Ice Lady: The 56th Man, #7

By J. Clayton Rogers

Summoned out of his safe house by his handlers, Ari Ciminon (The 56th Man) is shown CCTV footage of a group of men arriving at Richmond International Airport. The group is comprised of: lawyer Benjamin Cassin (nicknamed 'the Rabbi' by his admirers); his bodyguard, Henry Jones (an African-American who has converted to Judaism); a small man dressed as a woman, who turns out to be a deadly assassin; and a mysterious Turk whom neither the FBI nor Mossad has been able to identify. Ari immediately supplies the Turk's name.
But the puzzle is far from solved. An empty carry-on left behind by the new arrivals casts a sinister light on the group, and suspicion deepens when the Turk abruptly disappears. Once his business at the airport is concluded, Ari is ordered back to his safe house. Sensing an opportunity for profit that he cannot ignore, he disobediently sets out to find the missing man—only to discover the body of the fabulously wealthy Miriam Fleckenstein, a widow who resides in a mansion outside of Richmond.
The mystery culminates in a grand inquisition at a basketball court, where Ari (with the assistance of maimed former Marine Elmore Lawson, an insurance company investigator) picks through a weed field of killers and con-men to expose the truth—and reveal the unique location of the will. Miriam Fleckenstein returns from the dead…and puts everyone in their place.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. Clayton Rogers
• Release date: Nov 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393176282

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 ONE

Richmond, Virginia

Summer 2009

'Hayaati, you have lost your way.  You look but do not see.  You touch but do not feel.  When you speak, your words fly into a void.  I have spoken to you like this before.  Remember?'

Of course Ari remembered.  He forgot very little.  But criticisms of his behavior or missteps slid so far into the back of his mind that they might as well have been forgotten.  Even his wife's admonishments about his smoking and drinking were reduced to vague trills that infrequently resulted in self-improvement.  But when Rana spoke to his soul, a harsh crease formed down the center of his mind.  They were in their mid-twenties when they married, with enough life behind them to have formed their character.  But Ari's moral sense was profoundly immature.  When the brash young Ghaith Ibrahim (Ari Ciminon's name in those days) boasted of killing a notorious smuggler and cutthroat, Rana had hushed him with a glance.

You are telling me a state secret, I presume?

Ghaith was brought up short, appalled by his indiscretion.  He had just put Rana (not to mention himself) in deadly peril.  It was an astonishing lapse in the land of Saddam Hussein, where a man and his entire family could be tortured to death for a misplaced rumor—let alone the truth.  But when Rana spoke next, he realized she was speaking of a minor practical consideration.

This smuggler you assassinated...you knew him well?

I didn't know him at all.  I had his picture, plus a few details provided by...

Minister al-Majid?

Ghaith had sworn inwardly.  It was obvious he had already spoken too much.  Ali Hassan al-Majid was been chief of the Mukhabarat, the Iraqi intelligence service.  This was among other offices Saddam's first cousin had held.  By the Kurds up north he was known as 'Ali Kimyawi', which was translated in the West as 'Chemical Ali'.  The man who had ordered the use of VX, sarin, tabun and mustard gas against Kurdish rebels.  To Ghaith, he was a higher being, a general who had to be obeyed at all costs.

"He warned the mustashars in advance, Ghaith had answered, defending himself as he defended his superior.  He was talking about the village elders.  If they didn't stop the rebellion, he would—"

I am not speaking of that, Rana interrupted.  You had no say in the gassing of innocent civilians.

Ghaith had blinked at this.  Upper class women did not question the methods used to sustain their privileges.   Not usually.

How old was this smuggler? she asked.

The records aren't certain.

I assume you saw him through your telescope, or whatever it is you use.  How old would you say he was?

Twenties.  Early.

As old as you?

Not quite.

And perhaps he was doing what he had to do to survive?

This kind of empathy was more common in countries where one's survival was not so chancy.  Here, such questions raised doubts about one's loyalty.  Yet the almost psychic link between these two (which would only grow stronger as the years progressed) was already established.  He visualized the young Kurd in his sites, his rank and chogha puffed out by the wind, wearing a grimace as he struggled to get a heavily-burdened donkey up a steep cut in a mountain.  His last thought must have been about the stupid beast, his last words reserved for an animal that only wanted to turn around and go downhill.  Who had, in fact, more common sense than the man.  Ghaith could empathize with the young smuggler.  Every day he encountered men who behaved the same way as that donkey.

It isn't for me to decide who should die, Ghaith said to Rana, who turned her beautiful poker face sideways and responded:

Of course...

Ghaith was not the deepest of individuals when it came to the human predicament, but those two words sent a dart into his chest.  She was acknowledging that he was a soldier, that duty was his primary consideration.  Rana understood that a refined sense of morality could get one killed on the battlefield.   Among those privileged never to have held a gun, let alone take aim at an enemy, her stance might seem just as shallow to a warrior.  But Ghaith understood that this was not the case.  Rana was not paralyzed by the world's sorrow, but she felt the truth in her bones.  They were all victims.  And whenever Ghaith forgot this, she would remind him: do not become a mindless beast.

Even now, blinded and maimed by an American bomb, she was warning him that he risked falling into his old ways.  He had killed a number of people in America.  With one or two exceptions, he had not found this problematic.  None of his targets wore the lines of care and responsibility that had creased the face of the man with the donkey.  They had chosen their crimes voluntarily, understood full well that they might meet a violent death.  Well, perhaps not the cop.  But he had been a threat to Rana, reason enough to take a bullet to the head.

Ari Ciminon (the name given to Ghaith by the two people now sipping coffee in his kitchen) was skeptical about mystical reasoning.  But Rana was trapped in a body that had only one form of communication: touch.  With her remaining hand, she scrawled letters that were transcribed into a more legible script by Ari's surviving son.  Which did not mean they were readable to prying eyes.

You understand, of course, that we read those letters, said Karen Sylvester apologetically as she tucked a cube of sugar into the freshly-brewed cup.  Ari had more courtesy in him than ten Americans combined, and not a few Europeans.  Some of that was Rana's influence.  If unannounced guests showed up at your door at nine in the morning, you were obliged to make an extra pot of coffee.

Much as you survey the emails on my computer, said Ari, scratching his knee.  He wondered if his cat, Sphinx, had brought fleas into the house.  He had been on the loose for some time, and had no doubt accumulated a flock of vermin.  He was afraid to give Sphinx a bath in the sink.  It might compel him to run away again to that treacherous girl up the street.  You also read my letters to my wife, which dispels any thought of American finesse.

We can't have you telling her vital information, Karen reasoned.

Such as my location.

Exactly.

Karen's partner, Fred Donzetti, plopped three cubes into his very dark Arabian.  It stands to reason, Ari.  If you told her you were in Richmond, and someone—

No one will bother her, Karen snapped, warning Fred off the possibility that Rana might be at risk.  It's common sense and national security.  That's all.

She made it sound as if any risk to national security was tantamount to cheating at poker.

This brings us to...not exactly a problem, Karen resumed hesitantly.  More of a question.  But I'm afraid to ask...

Ari broke his eyes away from Rana's letter and gave her a startled look.  Afraid?

Of what your reaction might be.

But I am a pussy willow.  Haven't I given you ample evidence of that?

Not exactly.  She took a breath.  Especially when it concerns your wife.

She has taken a turn for the worse?  Ari began to stand.

No!  She's...fine.  She's in the best rehab center in Southern California.  That the U.S. Government is willing to pay for it is an indication of how important you are.

You're almost beginning to sound cheap, Fred cautioned her.

I don't mean to, Karen said, giving her partner a glance that was a cross between a wince and a glare.

You have an insulting question about my wife? said Ari in a low voice.

"No way!  That time you thought I was insulting her, I actually meant to insult you."

Ah, said Ari, smiling as he lowered himself back into the kitchen table chair.  To this extent, at least, Karen understood the man under her care.  You could spit insults into Ari's face the livelong day and they would harmlessly bounce away.  But Rana...she was Kryptonite.  Karen's windpipe still contracted at the memory of Ari picking her up by the neck.  There was a direct line between Ari's rage and his hands.  In her case, he had needed only one of those hands to hold her two feet off the tarmac of the Baskins & Robbins parking lot.

What is your question, then?  Perhaps you are wondering how a miserable rag such as myself could deserve such a beautiful woman?

Of course, Karen had never seen Rana as she had been.  She had read a description of her injuries, doing her best to suppress tears over the woman's fate.  And the one time she had seen her, when she met Ari in the USO lounge at Richmond International Airport, Rana had been veiled from head to toe.  Ari was testing her.

You're not a miserable rag, Ari, she answered.  In fact, there are some women who might find you attractive.  But there are limits.

Ari laughed.

It's about these letters...

Yes, Ari nodded.  I greatly appreciate you bringing them to me, even at the price of having them scrutinized by your expert linguists.  Do you test them for explosive residue?

I can understand how she...

Yes, when a pen is placed in her hand and her hand guided to a sheet of paper, she can communicate.  She also sometimes enlists the help of my son.

Right...  Karen cast Fred an uncertain look.

Hey, they asked you to ask, Fred said, taking a step away from her, never knowing when she might punch him.  And it's a legitimate question.  We should know.

Then you ask.

Huh?

It's your turn to be strangled by this gorilla.  Go ahead.  I'm your superior, or have you forgotten?

Ari was ruffled.  A gorilla?  Maybe Karen was capable of getting under his skin, after all.

Sure.  Fred put his cup of coffee down on the counter, as if preparing to run.  First off, Mrs. Ciminon...can I call her that?  Do you prefer Mrs. Ibrahim?

Ari leveled his eyes at the young deputy marshal.  Continue.

She writes to you in all different languages.  She's like you, I guess—multilingual.  It gives our language people fits.  French, English, Arabic, Persian, Spanish.  It gets even worse because some of those languages assign gender values and some—like English and Persian—don't.  It gets pretty scrambled.  And you write back to her the same way, in different languages.  Is there a reason for that?

Ari shrugged.

It's to annoy us, said Karen.

Ari shrugged again.

That causes a delay, Fred reasoned.  If both of you stuck to the same language, we would only have to use a single translator.  None at all, if you stayed with English.  We're just saying this to expedite things for you, Ari.  So there won't be so much of a delay when you guys write to each other.  I know there are subtleties in each language that convey something another language won't.  Like in one letter, you used a German word...I can't even say it.  Our translator said it refers to being alone in the woods, being at one with nature, but also a kind of loneliness...

"Waldeinsamkeit.  I was describing to my wife the wonderful patch of nature I am privileged to here.  The wildlife, the birds, the hooting—"

Hooting? Karen frowned.  You have hooting out here?

Owls.

Oh.  Karen dipped her head in contrition.

I was trying to tell my wife of my sense of wonder, but also of my sadness at not being able to share it with her.  Did I not succeed?

Knowing you, you probably did.  Karen dipped her head further.  But you see, Ari?  Anyone reading it would be given a clue of your whereabouts.  You're not in a city.  You're in the country.  All right, the suburbs.

There are many residences on many rivers in this infinite vastness.  I do not feel that I have betrayed anything.

But you can't be too careful.  Just be aware of it, all right?  You were part of the Iraqi security network.  You should know better than to give away anything, no matter how minor it seems.

That is your question?  If I would be kind enough to use English in all of my letters to my wife?

Actually...no.  Karen turned to her partner.  Fred...?

It's not her letters to you that puzzle us, Fred said after a polite cough.  It's yours to her.  Because of her injuries—

Due to the same American bomb that killed my youngest son, Ari commented flatly.

They had been over this before, but it was still a hammer blow.  Fred blushed and nodded.

I understand.  Well...one of our agents out there...she said that whenever a letter arrived from you, your son—

Qasim, my last surviving son, yes.

Well...he puts the letter on a table, then takes his mother's hand and begins running his finger over her palm.  He does it fast and the agent couldn't figure out....

Yes?

The people at the rehab center offered to teach her a tactile alphabet.  That usually requires both hands, but they were willing to try.  We don't actually know if she refused the training.  Your son did that thing on her hand and she shook her head.  But how do we know what he was telling her?

Qasim would put the question accurately.

"But how?  How did he put the question?  No one can figure out what he's doing when he taps her hand that way.  Not to mention your letters are in five or six languages."

Does it matter?  You vet my letters to her.  After your numerous translators are done, you are aware of the harmless content.  I often write of love.  Is that so unusual in a letter to one's wife?  English is so paltry when it comes to that topic.

Karen grumbled.

"Pardon?" Ari asked.

Nothing.  Nothing at all.  You're probably right.  American English knows shit about love.  Probably English English, too.

We were just wondering, Fred continued.

How my son conveys my letters?  Ari shook his head in bemusement.  Perhaps he has developed a special language between himself and his mother.

It was simpler than that, although the agents' confusion was understandable.  As a young officer, Ghaith Ibrahim had been ordered to learn Morse Code.  It might come in handy when he was isolated in the mountains, in the proximity of the enemy, when speaking into a radio might lead to detection.  Tapping dots and dashes into a radio would suffice to send a message.  Ghaith had taken up the small book with the Mukhabarat imprimatur and learned the Arabic version of Morse in less than thirty seconds.  His mind just happened to work that way.  Seeing other versions, he had learned those, too.  The book had included Continental Code, also known as Modern International Morse Code, developed by Friedrich Clemens Gerke in 1848.  This was the 'Hamburg Alphabet' which was used internationally to this day.  Rana had seen the book on Ghaith's desk and amused herself by committing it to memory.  Never knowing if their bedroom was bugged (in the land of Saddam Hussein, caution was mandatory), Ghaith and Rana had often communicated via intimate finger-taps.  Anyone listening in might have wondered at all the laughter.  All of Ghaith's sons had shared his curiosity, absorbing Morse like a secret language and sharing it among themselves as they ripened to an adulthood only two of them had reached.  And now Qasim used this to talk to his mother, drawing short dots and long dashes across her palm.

Mistrusting Ari as they did, Karen and Fred received his explanation of a secret language between mother and son with the dubious looks it deserved.

May I resume reading? Ari asked, tapping the letter on the table.

We didn't mean to interrupt, said Fred.

Rana wrote:

'It means something to remain human.  We are not permeable.  Anything that strikes, harms.  You of all should know this.'

Ari raised his head.  Has anyone else been in contact with my wife?

Not that we know of, said Fred.

And my son?

Uh...

We don't know, Karen said.  We kept an eye on him and his mother for the first few months.  There didn't seem anything out of the ordinary.  He made some friends when he wasn't with your mother.  That's what guys do.  But he really watches over her.  Almost a saint...or the Muslim equivalent.

There have been exceptionally holy men in Islamic history.

That's almost a non sequitur.  Do you include yourself among them?

I am not empanelled to judge.  Ari's smile was distracted, like a crimp in a thought.  He was thinking of Abu Jasim, a former comrade-in-arms who often drove down from Montreal to assist Ari in his various projects.  Their last conversation had been typically brief.  He told Ari to check on messages from James Tilly.  This was the identity Ari had used to register one of his bogus email accounts, taking the name from the local obituaries and using the late Mr. Tilly's address to fill in the blanks.  Driving out to a satellite library in Chesterfield County, Ari logged in on a public computer.  Abu Jasim had written:

'A' says he left something off his invoice.  'A' being Ahmad, Abu Jasim's nephew, who often accompanied his nephew in his forays to Virginia.  On his last visit he had come by himself, summoned by Ari to help rescue a kidnapped Iraqi.  'He says you probably didn't know that burner phones are designed to make outgoing calls, but not to receive them.  He had to do some jiggering on that lot that he gave you so you could be called back and he wants $450 American for the service."

Ari had muttered an oath at the computer screen.  Between Ahmad and his uncle, he was lucky to have a pair of trousers to wear.  He also wondered if the bit about burner phones not receiving calls was true.  He must look into it.

'A' also told me to tell you never contact him again.  He doesn't like something you did during his last visit.  Something about children.  You aren't abusing kids down there, are you?  Don't forget, I've unloaded a lot of merchandise for you and I know how low you can go.

It was too bad Abu Jasim had not said this on the phone, giving Ari the opportunity to tell the dog what he thought of such accusations.  But it was true.  Having relieved some drug dealers of their cocaine, Ari had passed it on to Abu Jasim for resale up north.  Yet only recently he had given Ahmad a stern lecture about the horrible death and mayhem of the drug wars south of the American border, due entirely to the feckless habits of American youths.  Then there was the intermittent but profitable gun trade.  This country's underworld was heavily armed, and Ari did a brisk business whenever he encountered and disarmed them.  Who knew where those guns ended up?

But Abu Jasim was referring to an incident in Richmond when Ari used children as human shields.  The immorality of what he had done had not even crossed his mind until Ahmad took him to task.  He thought the boy deluded.  Ari was going into a situation where he would be tactically exposed and heavily outgunned.  Since Ahmad had been with him, he had also benefited from the mob of kids Ari lured into the open.  Did he have no conception of calculated risks?  There had been almost no chance the opposition would open fire under the circumstances.  But that, apparently, was Ahmad's problem.  'Almost' wasn't good enough.  And perhaps it wasn't.  Look at Rana and Qasim's brothers.  The U.S. Armed Forces choked on statistical predictions about civilian casualties in the Iraq War.  Military spokesmen pointed at charts proving that collateral damage was minimal.  The United States could afford to hire a thousand apologists.  But Ari had not run any computer simulations.  He just knew those children would be safe.  But he could not prove it with a chart.  An outside observer would give him short shrift.

You bastard.

Had Abu Jasim spoken to Qasim?  He knew that Rana and Ari's middle son were in San Diego.  Using his contacts at Telus Mobility in Canada, he could have tracked down Qasim's number.  Had he told Qasim that Ari was acting like a madman?  Such a disclosure was a betrayal of their relationship.  Ari had saved Abu Jasim from the clutches of Saddam Hussein.  Of course, Abu Jasim had also saved Ari's life, but that did not entitle him to tell the son that the father was unhinged.  Unless Abu Jasim believed Ari was on the verge of self-destruction.

Qasim would keep nothing Abu Jasim said to him back from his mother.  Raised in a country where deception was the primary tool for survival, Ghaith Ibrahim had drilled honesty within the family deep into his sons.  The question Rana was asking in her letter to him was if he was being sufficiently honest with himself?

Self-doubt.  Self-awareness.  Holding a mirror up to his soul.  These were not Ari's strong suits.  Rana knew this, of course, and was reminding him of his weakness.

'My love, think of me as I was.  Think of yourself as you could be...'

For the first time ever, he did not finish reading a letter from his wife.  Grimacing, he crumpled the letter in his powerful fist.  Spotting danger, Karen hid behind her cup.

This is an intimacy between husband and wife.  You should not have read it.

We only read the translation, Fred lamely volunteered.

Ari threw the balled letter at him, catching him between the eyes.  He jerked reflexively, splashing hot coffee onto his shirt.  Howling, he dropped the cup and pulled the shirt away from his chest.

Do not cry out like that.  You will scare my cat.

Calm down, Ari, said Karen, putting down her own cup on the counter.  We didn't mean to hurt you.

I am not hurt.  You are not capable.  I am merely appalled.  You can bandage the situation by leaving immediately.

Karen took over the conversation, since her partner was still twirling in a mad fit.  Ari wondered if he had burned the hair off his chest.  Then he wondered if Fred actually had hair on his chest.

Ari, we aren't just here to deliver Rana's letter.  We...um...need your assistance.

How dreadfully wonderful.  Please close the door on your way out.  I am trying to keep Sphinx inside for a while.

I understand, Ari.  And we'll walk out, if you insist.  I promise not to let the cat out.  But this might be something that will interest you.  It's a mystery.  And I know how you love mysteries.

Ari held fire.

Okay, Karen tentatively continued a moment later.  We want to take you out to the airport.

Yes? Ari asked, his eyes widening.

Oh...no, I'm sorry.  Rana's not there.  It's something else.  Something to do with baggage.

I am not intrigued.

There's a carry-on that the people out there are wondering about.  Point of origin was Ben Gurion International Airport.

You want me to look at a Jew's luggage?  You think he is smuggling yarmulkes?  The world is full of mysterious Jews.  Are you insane?  That is not my area of expertise.  Ben Gurion, you say?  The Jews are very anal.  They would not have allowed anything questionable onto...

Air Transat.

Canadian, Ari mused thoughtfully.  Americans abhor the Canadians.

No we don't.  We just think they're a little too...porous.

You are speaking of the border?

But that's not the issue.  He didn't stay long in Toronto but took an Air Canada to Richmond.

Very devious, Ari nodded.  If I were a terrorist, I would consider a similar route.

Not funny.  If you were at the airport, they would arrest you for that.  Jokes aren't allowed.

I am amused.  I'm sorry, I meant 'bemused'.  I see no issue.  Jews sprawl over the wide world.  It is their Diaspora.  This...traveler...he had an Israeli passport?

Turkish.

Ah.  Then he isn't Jewish?

Not that I know of.

And you wickedly allowed me to continue my noxious comments about the Jews.  You must be a racist.

Ari—

Is this one of those times when the Israelis are trying to curry favor with the Turks?  It goes back and forth.  Free trade one week, a war over the Kurds the next.  I can't keep track.

Curry or not, Israeli security is tops.  And that's the problem.  On this side of the Pond, when someone makes it through Tel Aviv, we assume they're OK.  I hate to say it about our great neighbor up north, but as soon as they hear someone came through Ben Gurion, they assume he's clean.

You'd think, Fred nodded.

You expect this Turk is up to no good?

We don't know.

Then I see nothing that should interest me in this matter.

Playing hard to get, Fred snapped uncharacteristically as he worked a water-soaked towel over his coffee stain.

Then let's say this...there's guys from the FBI and our very own Treasury Department in the Airport Security office as we speak.

Secret Service isn't part of Treasury, anymore, Fred corrected.  You keep forgetting.

All right, Homeland Security.  As is the FBI, sort of.  And the Department of Justice, sort of.  Different tribes, one big happy family.  Not that I've ever really seen a happy family.

What is their interest in this man? Ari asked.

Shabak contacted the FBI on him.  They...you know what Shabak is, right?

Of course.  An Israeli terrorist organization.

Funny.  One of their functions is airport security at Ben Gurion.

They detained him?  If he looked anything like me, I would not be surprised.

They just wanted us to know that this man has had some possibly suspicious contacts.

Red flag, red flag! barked Fred.

Possibly suspicious? Ari yawned.  A yellow head appeared around the kitchen entrance and quickly disappeared.  Please go.  You are terrorizing my cat.

I don't know much more than that.  Karen paused.  But they did tell me one thing that might pique your interest.  Shabak said this guy had one suitcase and one carry-on.  He still had the carry-on when he checked in with Air Canada.  At RIC he picked up the suitcase, but he left the airport without the carry-on.

How do you know this? Ari asked, then nodded.  CCTV.

You obviously don't realize how low deputies are on the totem pole, said Karen.  I'll let the hot shots at the airport fill you in.

"Ne saçmalık," said Ari.

What language is that?

Turkish, of course.  I thought it appropriate to the occasion.

Anything worse than a super hero is a super hero egghead.

Me?  A super hero?

That's what some of them at Quantico call you.  Don't let it go to your egg-head.  What does it mean?  Is it a yes?

You have not yet said anything to needle my curiosity.  What interests Shabak does not necessarily interest the likes of me.  You know their motto?  'Defender that shall not be seen.'  Would you like to hear it in Hebrew?

I'm not an anti-Semite or anything, but I'd rather not.

Isn't that what I am supposed to be?  The 'defender that shall not be seen?'  You will agree that I have been seen by far too many people since my arrival here.

Probably a lot more than we know about, Fred muttered.

Ari, you're not invisible to Homeland Security.  They know all about you.

And they know about this?  Ari raised his pants leg to expose the GPS ankle bracelet.  Can I petition them for a release from this tormenting device?

I need to talk to you about that.  But later.  This carry-on I'm talking about.  You would think, if he left it in the overhead bin, the airline hostess would spot it and chase after him to return it.  Or she'd call the bomb squad.  But there wasn't any carry-on left on the plane.  However, they did find an abandoned carry-on in the bathroom.  You know, RIC isn't all that big.  When they clear out a wing, that's practically the whole place.  Including Applebee's.  The alert didn't last long.

Of course not, said Ari.  The carry-on was empty.

Ari might have poked the deputy marshals with a double-headed cattle prod.

Oh shit, Ari! Karen moaned.  Do you know something about all of this?  Please say no.  Even if you're lying.

He probably would be.  Fred's skepticism about Ari was growing.

The Turk's carry-on was carefully inspected at Ben Gurion.  It was probably filled with clothing.  For all I know, Shabak washed and pressed it for him.  And your opinion of the porous Canadians notwithstanding, they too would have studied its contents.  If the man had been entering Toronto, they might have questioned ten cartons of cigarettes.  But he was leaving.  He could have filled his carry-on with maple syrup, and they would have been happy to wave him on his way.  I still say it was packed with clothes.  He arrives at Richmond, and a different passenger makes off with the carry-on.  He goes into the airport bathroom and changes—for what purpose, I cannot say.  Ari began to reach for his coffee.  Were there fingerprints on the carry-on?

Karen drew a breath.  No.  It was wiped clean.

Ari's movement slowed.  With inordinate care he hooked his finger on the coffee cup's handle, taking almost a minute to raise it to his lips.  He scowled.  It was cold.  He lowered the cup to the table.  Slowly, he got up and took several steps.

Excuse me, he said to Fred.

Fred stood aside and Ari stooped down to retrieve his wife's letter off the floor.  He unfolded it on the counter and flattened it with slow sweeps of his hand.  There was a magnetized notepad on his refrigerator.  A small pencil was clipped to the pad but there were no notes.  Ari lifted the edge of the notepad and slid the letter under the magnet.

A memorandum to the abased and ignorant, he said in a low voice.  He turned to Karen.  You have picked the scab off my indifference.  I will feed my cat and dress.  Then we shall proceed.

CHAPTER TWO

The meeting was being held in the badging station on the first level of the airport.  For Karen, knocking before entering was excessive courtesy.  But since the people on the other side of the door might be her superiors, she gave a quick rap of her knuckles before barging through.  Sitting with their backs to them were two men studying a computer screen.  A third man was seated at a fold-out table in the middle of the room, nodding airily at nothing in particular.  Poking a finger against his lower gum, he reminded Ari of a hooked carp.  Then Ari turned his attention to the computer.

One of the seated men pointed at the screen.  See?  Kardemir Merkezi Insaat.  All we know right now is that someone named Berker used their company credit card to buy a ticket from Tel Aviv to Heathrow.  He was supposed to catch the next flight to Norfolk and then hop over to Richmond, but at the last moment he switched to Toronto before coming here.  That's pretty expensive, changing your destination that way.  Did the Kardemir Merkezi Insaat people know he was going to do that?  What kind of company is that, anyway?

From the 'Insaat' I assume it deals in construction, said the second man.  Can you go back to the first screen?

The first man alt-tabbed and a column of names popped up, accompanied by photo ID's.

Karen cleared her throat.  I guess I didn't knock hard enough.

We heard, Deputy Marshal.  Both men swiveled their seats to face her.  One man was in his mid-forties and wearing a dark suit.  The other one was young and wearing a short-sleeved shirt and faded jeans.  There was a tutorial air about them, as though Karen had interrupted a father helping his son with his homework.  Seeing Ari, the