The Godless One (37 page)

"I can assure you, sir, we're not
overmatched."

"Don't be so sure." Karen came up to
Ari and placed a hand on his dirty coat. "Are you sure?"

"I believe the ANO is being reactivated
in this country. I believe they are being intentionally assisted by
one of their old allies, and unintentionally assisted by your own
government. I think the phrase you use is 'double
cross'."

Karen was nodding her head, then began
to shake it. "Ari, I know how full of bullshit you can
be..."

"I'm not suggesting that you stop this
operation, only delay it until you have the proper resources at
your disposal."

"Wish we had old Ollie here now," said
the ninja. "He would know what to do."

"Perhaps," said Ari
doubtfully.

"I think I burned up all my credit when
I told those guys to act like adults," Karen sighed. "What do you
want us to do? Bring in the Army?"

"At the very least," said Ari. "And
be...preemptive."

"This isn't Iraq," said the
ninja.

"Not until now." Ari crossed his arms
and gave Bill a hard look. "Don't be too smug, my friend. If any
Americans are harmed, I will cut off your dick and insert it in
your anus."

He said this in English.

"Deputy Marshal, you think you could
get your translator out of here?" said the ninja.

"Come on, Ari. I hope you haven't made
your point."

Feeling worn, Ari lifted himself out of
his chair and followed Karen out of the classroom. They found the
main hall strangely hushed. The sound of singing emerged from a
hidden loudspeaker.

"It's Billy Joel singing the National
Anthem," someone half whispered to them as they entered the old
cafeteria.

The main door to the building suddenly
crashed open and a large, imposing blonde strode into the room. The
shoulder patch on her jacket displayed an eagle on a blue
background. It said: U.S. Customs and Border Protection – Field
Operations. There were two stars on her collar. She stared intently
for a moment, listened intently for a moment, and
bellowed:

"Turn that fucking music
off!"

"'…the bombs bursting in—'"

The music died.

"The only bombs bursting in air around
here are the beans you had for dinner. Who's in charge?"

Three men stepped forward, each from a
different government agency, and gave their name and rank. She
heard them out, hands on her prominent hips. Then she said, "I
wasn't asking, I was telling you who's in charge here."

"We're a long way from the border or a
major port of entry, Ma'am," said one of the FBI agents.

"This is what you get when you work on
the short hop," she answered. "I was at Richmond International, in
transit to JFK, when I won the booby prize—and boy did I ever. I'm
the ranking field operations officer in this area on Stupid Sunday.
Anyway, you can't say I'm not in the right place. From what I
understand, you have got illegal immigrants, illegal drugs and
illegal weapons down at that house. I've got my Heckler & Koch.
Who says the Border Patrol doesn't belong here?"

"Geography," said a man with a DEA
jacket.

"The call came straight from DOD, so if
you want to gripe about it, call the Pentagon—and good luck finding
anyone…kickoff's in five minutes." She looked over the room of
silent faces. "And you can address me as 'Director'."

"Is there religious significance to
this game?" Ari whispered to Karen.

"You get more prayers at the Super Bowl
than in a whole year in Mecca."

"Oh, surely you are
exaggerating?"

"I hope you die as hard as you blow,"
the Director continued. "Now fill me in."

It seemed to Ari that no one in the
room had any idea if the Director's claim was legitimate. There
were whispered murmurs about the Patriot Act, plus a heady dose of
unfamiliar acronyms: MSCA, MSCLEA, EP, ES and DOD-HLS. Ari
seriously doubted the agents fully understood what each was saying
to the other. But the Director had brought a definite hop-to-it
into the proceedings, more scampering than hampering, and there was
no further move to question her authority. Things began to fall
into place. Ari wondered if the Director was ex-military, and if
she had served in Iraq and, if not, why not. She walked down the
improvised aisles, asking questions, getting answers—some of them
too tentative for her liking.

Karen, who like everyone else was
intimidated and confused by the woman's presence, took several
minutes to screw up her courage before daring to
approach.

"Director," she said—too diffidently,
to Ari's thinking. It was a bit like stopping a mountain. She
raised her voice. "Director, Ma'am?"

When the Director finally looked her
way, Karen gave a little twirl so that she could see her U.S.
Deputy Marshal back panel. It was a bit like a ballerina practicing
a pirouette for her teacher.

"This gentleman here…you might want to
call him a clandestine human intelligence asset…"

Alarm stirred in the Director's eyes
when she saw the bruised Ari. "Were you inserted in the opposition
camp?"

"Alas, the opposition inserted itself
into me."

Karen winced.

This was too nonsensical for the
Director, who began to move on.

"I really can't tell you his name,
Ma'am, but he interviewed our prisoner and believes we should put a
hold on things for a bit."

"It took a whole lot of doing to get
thirty men here on short notice on a night like this."

"Thirty…" Ari shook his head on again
hearing that number. The same number Office 8 had sent against Abu
Nidal and his four hapless guards. Uday disposed of many more. "You
have some idea of how many are in the opposition?" he asked
deferentially.

"I think surveillance counted around
fifteen. I think we can handle them. We have weapons, a SWAT team
on hand. We can take them down."

"Then I can rest assured that you are
prepared for explosives, RPG's and heavy caliber machine
guns?"

The Director stopped her forward
progress and turned back to him. "And who do you think we're
dealing with?"

"A very militant branch of Fatah," Ari
said. "One of the al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigades, perhaps. Or the
ANO."

"This isn't Israel."

"I'm afraid not everyone sees things
that way."

"And the ANO is ancient history," said
the Director.

"If only it were so," Ari said in a
contrite voice, as though succumbing to a guilt not his
own.

The director eyed him skeptically.
"You’re sort of an Ahmed Chalabi in reverse, aren’t you? He sucked
us into a fight that wasn’t ours, and you look to be sucking us
back out."

"Ahmed Chalabi is a true thief and
patriot," Ari smiled.

To Ari's astonishment,
Karen contributed a surprisingly bright and feminine laugh to the
discussion. "He
will
joke."

The Director arched a brow her
way.

"Director," Karen continued, "a week
ago or so we lost an important DEA asset to these people. You may
have heard about it. Mustafa Zewail and his wife."

"The beheading?" the Director asked.
Details had been broadcasted while Ari lay recuperating in the
motel bungalow.

"Yes, Ma'am. If you had seen the body,
you would agree that they're capable of anything."

"May I add," said Ari, "that I have
profound sympathy and respect for the disaffected, but—"

"You mean 'terrorists'?" the Director
curtly interrupted.

"As you will," Ari shrugged.

"You have profound sympathy and respect
for terrorists?"

"Naw," said Karen, barely restraining
herself from kicking Ari.

"What I mean is that the men in that
house are not like that. They are mercenaries without allegiance.
Abu Nidal himself was a gun for hire. I said something to your
prisoner that would have caused a true believer to sacrifice
himself on the spot, yet this chap did not blink."

"Biding his time," said the
Director.

"Yet when I told him Abu Nidal had died
a cowardly pig's death, only the intercession of your ninja saved
me."

"Ninja?" the Director said.

"Uh…" Karen blushed.

But reassessment was growing in the
Director's eyes. Not doubt, really, but an awareness that there was
more at stake here than met the eye. "Well, the place is sealed
off. I don't suppose it would hurt—"

"Movement!" the tech at one of the
consoles shouted.

Ari and Karen shadowed the Director to
one of the flat screen monitors banking the wall. Darkness had
fallen and what they saw were grainy images from a remote night
vision camera—pinpricks of porch light through the trees and
shrubbery.

"What am I looking at?" asked the
Director.

"The house is set back around a hundred
yards from the road. They have lookouts and we couldn't move the
scope any closer. But we have an observer in the yard."

"Alone?"

"A volunteer," the tech said
sheepishly.

"Swell, gung-hung," the Director
fretted. "Can he communicate safely?"

"He thinks so."

"Put him on the speaker."

The tech flipped a switch. "BASEOPS to
Hot Dog."

"Oh Christ," the Director
half-moaned.

"Hot Dog here," said an amplified
whisper.

"What's your status?"

"Bunch of guys out in the driveway.
They're shaking their keys like they're threatening to hit the
road."

"Are you secure where you are?" asked
the Director.

"Sure, Babycakes, snug as a bug in a
rug."

The Director's glare shut down
extraneous commentary from onlookers. "I apologize for not
identifying myself first. This is Director O'Bannon, head of Field
Operations."

There was a long pause,
then the whisperer said, "Well, I
was
secure."

"Please take this seriously. We have
some indications here that the subjects are heavily armed and very
dangerous."

"Yes, Ma'am. I'll stay put until I get
the word."

"How many do you see?"

"Five…no, six. None of the Arab
persuasion. But I saw some Middle Eastern types earlier. A bunch. I
don't know how many."

"I was given an estimate of about
fifteen in total."

"I…uh…I…uh…"

"You think there could be
more?"

"Could be, Ma'am. Oh yeah, and there's
some weird bottles all over the place here. Anyone ever year of
Almaza?" There was a clinking noise. "Or Taybeh? And here's another
one: Petra."

Ari made a sound of disgust. When
everyone looked at him, he said, "Those are beers brewed in the
Middle East. Petra is famously undrinkable."

"Great, we can get them for littering,
too," said the Director. "Hot Dog, can you hear what those men in
the driveway are saying?"

"They're arguing. There seem to be a
lot of…poorly chosen words."

Ari found this wonderfully funny and
wished someone else would laugh so he could join in. Then he
laughed, anyway. The Director was looking away at the moment,
giving Karen leeway to poke Ari with stiffened fingers. She hit a
tender contusion and he doubled over.

"Oh…oh…" she gasped in remorse and
sympathy, leaning over to help him up.

"Director," said the tech at the
console, "we have a parabolic mike out there."

"Hold on, Hot Dog, we'll listen in with
you…" She nodded at the tech, who pressed a green button on the
panel next to him.

"—
wouldn't you
?" came a distant
sounding voice over the loudspeaker.

"Sure, I'll go. I mean, he
wants to watch fucking handball! I didn't even know it was a team
sport."

"World Men's Handball
Championship, whoever heard of it?"

"And they're playing in
Germany, for fuck sake."

The Director rolled her hand in the air
and pointed at the main door. "Do all of you know your assignments?
Get going. These guys are going to bolt. I would, too, if you made
me watch handball."

Fred Donzetti came up and nudged Karen.
She gave Ari's arm a squeeze. "Sorry about the hit. I'll make it up
to you. You like sushi?"

"Come on!" Fred urged Karen as they
were buffeted by the surge of agents racing for the exit. Excited
chatter and the clatter of equipment punctuated the departure.
Already, engines were revving in the parking lot.

"You all right here, Ari?" Karen asked,
pulling on her vest. "There must be a cot around here. Go take a
nap. We might need you to interview the perps. Try to build up your
energy." She reached into her pocket. "Here's an energy
bar."