulder.

"'Agent' Sandra?"

"'Deputy', and shut up."

"Pleased to meet you, Deputy Sandra Shut
Up."

She gave him an arch look. "Don't mistake
this for the beginning of one of those love-hate romances you see
in the movies."

"Of course not. My wife would never
approve."

Sandra was parking her cart next to the rail
that divided the restaurant from the store. She paused, frowning.
"They didn't tell us..."

"I assumed you knew all about me."

"Not as much as we'd like to."

"'We'?"

"United States Marshals Service," Sandra
whispered so low Ari almost missed her answer. "So we should expect
her to arrive to join the fun? And your family, too?"

"The house you gave me could hold several
families."

"A regular fuck hutch."

"My family will not be arriving," said Ari,
allowing his disapproval to show through. "They were sent somewhere
else."

"Well that's good, because we only made
arrangements for you."

Ari was sorry she chose this tone. From the
laugh lines around her eyes he imagined she was normally a cheerful
woman, full of sparkling energy. Her unhappiness with her
assignment was disturbing. She chewed on her gum as though she were
gnawing through skin. How much did she know about him? Could she be
trusted? Could he really put his life in her hands?

Sandra bit off her next words when a noisy
family piled onto a table next to the rail. A real feeding frenzy,
with both kids and parents throwing off sandwich wrappers and
squashing food in their faces before they had properly opened their
mouths. Ari held a brief image of an American brigade commander
mocking a group of starving children churning their way through a
refuse heap.

Ari stepped aside from the opening in the
railing to allow Sandra through.

"You're not going to make me walk ten feet
behind you? I'd like to see you try."

There were several people ahead in line.
While Sandra fidgeted, Ari tried to make sense of the glowing
overhead menu. So much of it was Mac-this and Mac-that. All except
the tea, which was crystal clear: iced.

Sandra shot ahead to the counter, gave her
order, and paid. She glanced at Ari. He gave way to the people
behind him.

"I want to think about it a bit," he told
her.

"Not kosher enough for you?"

"I think the word you want is 'Halal'. But
I'm not a strict observer."

Sandra collected her burger, fries and drink
and they went to a corner table. Ari found the plastic seats
amusingly uncomfortable, almost like the bucket seat of an Asad
Babil battle tank.

"What's that?" he inquired politely as she
parted the wrapper in neat triangles around her sandwich. The
formality contrasted bleakly with the wad of gum that she propped
on the end of her tray.

"Big Mac. Top of the line heart-stopper. You
should try it."

"There's no need to be unpleasant, Miss
Sandra."

"Miss Sandra!" A fragment of bun shot out
across the table as she snorted.

"How else should I address you if I want to
be courteous?"

"Drop the courtesy," she said simply. "And
give me one good reason why I shouldn't be unpleasant."

Ari leaned back in his chair as much as he
could and rested one hand on the edge of the table. Sandra nodded
at his ring finger.

"Where's the wedding band?"

"I believe it's in a box somewhere in the
Green Zone, along with some other personal effects of mine."

"Uh-huh. Very convenient."

"How is that?"

"Guy like you, the great Abdul of Arabia. Bet
the girls can't get enough of your shish kabob."

"Sandra...you asked me to meet you. If it's
your intent to insult me--"

"Oh, chill out. A skuzzy Iraqi cop can't be
hurt by a few words."

"I see..." Ari watched her snarl down her
sandwich for a moment, then stood and got back into line. He placed
his order and paid with his credit card. By the time he returned to
the table, Sandra was three-fourths of the way through her
sandwich, fries and Coke, which she consumed in compulsively even
proportions. Ari took a sip of his coffee, found it adequate, and
opened his sandwich box.

"Hey!" Sandra practically shouted as Ari
lifted it to his mouth. He paused.

"Yes?"

"That’s a sausage biscuit!"

"That's what I purchased."

"But it's pork!"

Ari smiled. "I'm gratified by your concern
for my soul." He took a large bite. “This year’s Ramadan has begun.
I shouldn’t be eating at all. Not in daylight.”

"Jesus, aren't you Muslim?" Sandra asked, her
eyes wide.

Ari dabbed his lips with a paper
napkin. "Sandra, would you be so kind as to say the
following:
I declare that there is no God
but only One Allah, and I declare that Mohammad is the prophet of
Allah (Peace be upon Him)
."

"Why?"

"Indulge me. I believe that's why you're
here, isn't it? Your superiors want you to humor me. Am I
correct?"

"Not
my
superiors." She absent-mindedly bit down on a fry and
murmured, "
Their
superiors."

"Well?"

"
I declare
that there is no God but only One Allah, and I declare that
Mohammad is the prophet of Allah
.”

“
Peace be upon Him.”

“
Yeah, and that. There.
Happy?"

"Very much so," he said. "You are now a
Muslim."

"Bullshit."

"I'm perfectly serious. You’ve just spoken
the Shahadatain, the Islamic declaration of faith. As soon as it
passed your lips, you became one of the Faithful.”

"That's ridiculous." Sandra turned beet red.
No one enjoyed being caught in a cultural bear trap.

Ari stared at her for a moment, then took
another bite out his sausage biscuit.

"I've heard of lapsed Catholics..." Sandra's
animosity seemed to have deflated, at least for the moment. "They
used to burn them at the stake."

"Every religion has its heretics." Ari
observed. "The degree of heresy is judged by the strength of the
faith of those around them. From what I can gather, heresy in
America is almost nonexistent."

"We have faith," Sandra said testily.

"Enough to burn unbelievers alive?"

"Of course not."

"Then you have no faith."

"We have faith in democracy."

Ari stared at Sandra's three-fourths-eaten
carton of fries. He had finished his biscuit but was still
hungry.

"Your boss..." Ari paused. "Your
boss's
boss..."

"Homeland Security," Sandra muttered. "But
getting back to faith..."

"Democracy, your secular religion, which is
completely at odds with freedom, also your religion. You combine
socialism and communism the same way."

"We have faith in both--freedom and democracy
I mean."

Ari smiled. "If I pressed you, I believe you
would amend that to 'freedom of opportunity'. Which conflicts with
your third religion: equality. You're a college graduate?"

"UVA."

"A good school, I'm sure. And your degree
practically guarantees you a better income than those who haven't
had the same opportunity. Which in a capitalistic society puts you
in a higher social ranking."

"Forget I asked," Sandra said listlessly,
losing interest.

"Of course. Now that you're one of the
Faithful, you wouldn't be interested in a discourse on Western
political philosophy. But as a good Muslim, you should be outraged
that America is trying to impose its system of warring values on
top of another system of warring values."

"I hope I'm humoring you adequately," said
Sandra, plucking her wad of gum off her tray and popping it back
into her mouth.

“
Why Italian?” Ari asked
abruptly.

“
It’s a good Mediterranean smorgasbord.
“As soon as we saw your photograph, we realized you could play
anything from Mexican to Mesopotamian. Sort of like Anthony Quinn.
Sicily’s a good halfway mark. And since you’re fluent in
Italian…”

“
I see.” Ari decided against ordering
French fries and sipped at his coffee. "You're here in response to
my email?"

"I don't know about email. I just know that
you made some demand about a file. It was passed along to my
boss--completely out of Department of Justice channels."

"Are you the one who chose the Riggins house
for me?"

The edge of Sandra's mouth curled up. "You
don't like it?"

"I'm very impressed by your generosity."

"Don't be. The U.S. Marshals Service isn't
paying. In fact, no government entity is paying. It's my
understanding that this is all being funded out of Iraqi assets
frozen before the war."

"So you could have purchased an even larger
house for me."

"I'm budget-conscious," Sandra shrugged.
"Besides, we got the house for a song."

"Because of what happened to the Riggins
family."

"So? You don't like that? Does it give you
the willies?"

"Quite the opposite. It has given me
something to occupy my many idle moments."

Sandra nodded, disgusted with herself. "I
didn't see that coming."

"You didn't see that a skuzzy Iraqi cop would
become interested in the murder of an American family..."

"I figured you would shrug it off." She
sucked at her Coke through a straw without interrupting her
monotonous gum-chewing. "I'm sure you've seen worse."

Ari didn't answer.

"What is it you do for the U.S. that makes
you so god-important? I’ve never done witness protection for a
foreigner before."

"You don't know?" Ari said, a little
surprised.

"We were told to find a place for you to live
and protect you if you got into trouble."

"I haven't seen any security details."

"You won't need any if you keep your head
low."

"Ah," Ari sighed, a tacit admission
that he had not done very well in that department. But Sandra
seemed oblivious to his numerous
faux
pas
, from peeing in the park to killing three men in a
Chinese market. "Your mandate said nothing about comfort, I
presume."

"Meaning?"

"No furniture, no television, a primitive
cell phone, my computer and purchases monitored..."

"Blame that last bit on Homeland. I don't
think they trust you a whole lot."

"And the furniture?"

"You have an expense account," Sandra
reasoned. "You want wicker or box furniture, go for it."

"What I want is the file on the Riggins
case."

"We don't have jurisdiction over the
RPD."

"The Richmond police were at the house only
the other night."

"Why?" Sandra asked, her face going hard.

"They performed a rather gruesome
walk-through of the premises, showed me exactly where the bodies
were found, their condition, and various other details. It's my
definite impression that they were sent to scare me away. Now why
would they do that unless the house is still important to
them?"

"Shit."

"So you see, either you move me out of that
house--in which case, you'll have to admit it was a mistake to put
me there--or give me the material I'm requesting so that I can
better defend myself against my defenders. You say you are
budget-conscious. Which would be more economical?"

"Asshole," Sandra said in a low voice. Her
hand circled the bottom of her cup. She swiveled it slowly,
contemplating the beads of condensation on the table. "I tried to
join up, you know."

Ari gave her a blank look.

"In the Army. The recruiter asked me what I
wanted and I said boots-on-ground infantry. They turned me
down...said I was too small. As hard-up as they are, and they
turned me down."

Ari sized her up. He had seen some
surprisingly small soldiers overseas, but it was true Sandra would
have needed lifts to match them.

"I've taken down 300-pound men," Sandra said.
Then, with a confessional demureness, added, "In training."

"You wanted to get at the enemy," Ari
nodded.

"I wanted to be on the front line. Anyway, I
ended up going to Justice."

"And now here you are," said Ari. "On the
front line. I admire your dedication."

"Yeah, you can, can't you? Running away from
your country, taking aid and comfort from the enemy, including
bopping every woman in sight. That makes the guys on the firing
line real happy, I'll bet. Having a camel jockey in bed with their
wives."

"You seem to be obsessed with my sex
life."

"I saw those women coming on to you at the
gallery."

"I believe only two women approached me. One
of them was you."

Sandra was worked up, her eyes glowing
narrowly, her complexion a reactor of red. Ari had seen enough
satellite television to know of the West's fixation with sex,
including the satisfaction that was apparently due every woman. He
found the notion alien and puerile. But was that what was happening
here? Was Sandra taking out some kind of womanly frustration on
him? It was perfect idiocy. Perfect self-absorption.

"You don't know how 9/11...you just don't
know. And then we saw your people celebrating in the streets. Were
you out there with them, 'Ari Ciminon'?" Sandra was fidgeting in
her seat.