Backside

By J. Clayton Rogers

Homophobic Ari Ciminon (The 56th Man) almost meets his match when he searches for a young man who has run off with the Thebans, a group of gay bicyclists for whom fitness is paramount. Joey Haider, the son of an official at the Iraqi Consulate, eludes his bodyguard in Richmond. Called in to translate for the guard, Ari quickly becomes embroiled in the search for the boy. This puts him in far more peril than he had anticipated, including a run-in with MS-13. This is not helped by his open antagonism towards the gay community. Even when it appears he will not make a dime for his efforts, his hunt is relentless. It takes him to places he would have once avoided like the plague: a gay hostel, a gay club and a house in an unlikely hamlet tucked away in the Virginia backwoods where the Thebans are targeted for execution. All the while he is shadowed by the mysterious Peter Pan, who might or might not be a guardian angel. Ultimately, though, his most dangerous adversary turns out to be his own bad back.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. Clayton Rogers
• Release date: Nov 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393888130

J. Clayton Rogers

J. Clayton Rogers is the author of more than ten novels. He was born and raised in Virginia, where he currently resides. He 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.

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BACKSIDE

By

J. Clayton Rogers

https://www.jclaytonrogers.com/

Copyright 2018

PROLOGUE

Salmawah, Al Muthanna Governate, Iraq

1998

In ten years Major Ghaith Ibrahim would be known as Ari Ciminon, a Sicilian who had found his way to Richmond, Virginia. In just a few years he would make his colonelcy—just in time for the second American disaster. But on this night he was in the Iraqi desert, at probably the most historic pile of rubble on Earth, stepping out of a Russian-made UAZ-469 and squinting against a flashlight aimed at his face.

An officious-looking policeman strode up to him. You're Major Ibrahim?

You mean am I the man you should salute to? Country bumpkins needed to be reminded of military decorum.

The line between the Army and the police had more to do with the clans of the men in charge than any bureaucratic demarcation. The cop in front of Ghaith was from Samawah, just north of where they stood. The town had a long history of anti-authoritarian behavior. Back in 1964 they had had the nerve to rescue 1,000 prisoners of the Iraqi Communist Party from the famous Death Train. Even under the harsh heel of Saddam Hussein, the citizens presented unusual problems. Saddam had kidnapped hundreds of Kuwaitis when he invaded that country in 1990. Conditions were harsh. In 1991, it entered the amazing heads of the Samawah populace to storm the prison and free the foreigners. They must have thought of themselves as great humanitarians. Saddam and his cronies didn't know what to make of them. The Samawah cops just stood by and watched? What kind of men were these?

The kind who were not inclined to salute officers wearing the red triangle flash of the Special Republican Guard on their berets.

The cop realized he would be standing there all night if he did not salute. This pompous major might even take a notion to draw his gun and shoot him. He compromised by lackadaisically folding his arm over his forehead.

I am told that Dr. Sarsam is in charge, said Ghaith, returning the salute with an angry snarl. Where is he?

Oh, I'm right here, said a short middle-aged man, approaching Ghaith's vehicle with a kind of disaffected shamble. I suppose you're here to tell me I should either go on with my job or pack up my kit, such as it is, and go back to Samarah.

In fact, that was exactly what Ghaith was here to do, although his orders had been ad hoc and ambiguous. A body had been found at the famed 4,000-year-old city of Uruk. The site had no doubt been the scene of many murders over the centuries, since those tended to accumulate in metropolitan settings. But it had been a long time since anyone had been murdered here in a fit of domestic passion or religious zeal. Competing artifact hunters might bump each other off, but that usually happened back in Samawah when they unpacked their booty. Unlike the Palace of Nebuchadnezzar and other Babylonian icons, Saddam had not bothered much with Uruk. Ghaith had toured towns destroyed during Desert Storm that did not look much different. Archaeologists were often out here, picking over the ruins and rearranging things to their taste (That must have been the day room, old chap. "No, Mein Herr, that is the lavatory."). But compared to other parts of old Sumer, Uruk was relatively untouched. Relic smugglers still found the occasional urn and bracelet to plump up their inventory of fakes. Still, a lot had disappeared in the chaos of the Gulf War.

They didn't send you down here just for this, did they? asked Sarsam. And please take note I am not asking who 'they' are.

I was headed down to Nigret Al Salman for an inspection tour when I was ordered to make this detour.

Sarsam gave Ghaith a wary glance. Nigret Al Salman was a notorious prison in the middle of the desert. Why would someone from the Special Republican Guard be visiting? Ghaith felt the cop's gaze from behind. But it was neither his nor Sarsam's place to question interdepartmental allegiances.

Where is the body? Ghaith asked.

Way over there, in the direction of the White Temple. I'd be over there now except we got a call from Baghdad telling me to hold off until higher authority arrived. I suppose a major will do, in lieu of a general.

Ghaith could have interpreted this as something more than mild cheekiness. That would have been the reaction of many of his peers, puffed up with self-importance and aching to crush the slightest hint of rebellion. But it was immediately apparent Sarsam had the irrepressible charm of the self-made comedian. He reminded Ghaith of his twinkle-eyed father, although his success in the ranks had more to do with his favorable marriage than to his jokes.

The policeman handed Ghaith a flashlight. Sarsam already had one. They descended into a trench that ran alongside one of the ancient walls and followed it to an opening that looked down a series of deeper trenches laid out like a puzzle. A child with a pencil would start in the middle of the maze and struggle to draw his way out.

How ripe is it? asked Ghaith.

A couple of days. The stench isn't too bad. Can you handle it?

I think so. I was on Highway 80 back in 1991.

The 'Highway of Death', Sarsam nodded. Guess you got a snootful. The doctor wrinkled his nose. Served up in pieces…

Who found the body?

I have no idea who saw it before Professor Rӓikkӧnen and his team found it at dawn this morning.

What kind of name is that?

Finnish! Working for UNESCO.

The World Heritage Organization?

In their magisterial wisdom they decide which ruins to keep and which to relegate to the waste heap of history. Look at Uruk. Sarsam stopped and pulled out a rag to mop his face. A chill breeze was casting its net over the desert. Sweat made it feel much colder. It's for a good cause. Heed your surroundings, my friend from the north. This dustbin is where civilization began. This is home to the first pottery wheel, the first division of time into 60 units…not to mention the first writing. It's also the site of the first population explosion and the first human-caused ecological disaster. Sarsam sighed. Guess you can't have the good without the bad.

They didn't know the Prophet, peace be upon him. The durood was Ghaith's private joke. In truth, he was as religious as an ice cream cone.

Sarsam shrugged noncommittally and turned his flashlight onto various historic mounds. The beam disappeared in the dark. Yazid! Omar! Where are you?

Two voices responded in the distance. Sarsam and Ghaith proceeded to follow them.

I put a couple of men on the body, Sarsam said. To chase off the dogs. There's been some chewing…

The face? Ghaith asked.

That's a bit of luck. They started in on his bare ass.

He's naked?

Just his pants pulled down. You'll see. Sarsam paused before hopping over one of the narrow trenches that crisscrossed this part of the site. How much do you remember from the madrasa?

My letters. And they taught us rapid addition. What kind of question is that?

Did they tell you much about history? I mean, before the Arabs arrived and smashed the heathens into enlightenment?

You mean Sumer? We got the basics. Irrigation. Ziggurats.

And the ancient gods?

You mean Marduk?

I'm thinking of Gilgamesh. Unlike Marduk, the patron god of Babylon, the consensus is that Gilgamesh really existed four thousand years ago. Of course, the stories about him are mostly confabulations. But unlike Jesus, who seems to have sought out his own death, Gilgamesh went out kicking and screaming. I find that much more endearing than getting yourself crucified. After the death of Enkidu, Gilgamesh set out on a quest for eternal life.

Enkidu? Ghaith paused. I hear an engine.

"A generator for the lights. Enkidu was a reformed savage and Gilgamesh's closest friend. In fact, they were very close, or I don't know how to read epics."

And this is germane to the murder? Ghaith asked.

You'll see. Uruk is his home town, by the way. Gilgamesh's. There are temples all over the place.

Sarsam looked up at Ghaith, a full head taller, as though finalizing an assumption. Ghaith responded with a bemused look that slowly transformed into acknowledgement. If the people around them could look into their souls, they would see two godless men. And here they were, surrounded by a host of gods. Not the god of their fathers. But the principal was the same. Naturally, they could not say this out loud. Even the desert had ears. As also did the man you only assumed was godless.

This is Eanna… Sarsam paused to point out the nearest ruin. I guess it looked a lot worse before the Germans worked on it. They did most of the digging around Uruk. Funny people. They destroy Europe, then come here to featherdust ancient adobe.

People are not inclined to put their own houses in order, Ghaith suggested.

I don't have an opinion on that, said Sarsam with a small cough. This was the home of the gods Inanna and Atu, the Queen of Heaven and the God of the Universe. But forget all of that. They were mainly famous for their wild parties.

Orgies?

Eanna was a regular cat house. Not only that, but the priests were homosexual transvestites. My guess is everyone just piled in.

Very civilized, said Ghaith, grinning.

You have to wonder, though. Uruk only existed because of its canals, which were very high maintenance. One writer said it could be compared to Venice, there was so much water. But then the maintenance lapsed and the canals silted up. I wonder if they were spending too much time in Eanna.

Irresistible temptation spells ruin, Ghaith nodded.

A short and a wicked life, Sarsam mused, then gave himself a shake. I'm sure it was better than getting bombed by the American Air Force.

We are in agreement. But you haven't answered my question. Does this have something to do with the murder?

This is where it happened, on the other side… The doctor proceeded around the corner of the temple. Two men were hunched a few dozen yards from a body stretched out under the glow from two halogen work lamps. They were smoking.

Sarsam began swearing. Why are you so far away? I can hear the dogs out there. They could snatch off his hand and be off before you could blink.

He stinks, one of the men complained.

Not half as much as you. And what are you doing smoking? You're contaminating the crime scene!

Both men looked at the uniformed officer next to the doctor and made polite noises. They were deferring to Ghaith's obvious high status, but the scoffing was clear enough.

You've been dancing around here like a couple of damn Sufis! Sarsam complained, studying the tracks in the dirt around the body.

We had to set up the lights and generator.

And dragged your feet doing it!

That generator's heavy.

Not as heavy as my foot when I use it on your backsides! Sarsam took a moment to calm down, then shrugged. Come over here, Major. Tread as lightly as you can. Not that it matters after these buffoons rolled in the dust.

Ghaith stepped over to the body, which was face-down.

Now, Major, if you'll notice this streak on the back of the neck—

Show me his face.

Of course, but if you'll just observe—

The face. For a moment, the bond of godlessness had vanished.

Very well, although I hate to disturb… The doctor stopped on seeing Ghaith's expression. Yazid! Come over here and lift his head!

One of the men raised the bottom edge of his keffiyeh over his mouth and nose and shuffled over.

Lift your feet, you idiot! Are you drunk?

No, Doctor, came the muffled response. Sarsam winced when Yazid straddled the body and took hold of the neck of the dead man's shirt. More vital clues lost. Yazid pulled upwards. In this heat the neck had remained pliable. The head drooped down.

I can't see his face, Ghaith said. Take him by the hair.

Don't we need surgical gloves? asked Yazid, casting a pleading look at Sarsam.

"Oh, now you worry about evidence!"

But you said he was covered in—

Do as the major says, Sarsam snapped. Wipe your hands off in the sand when you are done. It's sterile.

Yazid's grimace of disgust was hidden behind the cloth. Letting go of the dead man's shirt, he took hold of his black hair. He had raised the head only a couple of inches before it slipped between his fingers. The dead man's head thudded on the ground.

It's slick! Yazid moaned, holding his hand away in disgust.

Wrap your fingers around the hair! Now! Do you want the major to shoot you for insubordination?

With loud gasps of disgust and despair, Yazid did as he was told. Ghaith crouched and looked closely at the dead man's swollen face. Ants clambered over the bulging eyeballs. Dried goo streaked his cheeks. Ghaith stood.

Give me a moment.

His path guided by the flashlight, Ghaith walked to the other side of the temple. It might not be far enough. Voices carried far in the desert. But even if Sarsam and his men heard him, they would not repeat anything he said. He tapped the radio clipped to his collar.

Sergeant?

Yes, sir?

Contact headquarters. The sergeant would be using the more powerful radio in the Russian Jeep. You know who I want. Tell him 'Hisham ibn A'zham'. Wait for an answer.

Yes, sir.

Ghaith walked back to the murder scene and smiled broadly. Now, Doctor…what can you tell me?

Sarsam was standing, arms crossed, looking in the direction of another temple barely visible across the jigsaw trenches. Turning to Ghaith and seeing his grin, he shrugged. You tell me. You recognized him.

I—

You recognized him. Not right off, not with his face in this condition. And then it still took you a moment, so he isn't a close acquaintance. Certainly not a friend. Then you went away to whisper his name into your radio. Your driver is contacting Baghdad for instructions. So tell me, is he someone important? If so, don't waste my time. Whoever did this, or had it done, would have been even more important. But I don't think that is the case. This man's trousers and shirt don't fit him properly. The previous owner was a smoker. Even after being pressed against the ground for over a day, the shirt pocket has a rectangular bulge. I saw it when Yazid lifted him. Only years of holding cigarette packs would cause that. This man's hands were recently cleaned, but nicotine stains persist and there are none on his fingers. His beard is not quite a week old. Shaved, but not by himself. There are too many cuts on his chin…they almost seem intentional. You may have noticed his cracked lips. And when he died, he lost control of his bladder. See the stain in the sand? Even dry, it is noticeable. His urine was very dark, another sign of severe dehydration. He had spent many days wandering in the desert. If I remove his sandals I am sure to find blisters. Before I was told to stop, I searched his pockets. I found this… He handed a tattered slip of paper to the major. On it was drawn a squiggly line intersected by four straight lines. To the left of the squiggly line was a small circle, just above the second straight line. Ghaith gave the doctor a bemused look. The squiggly line is the Euphrates and the four straight lines are the bridges of Samawah. Our friend here was headed for the old Jewish Quarter before he was intercepted by… Sarsam pursed his lips. Parties unknown?

There was more than one killer? Ghaith asked, barely able to suppress his admiration for the doctor.

Oh yes. Before the sun went down I found some tire tracks a short distance from Eanna. It's a good thing the Germans didn't catch them driving on their sacred ground. They would have…well, no more of that. Two sets of tracks appeared where the vehicle stopped. Mmmm…boots. Military issue, I would say. Well…government functionaries, at least. One set of tracks led to the White Temple…over there. The other set clearly led here, until the buffoons at my disposal wiped them out with their incompetence.

Yazid had joined his comrade at the edge of the halo of light. They mugged at the doctor.

It was here that the escapee was intercepted and…

Yes?

I don't think you want me to continue, especially since I can tell you who the killer was.

The sound that came out of Ghaith's mouth was noncommittal.

Dr. Sarsam looked down at the corpse. I attended the School of Forensic and Investigative Sciences at Texas A&M University. Before that unpleasantness in Kuwait, of course. The marvels of technology. And DNA! Sarsam let out a small moan. DNA! What wonders this man must have under his fingernails. But none of the tools are accessible to me, because…

No one wants to know, Ghaith nodded. But it seems to me you have already solved the case. His radio sputtered at his shoulder. Hold on, he said into the mouthpiece, then turned to Sarsam. Please excuse me.

Of course…

Retracing his steps to the other side of the ruin, Ghaith raised the radio to his mouth. Speak.

Headquarters asked if there were wild dogs in the area, said the sergeant.

Plenty, from the sound of it. Don't you hear them?

Yes, that's what I told them. They said that you should cut the doctor loose and let the dogs have the body.

Understood, said Ghaith. Contact me again in fifteen minutes, said Ghaith, lowering his voice even further.

Sir?

The doctor will be able to hear you. Say that I am urgently needed on Fantasy Island.

Uh…

Got that?

Yes, sir.

Ghaith returned to the corpse and Dr. Sarsam, who eyed him with sour expectancy.

This man is Hisham ibn A'zham, said Ghaith. He escaped from Nigret Al Salman last week. He is an infamous sodomite. No one of importance, but a bit of an irritant to people who don't go in for that sort of thing. It was just his bad luck to be caught out. Now tell me more. Your surmises amuse me.

Sarsam gaped at him. Then he frowned. You are telling me this so that you can track down the house on the map.

That is not my intention, although I'm certain the Jewish Quarter is a hive of troublemakers. He met the doctor's skeptical eye and spoke the unspeakable. If God was so great, why would he allow such things to happen?

Sarsam darted a wary glance at his two workers, who either had not heard or were too afraid to contradict the major. This did not ease Sarsam's concern. Saddam Hussein's inner clique was notoriously irreligious, although Saddam himself put up a holy front for the benefit of the Sunnis. Was Ghaith an intimate of the Imperial Palace?

How will I know the killer?

With a gulp, Sarsam took his life into his hands. I believe he will have scars coming forward from his buttocks. At least one of the killers…a guard?...has a high school diploma. I don't think that is a requirement for prison guards, who are notoriously ill-lettered.

Now it was Ghaith's turn to stare. How…?

You see how he was killed.

Garroted, said Ghaith. You think the second man came up from behind while he was talking to the first?

Not quite. There are fresh cuts on the victim's knees. His pants were already down. Perhaps that is why the dogs went for the exposed buttocks, first.

They took their share, said Ghaith, wincing at the jagged tears, so sad, so undignified, so…emetic. The wild dogs had run off with at least a quarter pound of the man's flesh. From their howls, not far away at all, they were expecting more. Why would his trousers be down?

I think the guards…

Go on.

I think they were reenacting one of the old pagan rites. You see that slight glistening in the hair? You might also have noticed it when Yazid lifted his head. There is also some on the ground beneath his waist.

The goo. Yes. What about it? Ghaith paused. His upper lip crept up to his nose.

Yes, semen. The dogs licked most of it away. Food is food, eh?

So one of the killers forced the prisoner to give him a blow job?

Perhaps. But it looks to me like the prisoner was a willing participant. Hence the pants being down.

He was diddling himself?

The evidence points to it. Of course, there might have been some incentive, such as a gun being held to his head. It would be hard to get an erection under those circumstances. But that might have happened when he was dying. Hanged men sometimes ejaculate. One last hoorah, as the Yanks would say.

So… Ghaith rubbed his chin. The killer ejaculated when the second man approached from behind and garroted the victim.

I wouldn't have dared take the risk, personally. In his death throes the victim's jaws might have snapped shut. The celebrant must have ejaculated after withdrawing.

From the victim's mouth, said Ghaith, narrowing his eyes at Sarsam.

That is why I suggest looking for scratches near the waistline. Hisham might have clawed at the guard in his spasms.

Hmmm… Ghaith made a mental note, then observed: This is a plentitude of semen.

Ah, much too much for a single male. There is enough cum here for three adult males.

Then the man with the garrote also ejaculated?

The abundance of ejaculant would indicate such.

They heard noises and looked up to see Yazid and Omar rolling in laughter.

Shut up, you idiots! This is science!

And a gruesome business! Ghaith added. Show some respect!

But the two laborers could not contain themselves.

They will end up buggering each other, said Sarsam.

No doubt. Lowering his voice, Ghaith continued. How could the second man, the actual killer, ejaculate upon poor Hisham? He would have been holding the garrote in both hands.

Hisham must have been dead. The second man was having sex with a corpse.

Or he might have been half-dead. The killer could have released the garrote, ejaculated, then finished the job.

That is a possibility, Sarsam nodded with sage disgust. You were headed for Nigret Al Salman Prison when you stopped here. I sense a connection. Did you receive reports about sadistic guards?

All the guards there are sadistic, Ghaith shrugged.

Well, then…particularly sadistic sadists?

That is the business of the State.

I suppose it is…

You said there was a connection between Gilgamesh and what happened here.

Have you noticed a soft warm breeze? Sarsam answered. Almost fragrant?

Almost like the sea…

Exactly. It comes this time every year. The Ancients called it 'the Cheat'. It seemed to promise Spring when in fact Winter was approaching. The timing is a little off, but it was here that the King of Uruk would sleep with the Queen of Heaven. Nailed her once every year, or as many times as he could in a single night.

A fertility rite?

That's what we call it. To them, the king was sleeping with a goddess to ensure fertility in everything…children, crops, whatever you need to keep civilization going. Of course, the goddess was nothing more than a temple slut, but it meant a lot to them. And it worked…for a thousand years or so. Not bad.

The killers were aware of this rite?

Not everyone knows the history of their own back yard. That’s why I’m sure one of them finished his basic schooling. That was why they did it here, even with the risk of a busload of tourists showing up.

But there is not much risk of that after the war, and the embargo. Ghaith thought a moment. So Gilgamesh was king of Uruk. He would have performed this sacrifice, if such it was. But the crime you are describing does not sound like a fertility rite.

I mentioned Enkidu, remember? Gilgamesh got into some kind of trouble in Uruk and hit the road. At some point down the Euphrates or who-knows-where the two met. Gilgamesh was a real stud, had women by the boatload. But it turned out his real yen was for…

Boys?

Enkidu, at least.

So the two hit it off, said Ghaith. And they ejaculated upon each other?

That's what some scholars say.

You mean those scholars who ejaculate upon one another.

Could be, Sarsam shrugged. I like to think they're objective on the topic. But most of them are Westerners…

So the guards…I am only basing this on your assumption…were reenacting the love rites between Gilgamesh and Enkidu.

For a laugh.

I am not laughing, said Ghaith, turning a scowl on the laughing laborers. I am astonished they see humor in this.

Don't you? ask Sarsam, shooting him a sly look.

I suppose we have no choice, if we are to remain sane.

So should I bring out my kit, such as it is? I could do some scrapings beneath Hisham's nails and mail the sample to Baghdad. I don't hold out much hope that they'll bother with it, but if I could get some evidence—

Ghaith's radio sputtered. He unclipped it from his collar.

Yes?

We need to leave, Major, said the sergeant. We have received an urgent message. You are needed on Fantasy Island.

Sarsam began to sputter.

Very well, said Ghaith with a stoic expression. I am coming.

Is that what you call the prison? the doctor asked after Ghaith signed off.

I am afraid your original conjecture was correct, said Ghaith. Please pack up your equipment and lights and depart.

I hate disturbing the crime scene, said Sarsam. But at least a post-mortem will give me a better idea—

There will be no post-mortem, said Ghaith.

You mean…just leave the body here? But… He raised his eyes to Ghaith's, then looked away. The dogs know where he is, now. There won't be anything left by daybreak. But…that's what you want, isn't it?

I admire your dedication to justice, Dr. Sarsam. Ghaith leaned down to the short man's ear. And rest assured, justice will be done.

Then I can expect two uniformed bodies here in the near future? It was a daring thing to suggest, and Sarsam cringed expectantly.

"The Mukhabarat is not in the habit of feeding guards to the dogs, Ghaith said sternly. But I will keep my word. In return for which…"

Yes? said Sarsam warily.

Samawah is famous for its Muthanna truffles…

"You are a gastronome?" said the doctor, startled.

Ghaith shrugged his confession.

It just so happens that I have…

Excellent! You work out of Samawah General Hospital? I will find you, then. I should be passing through here in a couple of days, on my way back to Baghdad.

I… Sarsam hesitated, then forged ahead. The idea of torture disturbs me.

How else will I get the killers to confess? asked Ghaith. Seeing the man's doleful look, he added, Perhaps you should have stayed in Texas.

CHAPTER ONE

Richmond, Virginia

Ten Years Later

Booze. Even the Mateus Rose-tippling, whisky-loving Saddam Hussein had banned its sale after the first Gulf War in an attempt to curry favor with the Muslim majority. The restaurants on Abu Nawas Street removed wine and any other form of alcohol from their menus. Police patrolled the riverfront and parks for wayward drunks. Ghaith Ibrahim missed sipping arak while viewing the Tigris, swapping comments with his wife about passersby as their fish was cooked over an open fire. But Rana was from an influential family, and Ghaith was an officer in the Republican Guard. No one asked questions when he purchased a bottle of Grant's or a case of Scheherazade at a Yazidi liquor shop to take home. These transactions made him somewhat squeamish. The Yazidis were Kurds. As a very young soldier operating in the wilds of northern Iraq, he had sent at least a dozen Kurdish smugglers to early graves. But the only other non-Muslims allowed to sell liquor were the Christians, whom Ghaith suspected of watering down their product. He had no proof of this, but people with scruples always made him suspicious.

Things got a lot dicier for drinkers after the fall of Hussein. Protecting liquor stores was not a high priority for the Coalition. Following various fundamentalist injunctions, Al Qaeda in Iraq firebombed them and shot their owners with near impunity. They also chopped off the two cigarette fingers of smokers and butchered barbers who offered Western-style haircuts. This put the chain-smoking, well-groomed Ghaith in the crosshairs. Actually, there were any number of additional reasons why the insurgents wanted him dead. It wasn't enough that his wife had been maimed and two of his boys killed by the Americans. Ghaith was, in the eyes of the rebels, the worst of traitors.

And now Ghaith was in America, where the Christian god was on the money, in the national anthem (last stanza) and in the five churches he had to pass before reaching the liquor store on Forest Hill Road—which, to his thinking, comprised a sixth church. Christians everywhere, selling booze by the bucket. He had heard that in the western reaches of Virginia, where the sale of alcohol was outlawed, people had their own stills. He would like to get his hands on some of that homemade brew.

Colonel Ghaith Ibrahim was now Ari Ciminon, living up to his reputation for treachery by identifying terrorists, aka his countrymen, for the Americans. It was a soul-rending job that required great quantities of fuel, aka Jim Beam, Jack Daniels, or whatever other decent whisky presented itself to his gullet. The ABC store, part of the Commonwealth's monopoly on hard liquor, was an essential adjunct to Ari's current profession as snitch and all-round cad. So much so that he was on a first-name basis with the clerks. One of them even hinted that he would bag Ari's purchase in advance, except that would probably be in violation of one of the state's many ludicrous regulations.

Ari always made it a point to look spruce when walking into the boilerplate brick cube for his supply of whiskey. He would allow no trace of a hangover that might trigger polite sneers from the staff. His keeper was Karen Sylvester, of the United States Marshals Service, and she harped incessantly upon his need to avoid predictable routine. Up to now, his life in America had been anything but. Yet these constant visits to the ABC store had already betrayed him once….

Stepping out of his Scion, he swept the humidity out of his sports jacket with two sweeps of his hand and approached the store entrance, doing his best to look like a sober non-citizen. He heard a hiss and turned to see a forearm sticking out of the driver window of an old Taurus. Ari paused.

You want to come over here? said a voice from the Taurus.

No, I do not.

What, you think I'm a beggar or something? Here… The hand vanished inside the car and a moment later reappeared holding a $20. I was just wondering if you'd get me some JD while you're inside.

Are you an invalid? Why aren't you parked in the handicap spot?

There's an impediment. They don't want me in their store.

Ari thought the man's hoarse voice came naturally. There were no nicotine stains on his fingers nor any lingering smoke from the Taurus. Which proved nothing, since Ari's own voice was a smooth, untroubled bass in spite of the fact that he smoked and drank to excess.

Why wouldn't they want you in their store? Ari asked, unable to see much of the man's face behind the extended arm.

"I went in