The Shelter for Buttered Women: The 56th Man, #5

By J. Clayton Rogers

Ari Ciminon's fifth outing involves him in parallel races against time. One takes place in 2006, when he joins a diverse group of mercenaries in an attempt to rescue a kidnapped Iraqi translator. A team of Nepalese Gurkhas and ex-Fijian soldiers, led by a British ex-pat, fight their way through the streets of southern Baghdad on a night of particular historic menace.
Two years later in Richmond, Virginia, Colonel Ghaith Ibrahim (now Ari Ciminon) is hired by an insurance company to investigate truck hijackings across the state. The targeted freight carrier is owned by the remarkable Nabihah Sadiq, a woman divided between the East and the West, who has opened her mansion to Muslim women from all over the Middle East, as well as the States. Some have been battered, others are opting for a different life. But all of them share a secret.
They also share a deadly enemy: 'the Namus'. An ancient concept, 'namus' was once a simple set of ethical principles that stood for virtue and modesty within the family. Unfortunately, in later times it became associated with honor killings. Up and down the East Coast, women have died in staged accidents and suicides. Convinced that someone has hired a killer to eliminate apostate women, Nabihah begins calling the unknown assassin the Namus. Realizing Nabihah and her 'guests' will become targets, Ari is quickly drawn into the hunt.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. Clayton Rogers
• Release date: Mar 25, 2017
• ISBN: 9781540180308

J. Clayton Rogers

I am the author of more than ten novels. I was born and raised in Virginia, where I currently reside. I was First-Place Winner of the Hollins Literary Festival a number of years ago. Among the judges were Thomas (Little Big Man) Berger and R.M.W. Dillard, poet and husband of the writer Annie Dillard.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Camp Rustamiyah – Baghdad – Iraq

June 7, 2006 - 2100 hours

Night is the swan song of empty boasts.  This has been known ever since it dawned on Man's distant ancestors that they were slightly brainier than the animals around them.  Daylight was reserved for the gathering of food.  Leave the cave at night, and you risked becoming food.  And in the centuries since, whether one was in a great city or a small town, one sensed an added element of risk if one stepped out after dark.  Six miles south of Sadr City, grunts donning their NVDs before going out on night patrol felt the cumbersome weight on their heads, the palpable artificiality, and insensibly quavered.

The Army owns the night?  You've got to be kidding.

Naturally, they enjoyed the advantage the goggles gave them.  Those black-clad mujahideen skulking the side-streets thought they were invisible after the sun went down.  Weren't they in for a royal surprise?  But it didn't take much to put the American soldiers in the same position.  A slip of the goggles, battery failure, a sudden burst of light magnified into the retinas...and then the infantry and muj were on equal terms.

The Army owns the night?  Well, under certain conditions....

On this night, though, the soldiers had some relief.  No missions were scheduled.  The Quick Reaction Force was ready to go, as always, but everyone else was standing down.  Why?  Officially, no one below the rank of Goddo Supremo was supposed to know.  Probably something to do with politics.  Unofficially, almost everyone on base had a good idea.  Either way, the pause could not have come at a better time.  Because the Night chose this night to remind everyone of their frailty.

The sound began around 2100.  A low moan, long and mournful, followed a minute later by a screech that set one's hair on end.  And then silence, for maybe ten minutes...before it was repeated.  It was impossible to tell where it came from.  It wended its way up Muasker Al-Rashid Street, down the Mohamed Al-Qasim Expressway and across Omar Bin Al-Khatab Street.  Over Al-Za'franiya, over Seaidya over the Tigris and the Diyala...until it reached Camp Rustamiyah itself.

What the fuck...?

Sounds like fucking Godzilla.

That was a pretty apt description.  Only this sound dragged and repeated.  This sound, so hollow yet so full, put a damning footnote on the day just past.

It was the Night, of course.  It was telling all who would listen (and you couldn't help but listen) that the sabre-tooths were lurking outside the cave entrance.  Exit at your own peril.  Maybe Intel had predicted this, had put a temporary hold on night raids.  What lay in wait beyond the wire could only be imagined.

Maybe it was Godzilla.

In a bad mood.

Richmond, Virginia

July, 2008

The $500 Proposition

Ghaith Ibrahim, known to his American friends as Ari Ciminon, had prepared for this moment.  For the last month he had strained every part of his moral and physical being.  He had even subtracted several cigarettes from his usual daily allotment, and cut back his consumption of Jack Daniels.  His liver might not be doing handstands, yet, but his persistent hangover had been reduced to a bearable thumping in his temples.  Milestones could also be millstones, but after the beating he had been subjected to at Manchester Docks, he concluded a major tune-up was in order.

Over the winter he had gone from wheezing after jogging three miles to easily catching his breath after twelve.  Seeing this improvement, the pastor from the Methodist church up the street had lured Ari into the two-wheel realm with the gift of a Trek Mountain Bike.  Being busy at the time dealing with ATM scams and an elderly spy (as well as killing assorted assassins), he had let the bike sit in his garage for a few weeks.  When this bit of excitement had passed, he returned to his job of identifying Iraqi insurgents for CENTCOM.  As before, the computer images of death and destruction in the land of his fathers had begun to wear on him.  His smoking increased, the flow of whiskey became a flood, his internal gyroscope began to wobble unnaturally.  Then he remembered the bike.

A commonplace assertion was that, once learned, one never forgot how to balance one's self on two wheels.  Ari's first two falls might have been exceptions to the rule.  He had not mounted a bike since he had fled the American Warthogs on the Highway of Death.  Even then, he had not considered the mechanics of what he was doing.  Abject terror had a way of bringing instinct to the fore.  Up to that day in April of 1991 he had not ridden a bike since he was twelve, yet his core musculature kicked in with urgent vibrancy.  Under the circumstances, with 30 mm anti-tank rounds flying past him, he would have placed well in the front cadre of the Tour de France.

Many years had passed since then, but a reasonably consistent regimen of jogging had kept his quadriceps in tune, while his own peculiar version of shadow boxing (plus some serious hand-to-hand combat) maintained his upper body.  Riding a bicycle?  A snap.  And so it proved when he forged onto the road.  He pedaled throughout the neighborhood, then beyond, forging through traffic with the alacrity of someone who had learned to ride in downtown Baghdad.  Fortunately for him, most American drivers were averse to running down wayward cyclists, while those not so considerate were treated to spectacular displays of maneuverability, loud oaths, and an occasional kick in the fender.

Pastor Grainger, one of the few people to know the location of the former Iraqi agent's safe house, had shown up at his doorstep one day for a morning spin.  Wearing a vented helmet, he leaned against his immaculate bike and hopped on his toes, giving a visible rendition of the pleasure to come.  Ari tried to beg off.  He had spent a long evening reviewing images of atrocities committed in Kandahar, fueling the dreary task with the usual allotment of whiskey and cigarettes.  With predictable consequences.  Gauging the hungover man before him, Grainger nodded sagely and said:

Let's sweat it out.

Ari was tempted to slam the door in the pastor's face, but he had few friends that he trusted in America.  Truth be told, if Grainger had known everything about this one-time assassin, the friendship would have ended abruptly.  Not wanting to alienate him, and realizing what the pastor suggested was for the best, Ari acquiesced.  He left the front door open as he retrieved his bike.  He was no longer fearful of a cat escaping

Clearing his lungs of leftover smoke and squeezing JD out of his system took a little longer than he had anticipated, but after ten or so miles he began to feel the nicotine-free oxygen begin working on his system.  Pausing on a stretch of the James River Trail that ran parallel to a railway track, Grainger nodded approvingly.

Better.  Right?  You feel better?

Ari's deep breaths were a bit too crinkly, but he nodded.

Good.  Grainger pointed at the embankment beyond the tracks.  You'll need a couple more weeks of work-out before we can take you up there.

Raising his eyes, Ari saw only trees.  Then a pair of voices floated down, hidden in the undergrowth, moving rapidly.  He gave Grainger an inquiring look.

That's the mountain bike trail.

That is my ultimate destination?

As soon as you're in better shape and buy a helmet.  There's a northside trail, too, on the other side of the river.  It's pretty rough.  We usually do both at one go.  I'm thinking...you might want to hike it, first, just to see if it's something you can handle.

The trail passed very close to Ari's house on Beach Court Lane, so he performed a preliminary reconnaissance.  He concluded only a lunatic would risk riding a bike across the boulders, narrow cliff edges, low overhangs and numerous ball-banging impediments.

But, apparently, there were a lot of lunatics in Richmond.  He had to step aside for quite a few bikes as they slammed down the uneven terrain or bucked their way uphill against formidable obstacles.  He encountered one bicyclist who had taken a tumble and was rubbing his bleeding shin.  Considering the rocks where he had skidded, he could have just as easily broken his neck.  He jumped up at Ari's approach and grinned sheepishly.

Falling off a bike... he shrugged, like someone caught in a childish faux pas.

'A horse of good breed is not dishonored by his saddle'.

The cyclist frowned.  Uh, I guess...but I'm not a jackass.

Ari played back the old Arab proverb in his mind as the cyclist re-mounted and resumed his jaw-cracking way downhill.  No...his translation was correct.  But now he could see where someone might not consider it flattering.

He was mildly nonplussed by the number of women among the mountain bikers.  Well, perhaps they were enabled by their youthfulness.  Circling the forty-mark, Ari prided himself on his fitness.  Yet he did not make a fetish out of good health—hence all the boozing and smoking.  Obviously, Grainger thought he was in fine fettle, but there was a risk.  He could not easily dismiss his natal culture, where to be shown up by a girl was the most brutal of insults.  On the other hand, there was always the possibility that he could show them up.  So he purchased a helmet identical to the pastor's.

And two weeks later found himself sprawled painfully across a ragged rockbed on the northern leg of the Buttermilk Trail.

Since he was the last in line, his predicament was not immediately noticed.  But only a few minutes passed before Grainger raced back and found his missing cyclist.

Falling off a bike... Ari shrugged.

Are you all right?

My self-esteem is grievously bruised, said Ari, drawing back his legs as a pair of cyclists rumbled past.  Both were women.

Grainger chuckled, but ranged his head from side to side as he did a quick survey of Ari's body.  Perfect.

Pardon?

I've seen a lot worse, said Grainger.  Gashes, compound fractures...

Have you seen men roasted alive in a tank turret...?

Yes, I am most fortunate.

Need help getting up?

Don't be absurd.

With a look of amused resignation, Grainger took a step back and watched as Ari wobbled to his feet.  He took hold of one of the bike handles and tilted it up for inspection.

Your chain has slipped off, Grainger observed.

Ah, then I was not at fault.  One cannot predict mechanical failures.

It looks like you may have been cross-chaining.  You might be more careful when you're shifting gears.

Affronted by the possibility that the fall was due to pilot error after all, Ari lifted the Trek's rear wheel and spun the chain back onto the cassette.

That helmet came in handy.

Reaching up, Ari probed the gash in the outer shell.

That could have been your scalp.

So it would seem, Ari groused.  Proceed.

Grainger seemed on the verge of saying something in the vein of 'Are you sure?'  Instead, he said, I admire your pluck, and turned around to catch up with the group, presumably far ahead.

'With a Prayer Over the Bars Mountain Bike Club'.  In Ari's case, it had been more of an expletive, but otherwise the Methodist-sponsored organization was aptly named.  The members were, on average, slightly older than most of the other riders on the trail, with Grainger topping out at only a couple of years younger than Ari himself.  Perhaps the pastor would have been less solicitous had he known Ari's real motive for signing up.  Or perhaps not.  True, Ari was trying to improve his fighting trim, but he had no intention of returning to his former avocation.  No longer an assassin, he was just trying to survive.  He was not particularly enamored with the idea of survival.  After facing death so many times, staying alive began to seem rather blasé.  But his wife and son's survival might become more problematic if his usefulness to the Americans came to an end.  And death, by definition, would put an end to that usefulness.  Rana and Qasim were far away, in California.  He could not even speak to his wife on the phone, because among other injuries her vocal chords and ears had been blown away by an American bomb.  But she was still with him, every day and every night.  His soul belonged to her.

Mind over matter.  A pleasant conceit, but Ari doubted that was how most mountain bikers overcame obstacles.  Perhaps that was how he had ended up crumpled on the rocks.  He had thought he could dominate the terrain through sheer will.  True, there was an element of that present in the athletic psyche.  More balanced minds might consider the attitude borderline suicidal, but for a brief moment Ari had thought he could command the rocks to step aside and let him through.

Now he knew better.  He begged the rocks to forgive his presumption and made it down the rest of the slope without incident.  He finished the rest of the leg by himself, dodging oncoming bikers on the narrow trail, negotiating a broken boardwalk and swatting his way through overhanging kudzu vines.  By the time he reached the parking lot the others had already mounted their bikes on their vehicles and were available to give Ari an embarrassing pep talk as he emerged onto the trailhead.  Circling their victim, they made it impossible for him to escape their hearty bombardment of cheer and commiseration.  A couple of them went so far as to admit that they, too, had gone head over arse on the Buttermilk.  Because of his dark complexion, Ari suspected Grainger had encouraged the club members to be solicitous towards him.  If that was true, it was just another form of racism.  Being as prejudiced as they came when confronting Shia and certain lowly tribes in Iraq, he was in no position to condemn these venomous good wishes.  He suffered them with a grim smile.

Ben Torson hung back from the group, grinning sheepishly but saying nothing.  Ari had met Ben at Grainger's church while looking into the disappearance of one of the pastor's Arab parishioners.  Alas, Mustafa Zewail had lost his head in a crime as vile as its perpetrator, but at least Ari had made new friends and helpers.  Ben had assisted in the track-down of Uday Hussein, the allegedly dead son of Saddam.  He had also given Ari a hand in dealing with a gang of bombers that had put Richmond on edge for several months.

Ari had also met Ben's charming wife, Becky, who even now was participating in the church's power walk team in an attempt to work off the weight she had gained while her husband was posted overseas.  Several grueling months had resulted in the shedding of ten pounds.  Ben asserted she would soon be joining the mountain bikers.

Having seen Ari in action, Ben guessed the group's attempt to lift his spirits would leave a sour taste.  Here was a man who might be able to flatten every single one of them in combat, including those with a military background.  But Ben did not know the full truth.  Had he seen Ari that night outside of Baghdad several years earlier, when he had confronted a gang of terrorists, his reassessment would have been dramatic.

Because Ari had killed all of them.

Even more remarkable was that Ari—Ghaith Ibrahim—had known every one of his victims, including those he had never met.  He had seen their pre-war criminal records, and memorized them all at a glance.  It was claimed by researchers that 'eidetic memory' was a popular myth, that no man or woman possessed a perfect mental snapshot of every face they had ever seen, every record they had ever scanned.  But Ari came as close to disproving the disprovers as anyone could.  CENTCOM, for one, put great faith in his talent.

Pastor Grainger must have sensed Ari's discomfort.  With good grace he drew the others away from him with reminders that, next week, they would meet in Farmville for a long-distance run on the High Bridge Trail.

No obstacles, but plenty of distance.  Thirty miles out and thirty back, with brunch at Charlie's for the survivors.  Meantime, I hope to see you—some of you, at least—at service Sunday morning.

Ari was no church-goer, mosque-goer, temple-goer or synagogue-goer.  His sunrise service usually consisted of trying to see the limits of his bedroom through the demonic angels of a hangover.  In anticipation of his ride on the Buttermilk, he had spent the last two nights dry.  He had an idea of making up for that while reviewing the latest images from Iraq that evening.

I have an idea you might not be making it to Farmville, said Ben once the others were out of earshot.  He removed his helmet and gave Ari wary look, as if he wasn't sure he should raise the topic that was already out of his mouth.

I am thinking of having a bicycle rack installed on my car, said Ari.

Your Box?  You think it'll fit?

Indeed, Ari grimaced.  At heart he was a Cadillac man, but the U.S. Marshal's Service had seen fit to saddle him with a Scion xB.  The only good thing about it was that the GPS tracking device had been removed from the undercarriage.  Even more heartening had been the removal of the tracking bracelet from his ankle, a device Deputy Marshal Karen Sylvester had convinced her boss was no longer necessary.  She had not done this entirely out of the goodness of her heart.  She suspected Ari had found a way to remove the bracelet at will, and was using it to mislead observers.

She told Ari this as the technician removed the tracker.  He shot her a 'moi?' look.

I don't see anyone else wearing a slave chain in this room, she had shot back.  Don't think this lets you off the hook.  If I think you're up to no good, I'll replace the tracker on your car.  And if that doesn't work, I'll have our tech put one around your neck.

That can be arranged, the tech had said with a wolfish grin as he rose with the ankle bracelet in hand.

Ben tossed a discreet glance at Ari's banged-up knee.  You were planning to ride your bike home?

The Nickel Bridge is free to pedestrians and bicyclists.

I'm not talking about the toll, Ben grinned.

Unwilling to admit that his leg was beginning to throb, Ari said, I live but a short distance away.  He put some of his weight on his bike's handlebars.  He had sprained his ankle while kicking in the door of an apartment where a doctor and his family were being held captive by a former Iraqi agent—one of Ari's peers, it seemed, although he had not known the man.

Why don't I put your bike in the back of my truck and give you a ride?

I assure you—

We need to talk.

Oh?  It sounded like business, which was unusual.  Up to now, it had always been Ari who approached Ben for assistance.  He surveyed the parking lot.  Pastor Grainger was lingering with a pair of cyclists, discussing an upcoming church picnic.

I'd rather not be overheard.

This is something you do not want your own cleric to hear? Ari asked.

The pastor's a great guy and all, but this is something...  Ben touched the side of his nose.

You are having sinus problems?

Uh, no...

Oh, I am familiar with that gesture.  You want to inhale cocaine.  I am sorry, that is not my giddy.

Ari! Ben half-hissed, half-laughed.  "It means a lot of things, but it's all context.  Right now, it means not only do I not want him to hear, but he would not want to hear."

I'll bear that in mind, Ari nodded agreeably.  In that event...

Ari hoisted his bike onto the bed of Ben's pickup truck and the ex-marine slammed the tailgate shut.  Ari winced as he scooted into the passenger seat.  His knee hurt more sitting down than standing up.  There was bound to be some swelling.  He assuaged his injured self-esteem by admiring his naked ankle.  His skin had been chafed where the bracelet rested, but not enough for anyone to notice.

They waved to Grainger as Ben drove out of the lot.  Turning right on Boulevard, they immediately came to the toll booth.  Ben threw a quarter into the bucket.  As they pulled forward onto the bridge, Ari said:

You did not spit into the receptacle.

I should! Ben answered with some venom.  It's been a long time since they called it the 'nickel' bridge.

They should update its name, Ari agreed.  It's misleading.  Switch and bait.

Reverse that and you're right.  He cocked an eye at Ari.  You spit in the change bucket?

It is procedural, am I correct?  Similar to your Corps.  'Lock and load'.

I love talking to you.  I really do.

Ari was astonished by the absence of sarcasm.  Karen Sylvester had said the same thing, but with a totally opposite meaning.

Ben took out his phone and punched the speed dial.  The volume was turned up just enough for Ari to recognize the gruff, slurred Yeah? at the other end.

We'll be there in a few...cm'on, we're not that late...there was a little...  Ben paused and glanced at Ari.  We took a little longer than expected.  He rang off and looked at his passenger.  I didn't think you wanted me mentioning your accident.

I had no accident.

But the pastor said—

I swerved to avoid a groundhog.

Oh?  Grainger didn't say...  Ben shook his head.  I didn't know you were sweet on wildlife.  But I totally understand.

And he did.  Upon returning from Iraq, Ben had given up hunting.  Unless, as it turned out, it involved hunting terrorists.

Why are we meeting Elmore Lawson?

He thinks you're underemployed.

He does?  And this is a great concern for him?

OK, I made that up.  Personally, though, I think you're the kind of guy who could become...dangerous is too strong a word, but if you sat around all day moping with nothing to occupy you—

I can become agitated, it is true, Ari acknowledged.

And I guess you don't wait for the fidgets to pass.  I get them, too, the fidgets.  But I can just tootle around the house and yard until it passes.

You have a wife.

That helps, Ben said with some uneasiness.

It is nothing to be ashamed of.  I also have a wife, but she is too far away to lash me with her whip of common sense.

Ben laughed.  Becky's no pushover.

I am pleased to hear that.

I'm surprised, said Ben as he slowed at the intersection of Westover and Forest Hill.  I always heard...  He made a joshing sound, cutting himself short.

Yes? Ari inquired.  I have amazed you?

No.  Yes.  OK, I don't want to sound like some backwater numbnut...but let's face it, from what I saw over in the Sandbox, Muslim women don't have much of a say in...well, anything.

You mean they are oppressed victims of the male establishment?

Now you sound like a left-wing sociology prof.

I believe I comprehend, Ari nodded.  And there is some truth to that.  Muhammed had a great deal of respect for women.  Without Khadija bint Khuwaylid, his first wife, I doubt he would have succeeded as he did.  She was truly a saint.

Is that the majority view? Ben asked.

She is not spoken of very often, Ari admitted.

And didn't Muhammed have tons of wives?  Like a harem?

He had thirteen wives, the Mothers of the Believers.

That's a ton.

There were many reasons for these marriages.  Some of the women were widows of his companions.  They would have been destitute.

Still...

Many women hidden by the veil have great influence.  A woman does not need to flash her bare ankles in the air to wield power.

Well yeah, but—hold on.  Ben turned sharply into a drug store parking lot.  Ari saw Elmore Lawson slouched in his van.  He was parked in a handicapped slot.

Our friend here also had a wife, Ari said as Ben pulled up next to the van.

'Had'?  They split?

She could not live with his disablement.

Darn.

He does not blame her for leaving him.

They never do, said Ben bitterly.

Lawson's passenger window came down.  Ben lowered his own window and cut off his engine.

Mr. Ciminon! Lawson called out.  Ari leaned forward, looking past Ben.

Mr. Lawson!

I am glad to see you are well and less bruised than when we last met.

We met last week, when I returned Luckless to you.  Ari had been pleased when Lawson emerged from the VA Hospital after a series of operations, but was put out when he asked Ari to return his cat.  The former marine captain had never spoken of Luckless with any great affection.  Neither had Ari, for that matter, especially after the gray cat had slashed his cheeks as he fitted him with his ankle bracelet.  An outsider would have assumed either man would have been glad to be rid of the surly beast.

Thanks for taking care of him, said Lawson.  I think I can take him off your hands, now.

Are you certain?  He spits his wrath and ejects great quantities of fecal matter.

Yeah.  I'm the same way.  Maybe that's why we belong together.

It had taken over a month for Ari and Luckless to grow accustomed to each other.  In fact, the whole issue of human/feline bonding had remained problematic, with both parties growing cranky in each other's company.  Yet Luckless had decided it was better to share Ari's mattress than to sleep alone.  Like his predecessor, Sphinx, he had begun to sneak upstairs at night and slip behind Ari's knees.  Ari found the warm pressure comforting.

Do you think yourself capable of scooping his food and the unspeakable consequences? Ari asked.  His frequent vomiting is most unfortunate.  He especially likes to spill his guts on the carpet.

'As well as the furniture,' Ari almost added, then decided he did not want the cat to sound overly repulsive.  Lawson might decide to take Luckless to the dog pound, which Ari had heard were no better than death camps for unwanted animals.

Sorry about that, Lawson said.  You've really put up with enough.  I've got my nephew here to help.  Believe it or not, he doesn't mind cleaning up the mess.

Ari didn't believe it.

You almost sound like you want to keep the damn thing, Lawson continued.

What! Ari had scoffed.  For a grown man to want to live with a cat is the pinnacle of...

Idiocy?

I did not mean to imply—

"No offense taken.  It is idiotic.  Which is why I think you should bring him back.  I'll foot any medical bills you might incur while putting him in the pet carrier."

Luckless had not been pleased when Ari released him in Lawson's living room.  He dashed off to the back of the house.

I am afraid nothing pleases your nervous friend.

True that, Lawson nodded, but he seemed contented.  Damnedest thing, as skittish as he is, sometimes he comes up in the middle of the night and tucks himself behind my knees.

Remarkable, Ari said ruefully.

Cat spooning, said Lawson.  Next best thing to...

'A wife', Ari thought ruefully.

This is kind of a weird place to meet, said Ben to Lawson as he opened his door.

Do you mind, Ben?  I need a private moment with Ari, here.  Thanks for bringing him over, but...if it's any consolation, if Ari accepts my proposal, and he decides he needs some muscle...

Yeah?

I realize you are lucky enough to have a full-time job, but if you'd like to earn a bit of extra change...

Ben turned to Ari.  He's going to offer you a job.

So I have surmised, said Ari.

Take it.

You are not satisfied with your job at the hardware emporium?

Ben pulled a face.  See this?

Yes?

That's the look of boredom.  You know it?

Yes, indeed I do.

It's partly your fault.  You gave me the taste for blood.

Hardly that.

And if you feel the slightest bit of guilt for giving me a lust for adventure, you'll call me as soon as Lawson finishes with you.

Put a cork in it.  Observing Ben's reaction, Ari quickly added, I believe I mis-applied the phrase.

I hope so.

Ari got out and removed his bike from the back.

Am I leaving? Ben asked.

'Fraid so, said Lawson.  Once again, thanks for bringing our friend here.  I would have contacted him directly, but I am not privy to his phone number or place of residence.

That's because you're not a Methodist, said Ben, starting up his truck and pulling out.

You're a Methodist? Lawson asked after Ari parked his bike in front of the Lawson's van and slipped into the passenger seat.

I am methodical, said Ari.

I believe that's how Methodists came by their name.  Ari began leaning towards Lawson, then pulled back quickly.

You weren't about to kiss me, were you?

Certainly not.  American males of a normal persuasion do not condone such behavior.

Don't let Gay Virginia hear you say that.  They'd be more than happy to eat your nuts.  He gave Ari what might have been a skeptical glance, but his face was so damaged it was hard to say what he was thinking.  Those Arab boys kiss, don't they?

I have told you, I am Sicilian.

Oh.  Right.  And those Euro boys kiss even more.  Guess old habits die hard.

Ari glanced in the passenger rear view mirror.  Ben was right.  This is a very odd place in which to meet.

Not really.  This isn't cloak and dagger.  I thought I'd kill two birds with one stone.  I'm here to pick up my sick pack.

I am familiar with 'six pack'.

You heard right.  Lawson nodded at the drug store.  The docs at the VA signed me up for an FDC.  That's a Fixed Dose Combination.  I've got so many antibiotics and corticosteroids in me they would ban fishing for a hundred years if I fell into the James River.  They do the same for AIDs patients.  I call it a 'sick pack'.

And I am part of this 'pack'?

Sorta kinda, Lawson slurred.  The surgery had not focused on his speech impediment.  Later, perhaps...in which case, Ari could again take in the reviled Luckless.

Do you wish me to go inside and pick up this pack? Ari asked.

With that combo?  They'd arrest you on the spot.  Unless you're on the list I gave them, you're not authorized to copay my drugs.  It's a short list, anyway.  Me and my sister.  No, I'll shuffle my way inside and pick up the shit, myself.

Then my presence here is as a proposition?

No, we're not here to exchange vows, Lawson fumed.  I'm here to proposition you, right?  But it's a business proposition.  When you came to me last time, you were trying to find the husband of your neighbor.  Unless I miss my guess, you weren't just moonlighting.  Uh...

A young man was walking up the sidewalk, his back to the drug store.  His fingers landed lightly on the handlebars of Ari's bike.  Ari cracked his door open and the young man walked away.

As I understand it, Mrs. Wareness did not pay you for your services.

I was being neighborly, Ari said blandly.  Even the Luckless-loving Lawson would have laughed himself to the morgue had he known the truth.  Ari had hoped merely to ingratiate himself with Rebecca Wareness and her daughter, Diane, in an attempt to lure back Luckless's predecessor, the faithless Sphinx.

You're one helluva neighbor to have, Lawson nodded.  You got shot at, bombed, mugged....  I'd say you pushed neighborliness to the edge of the envelope.

I do not believe a letter would have been sufficient.

Lawson continued nodding.  The jaw implant and other reconstructive surgery made the gesture unsettlingly robotic.  Is it why you're not wearing the ankle monitor anymore?  Your good deed got you off the hook?

You mean was it a tit for my tat?

You might say that.

Perhaps...

You don't want to tell, Lawson shrugged.  I get that.  Here's our friend again...

The young man had returned, this time wearing sunglasses.

I'd never spot him in a line-up in a million years, said Lawson.

When the young man again touched the handlebars, Ari opened his door.  The young man sneered and walked away.

Under some circumstances, persistence is a virtue, said Ari.

Judging from your tone, I'd say persistence is going to get this guy killed.  We don't kill people for misdemeanors, here.  Not usually.

'Misdemeanor'?

A low-caliber crime not worthy of attention, Lawson explained.

"But it is my bicycle."

So I stand corrected.  In this case, it's a felony.  Do me a favor and pop open the glove compartment.

Ari obliged.

See that envelope?  Please take it out.

Ari took the envelope and began to hand it to Lawson.

It's for you, if you accept my commission.

It was not sealed.  Ari opened the flap.  There is money in here.

Five hundred.  Dollars, not dinars.

You mean Euros.

You're about as Sicilian as Marlon Brando.  That's just a down payment, to fill your gas tank and stomach and other such.  There'll be more to come if you get anywhere, and a door prize of $50,000 if you crack the case.

'Case'.  That is a mystery?

It might even be interesting.  The big check won't come from me.  That would be the Central Virginia Group.  I would be overseeing you, though.

I would be working for your insurance company?

Lawson headed a subcontracted insurance fraud investigation unit for the Group.

I won't get into the technicalities of insourcing and outsourcing.  Let's just say I'm in and you're out.  Here's Mr. Persistence, again.

So I see...

Ari opened his door once more as the young man fondled his handlebars.  This time, he waited until Ari stood before he flipped the bird and scooted off.

Maybe you should invest in a lock for that bike, said Lawson as Ari reseated himself.

I am sitting here, only a few feet away.  I am the lock.

Maybe so, but now he's had a good look at you.  He knows you're old...okay, older...and that he can outrun you.  Next time he'll come in low and fast.

Thank you for the heads down, said Ari.  That gun in your glove compartment...it's different.

You don't recognize it?

A Bersa .380.  I can see why you would want something with a modest recoil...

Yeah, an old mangled vet can't deal with too much kickback.

It also has...it is called a tactical rail, correct?

A Picatinny rail, straight from New Jersey.  Your buddy Ben fixed it up for me so I don't drop the gun at an inconvenient moment.

Ari did not realized Ben Torson and Elmore Lawson had become friends.  This could prove a dangerous nuisance.  Because a couple of Ari's neighbors belonged to Christ Methodist Church, Ari's address had become known to some of the parishioners, as well as Pastor Grainger.  Only Ben and Grainger were aware that Ari had worked for the Coalition in Iraq, but that was enough to pose a risk to his security.  If Karen found out about this leak she would kick him out of the house on Beach Court Lane.  For all its vulnerabilities, Ari had grown accustomed to his new home.  Perhaps even fond of it.  Had Ben told Lawson where he lived?  It was unlikely.  Ben might not be a fount of common sense (otherwise he would not be dealing with Ari), but he probably understood loose lips could put Ari at risk.

I might be a broken up tin man, but I still go out in the field, occasionally.

I am well aware of your feats, said Ari.

Lawson's laughter was genuine, a rarity.

I am to be told of my mission?  It is something that you are not qualified for?  You also have many men under your command, including some excellent marksmen.  I was surprised one needed that particular talent in the insurance compendium.

In this business you never know who you have to shoot, said Lawson.  Mostly, though, we leave that to the SWAT teams.  You want to know why I'm not doing this job myself?

You do not speak Arabic fluently, said Ari.

Fuck!  Lawson slapped his prosthetic on his thigh.  Okay, Mr. You're-Thoroughly-Pissing-Me-Off.  Tell me why that's important.

Americans are always investigating Arabs.  It is their delight.  They are your boogabug.

Bugaboo.

In all of these investigations, it is only natural that one day insurance counterintelligence would become involved.  Are we speaking of false claims, here?  I'm sure you recall the Korean group we dealt with.  They were actually quite charming.  Did they ever deliver your leg?

It's hard to ship USPS from jail, said Lawson, adding an oath for good measure.

We put them there.

Don't remind me.  You're right, we're talking about fraud.  And since you're allegedly an Italian who speaks fluent Arabic—and since you're handy in a fight—your services would be greatly appreciated.

I am all aglow with your flattery, said Ari.

Are you interested?  And before we go any further, I might as well tell you it could be dangerous.  Not likely, but...

I have put you in a similar situation, said Ari with contrition that was only half-feigned.

Ever hear of O'Connor's Freight Lines?

I believe I have seen mighty semi-trucks on the highway bearing that name.

I'm a little surprised.  They aren't that big a company and most of their business is hired out to third parties.  Well, they've come into a bit of a problem.  Several of their trucks have been hijacked.  It would be bad enough for us if they had the standard Goods in Transit coverage.  Unfortunately—for us—O'Connor's had bought into the Theft/Hijack Excess Reducer Policy, which put CVG on the hook for most of the cargo...and the fucking trucks, too.

Truck hijackings are very common in Iraq...so I hear.

They're not all that uncommon here, either...like we're in a goddamn war transit zone.  Most of them are inside jobs, and we've gotten pretty good at tracking down the culprits.

This is encouraging to hear, said Ari.  However, I do not speak Irish Gaelic.

O'Connor's is 100% Arab owned and operated.  They opened for business in 2006.  I'm not sure how they got their license, considering the big stink with DPW around the same time.

Ari gave him an inquiring glance.

You don't follow American business news in Sicily?  Lawson's face twisted in what might have been a smirk.  You don't know Dubai Ports World?

Yes, famous global traders.  They are based in Dubai.

There was a plan in motion for them to take charge of operations in 22 American ports.  When word got out all hell broke loose.  Congress had visions of Arab hordes swooping out of the cargo holds with all their weaponry in the heart of American commerce.  The sale was blocked and DPW was forced to unload their assets on a more trustworthy company.  Lawson's snort sounded painful.  AIG!

I detect irony in your observation, said Ari.

AIG is like one of the biggest insurance honchos on the block, and it looks like they're going to go belly up unless the government bails them out.

The shipping business does not agree with them?

Do you watch the news at all? Lawson asked.

I know that my neighbor's lawn mower was stolen.

You caught that on BBC World News America?

Ari shrugged contritely.  I have no television.

Do you listen to your car radio?

Every time I turn the dial I hear horrible noise or Protestant preachers who sound...

Unhinged?  Sounds like your radio is stuck on AM.  Do you have a computer?

Ah, yes...  Which he used mainly to view the images sent to him from CENTCOM.

Well, stop gaping at the porn sites and look at the news, sometimes.  Do you know that the world is going through the worst financial crisis since the Great Depression?

I may have heard something about it... Ari said doubtfully.

It started when the housing market collapsed, and it's been all dominoes since then.  Turns out the fiscal practices of a lot of big corporations are questionable at best.

Like AIG?

Like all of them.  They gamed the system and the system bit back.  And now it's spreading downwards.  The Central Virginia Group laid off thirty people last month, with more to come.

Is your job secure? Ari asked solicitously, wondering if he would be able to continue feeding Luckless.

I'm all right, for now.  One thing big crooks hate is little crooks nibbling at the edges.  As long as they have a CEO and a secretary, they'll want investigators to keep from getting robbed.

And O'Connor's Trucking is a little crook?

That's my guess, but I could be wrong, Lawson admitted.  Three hijacking claims in a month is an awful lot.  Not in AIG's league, of course.  But right now, on a scale of 1 to 10, even a 1 raises hackles.

How were these crimes...please, one moment...

Jesus fuck! Lawson yelled as Ari snapped open the glove compartment and whipped out Lawson's gun.  He had already opened the passenger door and was leaping onto the pavement.  He had spotted the young man crouched at the back of the building.  Both men sprang forward at the same instant.  The young man gave a yelp as Ari slammed him against the wall.  He fell to the sidewalk and Ari pressed the gun barrel into his forehead.

Ari!  No! Lawson shouted.

The young man squirmed, crying.

In my culture, to accost another man's wife brings certain death, Ari said calmly.

"It's a fucking bike!" the young man sobbed.

To disparage a man's wife also carries a sentence of death.  This elegant mountain bicycle is my wife.  She lays beneath me in loving acceptance.  She embraces me in her arms.  She coddles my manhood...

Oh God, oh shit, I didn't know!

If ignorance was salvation the entire world would be saved.  Ari sighed.  You have brought this upon yourself.

Please...

Ari sniffed and made a face of disgust.  You have soiled yourself.

The young man moaned.

"I cannot execute a man who is unclean.  Race home and change your diapers immediately.  And