The Godless One (22 page)

Revealing himself this way to Ben and
Becky was the behavior of a complete stranger. So far as he knew,
he had nothing to gain and everything to lose. He was fully aware
that a day might come when his logic slipped on fundamental human
irrationality. And, at this moment, his rational side was calmly
informing him that he was crazy. Should he do something about it?
Should he walk away from the church, leaving this former soldier
and his wife in eternal confusion? Should he walk away from America
and move to...well, Sicily, perhaps? But then, what about Rana, who
had stepped so elegantly out of a shop in al-Mansour, bundled
against the snow, so wise and beautiful she broke Ghaith Ibrahim’s
heart on the spot and forever more?

Even if this lunacy passed—and Ari
believed it already had—it was too late to take back what he had
said to Ben Torman. But before he could begin raising a reasonable
palisade of lies, Pastor Grainger returned from saying farewell to
his parishioners. Seeing the stricken faces before him (Ari’s too,
it seemed), he came to the wrong conclusion.

"You were discussing Mustafa and
Akila?" he said. "It almost doesn’t bear thinking about. This
country has become godless, and this is the result."

Ari was silently working out his
options when Ben unwittingly betrayed him.

"Yes," Ben sighed heavily. "But isn't
it like a sign from God, bringing an Iraqi to our
church?"

Ben was either not too bright, or was
totally unaccustomed to lying. Ari had met numerous people who were
incompetent liars, but hardly a one who didn't try. Was it possible
Ben was a freak of nature?

"Oh," said Grainger, turning to Ari.
"But aren't you Italian?"

Ben realized immediately that he had
stumbled badly. "I just assumed," he laughed apologetically. "We
didn't finish our introductions."

"But...why Iraqi?" Grainger asked. "Why
not...well, Egyptian?"

Ari, for whom one lie was the same as a
thousand, could see Ben was having difficulty with even a
half-truth. No, they had not been fully introduced. Yes, Ari had
indirectly told him he was an Iraqi—there were precious few foreign
translators tagging along with the U.S. Armed Forces. He noticed
Becky looking intently at her husband. Ah...the conscience. Maybe
her presence had fogged Ben's head. Ari was familiar with that kind
of situation. Rana had often caught him out in an untruth. In Iraq,
lying came before breathing. Ari's wife understood one needed to
lie to survive, but when Ari spouted a lie that was unnecessary, or
harmful, or dangerous, she would caution him with a calm, silent
touch of the hand.

Ari gave the nave a cursory inspection.
He saw no one else, but he was still uneasy.

"That prisoner in the state facility,
Mr. Salman...I thought right away that he recognized you. And you
told us he was an Iraqi."

Ari smiled at the pastor. "I would be
only too happy to discuss this somewhere where there aren't so
many...echoes."

"Is there something to discuss?" said
Grainger, turning to Ben and Becky.

Becky gave her husband a pensive
glance. "Is there?"

"I think at this point, now that I’ve
spoken out of turn…there is," Ari intruded. "Please give me the
opportunity to clear up any misunderstanding."

Ben nodded.

"I hate looking at my watch at a moment
like this...I have to prepare for the second service." Grainger
looked at his wrist. "It seems we have a little time."

They followed him out of the nave and
through the welcome area to the pastor’s office. Inside, in
addition to the pastor’s executive chair behind the desk, there
were three cushioned guest chairs. Ari briefly amused himself with
a probable scenario: mother, father and recalcitrant, common sense
son who wanted nothing more to do with the church arraigned before
Grainger for consultation and clerical claptrap. On the wall was a
painting of John Wesley, which seemed unpromising to Ari until he
saw the mock yellow road sign beneath it: ‘Ornery Methodist Zone.’
At least Grainger could laugh at himself.

Ben and Becky sat next to each other,
within handholding distance. Ari took the chair closest to the
door. Grainger settled in behind the desk and looked at him
inquiringly. He folded his hands on the desk, then spread his
fingers, as though opening the floor to anyone who wanted to
begin.

"As of this moment," Ari said, "my life
is in your hands."

"I understand," said Grainger with
polite equanimity. "But it is beginning to seem I have introduced
you into a secure government facility under false pretenses—at
least, under a misconception. I have programs to assist inmates at
Powhatan—many churches do—that would be jeopardized if it was
discovered that security regulations have been violated. You’ve met
the assistant warden."

Not a bad
chap
, Ari thought.

"You understand, he would shut us down
in a bleeding heartbeat."

Ari thought the pun felicitous and
smiled in appreciation.

"I don’t think there’s anything
sinister here," said Ben with a trace of uncertainty.

"I’m sure you recall what Mr. Salman’s
lawyer said, Mr. Ciminon," Grainger continued. "We are involved in
a war in Iraq—although God forgive how many of us forget that—and
by force of circumstances we…" The pastor suddenly realized he was
verging on the intemperate. "Someone who is Iraqi, in the States,
under an assumed name…it’s only natural that we regard them with
extra care. I’m the first to admit this is a sad state of
affairs."

"Of course," said Ari.

"Then…can we learn a little more about
you?" Grainger asked.

"Yes, I am Iraqi. I only left my
country a few months ago." Ari, no longer succumbing to mystical
confidentiality, worked hard to dovetail partial truth with current
necessity. "As you saw at the prison, my documents are perfectly
legal. They are not forged. After the defeat of the main Iraqi
army, I became a translator for the Americans—that includes
Blackwater, naturally. The British, Australians and Poles, too.
Even the Italians, on occasion."

"You’re very good at languages?" said
Grainger with a touch of envy.

"It seems I was blessed with that
particular talent. However, my identity was compromised. The
American ambassador graciously offered me asylum."

"Do you have family?" Becky
asked.

"A wife and son. They’re somewhere
else."

"They weren’t included in the
invitation? Isn’t it very dangerous for them? I’ve heard…" Grainger
allowed the peril to drift into the vague silence of
hearsay.

"They’re no longer in Iraq, but they’re
not here," said Ari carefully. When Pastor Grainger’s eyes widened
slightly, he quickly continued: "We’re being kept separate only as
a precaution. My wife was a well-known actress in the Middle East
before the war. Other refugees here would recognize her and word
would spread that I’m in America."

Forgive me,
Rana
.

"Oh," said Grainger,
briefly subdued by Hollywood-
faux
. "But wouldn’t her very fame
protect her?"

"Saddam Hussein’s cousin, Saddam Kamel,
portrayed the president in a very long movie called ‘The Long
Days’. Hussein had him murdered in 1996. In my culture, fame can
get you killed."

"I see," said Grainger. "And the
authorities have seen to all of your security arrangements? There’s
no risk to your neighbors?"

"The risk, which is minimal, is
entirely mine. Unless…"

"Because you’re taking such a big risk
telling us all this," said Becky, watching her silent husband as
much as Ari. "Aren’t you protected by the government?"

"Certainly," Ari answered. "But I am
here as a guest, not a prisoner. As you can see, I am allowed to
roam freely, so long as I perform my assigned tasks. I do not take
extraordinary precautions. I don’t feel the need to."

"And what are your tasks, Mr. Ciminon?"
Grainger said.

"The American government
believes there is an Iraqi provocateur on the loose in your
country. I can’t tell you what organization he belongs to. That
information is, as you say, ‘classified’. This man has been
terrorizing refugees, forcing them to enlist in a
jihad
against the West.
Homeland Security has brought me here because I can identify him no
matter what disguise he is wearing."

Pastor Grainger seemed startled. "You
really think you can identify him? When was the last time you saw
him?"

"Mr. Ciminon’s very good at remembering
faces," Ben interjected quietly.

Grainger gave him a puzzled look, then
turned back to Ari for an answer.

"I worked with this man for several
years. Your FBI sends pictures to me of likely suspects, hoping
I’ll spot him. They believe he’s in San Diego or Los Angeles, where
there are sizable populations of Iraqi refugees."

This seemed to appease Grainger to some
extent. California was not as far away as Iraq, but the width of a
continent gave at least some cushion against danger.

"There are some in your intelligence
community…" Ari paused, and not only for effect. He was entering
treacherous territory and needed to carefully balance his lies. He
had damaged his own cover story, but he needed to maintain the
pretence that Mustafa was an Egyptian. Karen would be furious if he
exposed the dead man as a former collaborator, and there was no
need to have the DEA gunning for him, as well. "…there are some who
believe that an American serviceman who served in Iraq is assisting
him."

Grainger’s sudden look of disgust
probably had more than one cause. Predominant would be having a
foreigner telling him that one of the few and the proud was a
traitor. Ari fully understood the reaction, and
sympathized.

"You can’t think—"

"Oh, Becky, I don’t think
he’s suggesting Ben is under suspicion. I
am
correct, Mr. Ciminon?"

Ari laughed as if it was the wildest
suggestion he had ever heard. Grainger, still vigilant, managed a
polite nod at Ari’s reassurance.

"You knew about the threatening letters
sent to Mustafa?" Ari said abruptly.

Grainger blushed. "How did you
know?"

"I really can’t tell you how I found
out…"

"Mustafa told Mr. Salman?" said
Grainger, beginning to look more upset than ever. "You mean it was
something Salman said to Mustafa that got him killed? I introduced
him to the prisoner…"

"The lawyer explained to me that
anything said in that room—"

"Yes, I understand," said the pastor,
batting away the over-familiar explanation with an irate swing of
his hand. Ari wondered if Methodists held close to the same vow of
confidentiality as Catholics and defense lawyers.

"Did Mustafa mention the drawing of an
eagle on those letters?"

Grainger looked bemused.

"I believe," Ari continued, "that it’s
referred to as a ‘screaming eagle’."

"No!" Ben blurted. "He
wouldn’t!"

Grainger and Ari turned to
Ben.

"
Who
wouldn’t?" Ari said,
smiling.

"I think this needs to come to an end
right here," Becky suddenly pronounced. "Aren’t the police dealing
with this? They might not take it kindly if we butt our noses into
their business..." She leaned towards her distraught husband, who
was staring so intently at Grainger’s modesty panel that he seemed
on the verge of taking cover under the desk.

"I concur," said Grainger, his amiable
demeanor evaporating. "This is a police matter."

Nodding absently, Ari put on the
appearance of full agreement. "You are correct. However, I was with
the police when the body was discovered…"

They turned and stared at
him.

"Because of concern for the safety of
the Arab community here, there are certain…concordances between the
authorities and myself. I have been fully vetted by Army
intelligence."

"You work for the police?" Becky asked
warily.

"No, they only consult with me on
occasion." True enough. Officers Jackson and Mangioni had asked for
help on a murder Ari himself had committed. "They wanted me to come
with them if it proved necessary to enter the Zewail house…in case
there was a confrontation. A fellow Arab could have helped resolve
any misunderstanding, you see. Alas, we were too late."

Ari was fully prepared to threaten
Grainger if this story proved unsatisfactory to the pastor. He
might throw out a strong hint that the church's beloved inmate
programs might be permanently shut down if it was discovered that
Grainger had risked the exposure of a precious government asset.
But the pastor followed the logic of the lie, and accepted it as a
twisted truth.

"That still doesn't explain why you are
here, without a detective in sight," Becky pressed, frantically
wanting to end the interview that was so detrimental to her
husband's mental well-being.