The Godless One (4 page)

Even the busily-inventive Ghaith
thought this made sense, because it was probably true. He was
tempted to let go of his prisoner, who seemed to have more or less
recovered from the blow to his throat. But two of the young
policemen were massaging their triggers, like lovers unsure of
love. He decided to keep his shield, for the time being.

"How do we know there are Office 8 men
out there?" one of the more jittery cops asked.

"Go upstairs and look out the front
window. Look for the turds in black suits marking time in their
cars. But you’d better hurry up. I don’t think they’ve surrounded
the block, yet. Is there a door out back? You’d better use it while
you can."

"But where can we go? They know where
we live. They could shoot us for abandoning our post!"

"And I could have killed all four of
you by now. Or you can squeeze off a lucky shot, kill me, and buy
yourselves maybe ten more minutes of life." The man Ghaith held
shifted. He pressed the barrel of the Tariq into his spine. It
would take one only of them to move against him and the rest would
follow. "Where’s the asshole?"

The eyes of the man on the right tilted
ever so slightly towards a door near the front of the
house.

"What’s that, a bedroom?"

They wouldn’t answer him. Ghaith sensed
that they were slipping away, that their fear of him was not nearly
so strong as fear for their families if they were declared
traitors. The impasse could not last much longer.

Beyond the chance of getting killed,
there was another good reason why Ghaith was reluctant to shoot it
out with these boys. Telling Abdul Rahman about Uday had been a
drastic mistake. If Ghaith survived his encounter with the guards,
Abdul Rahman was now unlikely to let him walk away from Palestine
Street. But even if his former corporal was wavering, was able to
subdue his fears, Ghaith still felt the need for some kind of
leverage. And that leverage was standing right in front of
him.

Decoys.

Quickly, he pushed away his prisoner
and lay Omar’s pistol on the chair next to him. He spread out his
arms.

"All right, shoot. Then you can die an
honorable death trying to defend the Palestinian shithole. And
if—"

The man Ghaith had nearly killed swung
around and drove a fist at his head. He was still unsteady and
Ghaith easily ducked aside.

"Nice try, Karim," Ghaith
smiled.

"Wait!" the middle cop shouted as Karim
wound himself up for another blow. He turned to one of the men
holding a Kalashnikov. "Go upstairs and take a look
outside."

The cop nodded and bounded up the
stairs.

"If you’re lying, we’ll kill you right
here," said the cop who had taken charge.

"I’ll kill you, anyway," said Karim,
retrieving the pistol he had dropped when Ghaith punched him.
"Right here."

Once again, Ghaith smiled. At the
moment, it was the only weapon at his disposal. That, and rude
logic:

"Now, when you chaps take off, scatter
like the wind. I’ll be frank, I didn’t see any of those Office 8
boys go around back, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there now,
especially since we’ve been wasting so much time chit-chatting.
When you get home, gather your families together and head for the
Jordanian Embassy in the Al Andalus District. Tell them you have
news about Abu Nidal and they’ll let you straight in. King Hussein
didn’t think much of him and his son sentenced him to death for
murdering a Jordanian diplomat, so they’ll be pleased to hear that
the sentence has finally been carried out."

"He’s not dead, yet," Karim said,
glancing at the bedroom door.

"It’s only a matter of minutes," said
Ghaith.

There was a tumbling of footsteps and
the guard who had gone for a look appeared at the bottom of the
stairs, his face stretched by horror. He nodded.

"There," said Ghaith. "Go now! And may
God be with you."

Three of them shot out the back. Karim
remained, his gun raised.

All Ghaith could do was
wait.

Outside, Abdul Rahman was growing
increasingly nervous. The colonel had walked into the house nearly
ten minutes ago. He had stolen Omar's gun. Abdul Raham had expected
gunfire to break out immediately. But there had been only silence.
He got on his radio and belatedly ordered his men to begin circling
behind the house. Several minutes later he got a report.

"I talked with one of the neighbors,"
said an Office 8 agent over the radio.

"You idiot! You're not supposed
to—"

"He said three cops ran out the back
about five minutes ago. Then a fourth one ran out just before we
got here."

This was totally
unexpected. Had Colonel Ibrahim's reputation preceded him,
terrifying the young policemen into thinking only of escape? But
that wasn't possible. Ghaith
had
no reputation. He was an unknown operator, one of
Saddam Hussein's true secret weapons.

"All right, I want Team One to
pursue..." Abdul Rahaman stopped and lowered the radio. For once,
he thought he had insight into Ghaith's mind. He had somehow
convinced the policemen to take off. The purpose was obvious. To
scatter his agents. He lifted the radio. "That's all? Four
men?"

"Four cops," said the Office 8 agent
behind the house.

So Abu Nidal was still inside, too.
"Don't move. Tell everyone to hold their position."

The agent acknowledged his orders.
Getting out of the Audi, Abdul Rahman walked towards House Number
22. Omar Pachachi trotted up next to him. This was annoying, but
there was nothing Abdul Rahman could do about it. He was sure Omar
was a spy sent out by the man responsible for this entire setup. He
couldn't say why his conviction was so firm. He only knew the same
way the residents of al-Masbah had known that the convoy entering
their neighborhood was packed with dangerous men not to be trifled
with.

"What is he up to?" said Omar. "You
think Abu Nidal got the drop on him? I don't care what they say
about his cancer and hemorrhoids. He's still a dangerous
fucker."

"The colonel's got your gun," Abdul
Rahman said.

"Well, he's not going anywhere," Omar
sniffed.

As they drew closer to the house, Abdul
Rahman flicked his fingers left and right, guiding agents on the
sidewalk, closing the ring around the Palestinian and the man who
had saved his life on the Highway of Death. The burn scars on his
face came alive, as though he was trapped all over again, this time
never to escape. He tried not to think that he would have been a
better man...in a better world.

He lifted his radio to his mouth. "Do
you see anything out back?"

"Nothing." And then, a moment later,
the voice said, "Wait..."

"What is it? What do you
see?"

"I don't see anything. Can't you
hear...?"

Abdul Rahman lifted his hand, ordering
Omar to stop. In fact, the way he did it, it was more like a
courteous suggestion.

"Listen..."

And then they heard. A low
moan.

"What the hell—" Omar began.

A scream from the house cut him short.
Abdul Rahman had avoided looking directly at Omar ever since the
meeting at headquarters, but now he turned to face him. Omar was
wide-eyed.

"Who was that?" Omar asked, turning his
eyes back to the house. "Which room did it come from?"

Abdul Rahman shook his head. He had no
idea.

There was another scream, and Abdul
Rahmal envisioned Ghaith, bound to a chair by the now-departed
policemen who were washing their hands of the business, being
subjected to the kind of tortures for which Abu Nidal was famous.
He could not allow this to continue. The colonel had to die, of
that there was no doubt. But not in this vile way, at the hands of
a Palestinian thug. There was still such a thing as honor, no
matter how weakened by circumstances. He rushed forward.

And stopped when a scream that
blistered his ears shocked him into stillness.

"He has to go, one way or another,"
said Omar, but his hard breathing discredited his
indifference.

Abdul Rahman nodded angrily at the
agents on the sidewalk, who had also been frozen in position by the
scream. They edged ahead, trained killers experiencing
uncertainty.

Everyone dropped to the ground when a
shot rang out. After a half minute, they raised their heads, only
to duck once again when a second shot shocked the quiet
neighborhood.

"Is he shooting at us?" Omar asked, his
chin scraped by the pavement.

"Is everyone all right?" Abdul Rahmal
called out.

Shouts of affirmation reassured
him.

Abruptly, there were two more
shots.

Another full minute passed before Abdul
Rahmal lifted himself off the road and ran to a parked car for
cover. Omar quickly followed.

"What's happening out back?" Abdul
Rahmal spoke into his radio.

"We're all right," came the metallic
answer. "We haven't seen anyone."

Abdul Rahmal was about to signal his
men to move forward once more when the front door of House Number
22 swung open. A moment later Ghaith came out onto the stoup,
covered with blood. An intense prayer pursed Abdul Rahmal's lips as
he sprang ahead. A prayer for the man he had been ordered to kill,
if he survived to this point.

Ghaith had already descended the steps
by the time Abdul Rahmal burst through the white gate.

"Abu Karim!" he cried out, then
hesitated. Ghaith wore an expression he had never seen on any man.
A look of satisfaction such as someone might wear after talking to
God. He turned to Omar. "We have to get him to the
hospital!"

Omar, staring at the gore covering
Ghaith, began to agree. The man was almost dead already. Why not
condone a trip to the hospital, if only for appearance
sake?

Ghaith snapped out of a
trance and lowered a piercing gaze on his former corporal. "You
don't think this is
my
blood, do you?"

Abdul Rahmal and Omar stared at him,
astonished by Ghaith's venomous sauciness. The colonel was not
injured in the least.

"You don't expect me to interrogate a
man in these primitive conditions, with no proper equipment,
without getting a little blood on me, do you?"

Omar glanced over at Abdul Rahmal,
trying to recoup his wits.

"What's wrong with the pair of you?"
Ghaith demanded. "You've seen blood before. Now get inside so you
can start preparing your report. No, not you, Abdul Rahmal. I want
you to drive me back to my office. I have spare clothes there. I
can't very well go home like this."

Abdul Rahmal's burnt face emphasized
his stupefaction. "But what—?"

"Abu Nidal, killer of men and women and
children, torturer of men and women and children, the scourge of
Islam who killed far more Muslims than Jews or Westerners, has seen
the error of his ways and shot himself." Ghaith's devil-face
abruptly softened into a grin. "In fact, he was so filled with
self-loathing that he shot himself four times."

He waited for them to respond.
"Well?"

Abdul Rahmal looked nervously at Omar,
whose eyes remained wide. Finally, the spy gave a slight nod. "Yes.
Drive him back."

"Good," said Ghaith. "Oh, Omar, here's
your gun. Thanks for the loan. I used it to scare off the guards. I
wouldn't execute them, if I were you. They're young and
inexperienced. Just give them a good beating. And if the mess
inside bothers you, rest assured...Abu Nidal did not suffer long
enough."

On the way to SSO headquarters, Abu
Rahmal tried to ignore the stench of blood and the awful stains
Ghaith was leaving on the seat of his Audi.

"They won’t let you get away with
this," he said tensely.

"Mmmm? What, the ANO?"

"Them. And others. The Boss’s son
will—"

"Choke on his own shit," Ghaith said
blithely.

And, in a way, that was exactly what
happened. Ghaith survived the next eight months. In the interval
between August and March, he even performed more vital services to
the government. But his death sentence was firmly, if secretly,
confirmed.

And then the invasion came and Ghaith
was saved by the American Army…the same army that destroyed his
family.

CHAPTER ONE

Richmond – January
2007

How could it stink so badly?

Ari Ciminon had once been
known as Abu Karim Ghaith Ibrahim to his family and comrades, Haji
by American troops who employed him as a translator,
Malak Ta'us
among the
Kurds (borrowing from their Yazidi minority, though the Yazidis
themselves, great devil worshipers, thought 'The Peacock Angel' had
redeemed himself with seven jars of tears), 'Alejandro Perez
–
Alias
' in
Interpol Red Notices, 'Jules Maboule –
Alias
' at the
Direction Régionale de Police Judiciaire de
Paris
….