Cold Snap: The 56th Man, #3

PROLOGUE

Baghdad

April 2003

By the time Colonel Abu Karim Ghaith Ibrahim reached Al-Amn al-Khas Headquarters, separated from Palestine Street by a high wall, the Americans had already arrived.  They knocked, but there was no one at home.  Using bolt cutters and sledge hammers, members of Site Survey Team 3 broke into the squat, beige building.  They cautiously entered a long, gloomy corridor that reminded some of them of the cinematic prison cells where serial killers were incarcerated.  Steel doors painted an ominous orange stretched down the hallway.  Windows had been sealed with concrete.  On the alert for booby traps, they moved to what appeared to be a main door at the far end.  With dread and hopeful anticipation they snapped the chain, then slammed at the steel with sledge hammers.  Finally, the door banged open.

They gasped.

The room with crammed with vacuum cleaners.

Weapons of mass destruction, fer sure, said someone.

By then, Ghaith was on his way to the Republican Palace grounds.  Not the Palace itself, but the Al Hayat Building, which housed Al-Amn al-Khas's Administrative Center.  The streets were mad with celebrants and looters and it took some time to walk the five miles.  It would have taken longer by car.  American soldiers looked bemused, their cheer qualified by the sight of so many shops being gutted and so many appliances held protectively in the air, floating above the mob like some commercial for weightless gadgetry.  The soldiers seemed benign, holding their rifles with the buttstocks at their shoulders, barrels pointed at the ground, as if shooting anyone was the furthest thing from their minds.  But some of them must have suspected that the honeymoon between Iraq and its liberators was almost over.  After all, there wasn't much left to steal.

The theft was of a higher quality the closer one approached Saddam Hussein's old stomping ground.  Radios were replaced by computers, computers by cars.  And then came true exotica: artifacts from the Baghdad Museum.  Ghaith's heart was already broken.  The sight of so much lost heritage left him unmoved.

The bottleneck at Al Jumariyah Bridge nearly dissuaded him from going on, but he really had no choice.  He was itching for a job.

Once across the Tigris, he made his way to Haifa Street, where Sunnis predominated.  Ghaith had been raised in a Sunni household, although his father was lukewarm on religion.  Ghaith himself would have been considered an atheist by his neighbors, had they seen the big vacancy in him where God should have been.  Yet he could not easily shrug off his upbringing.  Although the streets were awash with looters of every stripe, he still felt more comfortable here.  The Sunni minority had made out like bandits under Saddam—which, of course, included Ghaith.

He had to dodge his way through the lunatic crowd toting paintings, ceramics and statuary from the massive ziggurat of the Saddam Center for the Arts.  These were not treasures of antiquity, but contemporary masterworks.  Ghaith's esthetic eye was sadly underdeveloped.  He did not know the row of men hustling past him was toting a complete collection of the works of Shakir Hassan Al Said.  To Ghaith, they were nothing but smudges, but they were taking their first steps to the great European auction houses, where they would be worth a fortune.

The mob grew denser as he approached the Republican Palace.  He would be here for hours just to get within sight of the gate.  There was no need to hurry, but he was naturally impatient.  When a Humvee dug itself into the side of the crowd, followed by a bright new Range Rover, he unhesitatingly took advantage of the dangerously narrow gap between the vehicles.  The Rover driver battered his horn, while the soldiers on the Humvee shifted their M16's in his direction.  He jumped up on the hood of the SUV, resting his back against the windshield.

A soldier hopped out of the Humvee and raced up to him.  "Rouh min hona!  Rouh min hona!" he shouted.

I suppose 'go away' is the first phrase you learned when you came here, Ghaith said cheerfully.

You speak English?

Obviously.

Then get the fuck off the car!

The soldier in the Humvee's ring mount swung the .50 caliber machine gun around and lowered the barrel in Ghaith's direction.  The soldier on the ground saw this.

You want to waste everyone in the car?  Point that somewhere else.

I would dismount with pleasure, said Ghaith, but General Garner would not be so pleased.

General Jay Garner was the Director of the Office for Reconstruction and Humanitarian Assistance—a mouthful slightly more awkward than its acronym

Why's that?

I'm his translator.

Then what are you doing in this crowd?

I missed the bus.

The man in the ring mount had turned his gun skywards.  He looked from side to side, studying the crowd.  They were drawing a lot of attention.

OK, get off the SUV and I'll take you in.

I'm perfectly comfortable up here, said Ghaith, resting on his elbows and crossing his legs.  This hood is very spacious.

Like hell, said the soldier on the ground.  I have to frisk you.

Ghaith slid off the hood and raised his arms.  With brusque efficiency the soldier patted him down.  When Ghaith shifted, he said, Don't worry, I won't touch your junk.

When they reached the first improvised ring outside the gate the soldier ordered him off the Humvee.

I need to go inside, Ghaith protested as he hopped to the ground.

I'm putting you at the head of the line, said the soldier, escorting him to one of the tables in the middle of the human swarm.  That's good enough.

The soldier spoke to a harassed corporal seated at the table.  He says he's Garner's translator, he shouted over the din.  Be sure to check his junk.

He then hurried back to his vehicle.

Identity papers, said the corporal.

Ghaith, annoyed, felt like acting stupid just to share his annoyance.  Papers?

Show me something with your name, your picture, and that doesn't have the word 'Ba'athist' on it.

"Ah, you mean my carte d'identité."

No, I mean your identity card, something that tells me you weren't a member of the former regime.

So it is officially 'former'? Ghaith asked.

What's it look like to you?  The corporal thumbed towards the Republican Palace and the mass of Coalition troops.

There's a distinct difference in atmosphere, Ghaith agreed, handing over papers that identified him as Al-Sayyid Faisal of Al-Baghdadi.

Military service papers?

I was exempt from service, said Ghaith, pointing at the nine-story Al-Hayat Building.  I worked over there.

That's just an apartment building, said the corporal warily.  He looked exhausted, as did all the other clerks at the long row of tables.  Thousands of Iraqis seeking jobs were crowding in on them.

It was also the administrative center of the SSO, said Ghaith.

The Special Security Organization?  You worked there?

Indeed.

Then you're a Ba'athist.

Not all who worked there belonged to the predominant Party.

SSO and not a Ba'athist?  The corporal leaned back, tapping his pen on the table.  You're shitting me.

I would not shit upon you in the least.  Like all of these people, I am seeking employment.  I merely want to sit at my old desk.

And what desk was that?

Ghaith was tempted to tell him something guaranteed to draw his interest.  The truth would have succeeded handsomely.  Assistant Director of Prison Records for Abu Ghraib and its many satellites, translator for the German engineers at the Saad 16 poison gas project, colonel in the Special Republican Guard, assassin....

Yes, he could certainly gain their interest.

I was a clerk, that is all.  I know where files are, I know passwords.

The corporal eyed him hard, but not for long.  There was no time for lengthy inspections in what was becoming known as the Red Zone, just outside what was becoming known as the Green Zone.  He waved at two infantrymen who came over and stood to either side of Ghaith.  Their unit badges bore red X's and the motto 'Florida and Country'.

We're at war with Florida? Ghaith said humorously.

'Gators 'n all, one of the soldiers grinned.

Frisk him, said the corporal.

I have already been searched, Ghaith protested mildly.

And you'll be searched again after this.

He bore the search stoically.

My junk is impermeable, he advised the man patting him down.  Then he wondered if 'impermeable' was the word he had been searching for.

We'll see about that.

Escort him inside, said the corporal.  General Garner is out of town.  Advise Captain Hanson that I suggest he be taken to that tall building over there.  He might be useful to the 75th.

Feeling one step short of having been raped, Gaith followed the two peasant conscripts (that was how he thought of them after the deep frisk) through the gate and found himself standing in front of another table on the wide lawn of the palace grounds.  The infantrymen repeated what the corporal had said.  Captain Hanson asked the same questions as the corporal, received the same answers, reviewed the same ID, and ordered two more peasants to search Ghaith again.  During the process, Ghaith ran his eyes over the multitude of Arab poor wandering the grounds.

You let this riffraff in, but feel the need to accost me? he said, annoyed.

The captain glanced in the direction of the palace.  Squatters.  They were here when we arrived.  We're not sure what to do about them.  And we're not accosting you.  Body searches are SOP in this environment.

Your sop does not requite me.

The captain smiled.  I think your English might need work, but I'm not sure.  He looked at the second set of rapists.  Take him over to Colonel Jones at the 75th Exploitation Task Force CP and tell him what you just heard.

As the two infantrymen escorted him towards the Al Hayat Building, one of them said, What did we hear?

I didn't hear anything, said the second soldier.

What are we going to tell the colonel, then?

Give him our compliments and scoot.

Ghaith felt disoriented when he stepped through the elegant entrance.  The last time he had been here the Americans were on the frontier.  Now they were here, loud and brash.  And victorious.  The charm offensive that he had worked out in reasonable detail crumbled before the eyes of the victors, who saw nothing charming about the land, the people or the dilapidated State of Iraq.  Not that they didn't try to smile.

The guards directed Ghaith to a squat colonel in desert camouflage.  He listened to their introduction for all of five seconds before cutting them off with a raised hand.

Not my problem, anymore.  We're moving out.  The kiddies and old folks are taking over.  He indicated several young men in civilian clothes toting boxes through the entrance.  The Iraq Survey Group.  Aussies, Brits and the guys in Yankee baseball caps.

The guards looked perplexed.

You didn't know?  We couldn't find any evidence of WMD's, but the DIA and spooks think we're nearsighted.  The colonel must have been from the north.  His brow bled sweat like an oversoaked sponge.  His eyes narrowed on Ghaith.  I have nothing but admiration for the cradle of civilization.

Ghaith bowed graciously.

It's the perfect reminder of how far the rest of us have come.

Ghaith tried to think of a way to retract the bow.

There's an MG in charge now, but I haven't seen him around.  To tell you the truth, I think the ISG knows they'll come up bupkiss, but take a look upstairs.  Saddam put all of his best buddies in this place.  And guess who's going to be sleeping in all these empire suites?

He sounded like a man who had been kicked out of bed.

That's too bad, sir, said one of the guards, who added a growl when a kid in Keds bumped against him.

Sorry, said the kid as he hefted his box and moved on.

Now tell me how you can help this lot, Colonel Jones said with a doubtful leer.  They say you worked here...

SSO.  I know where some disks are hidden, the passwords, where certain files are kept...

Colonel Jones closed his eyes, which was supposed to convey stoicism but only succeeded in exposing pain.  What took you so long getting here?

Ghaith had spent the last two months trying to find a safe hospital for his grievously injured wife while eluding enemies and eliminating those who got too close.

Well, said the colonel, tired of waiting for a response, let the ISG figure out what to do with an SSO agent.  They're sending us to investigate 83 suspected sites on the edge of the BTS.

BTS, sir?

'Big Toilet Seat'.

The grunts, adept at absorbing ludicrous acronyms, chuckled appreciatively.

There were two loud explosions in the distance, echoing up the Tigris like Babylonian gods out for a rumble, rattling the windows of Al Hayat.

What the fuck? said one of the soldiers.

The colonel laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.  On the other hand, maybe I'm getting out while the getting's good.

Ghaith heard that evening that the source of the explosions was only a block over from Palestine Street.  Someone had taken it into his head to blow up a tourist agency.  At the time, Ghaith wondered why anyone would bother taking out To the Ends of the Earth Travel Bureau, which under the circumstances was probably already defunct.  But years later, when the agency's name took on a more ominous meaning for him, he would amend it to:

The End of the Earth.

CHAPTER ONE

Richmond - March 2008

Ari Ciminon, formerly Colonel Abu Karim Ghaith Ibrahim, glanced at himself in the bathroom mirror and turned away in disappointment.  It had been a month since he had received a first-class beating.  His would-be assassin must have been ambidextrous, judging from the even distribution of the bruises.  That Ari was still living was due to his will to survive—with some assistance from a slug from a Magnum that transformed the would-be into a has-been.  Ari had presented a ghastly spectacle to the public for many weeks afterward.  His President Nasser physiognomy took on the aspect of a pestilent blob battered by ranks of rabid highwaymen.  Slowly, the swelling subsided, the contusions healed, and he began to look more like a human and less like a melon that had fallen off a flatbed.  The healing process was midwifed by Deputy Marshal Karen Sylvester, who had insisted on bringing to his safe house a former Navy corpsman.  The medic's diagnosis was grandly minimalist: You're a mess.  Admonished by Karen to keep patter to a minimum, the medic ignored the patient's moans—until Ari very convincingly threatened to emasculate him if he tugged on his arm a certain way again.

He was only trying to help, said Karen once the corpsman was gone.

He was suicidal, pulling on me like that, Ari asserted.

If anyone is suicidal... said Karen, then dropped the subject.  Ari had refused to give her details of the assault on him.  Churlish behavior from someone she was assigned to protect.  She was having doubts about the safety of Ari's alleged safe house, a simple rancher in a neighborhood aching with middle class torpor.  You would have thought civic highlights consisted of weeding lawns and terminating moles, except the previous occupants of Ari's new home had been gruesomely murdered, a lowlight difficult to sweep under the carpet.  Neighbors who caught a glimpse of the bruised and battered Ari assumed the house's reputation was sticking to form.

Karen's concerns about Ari's safety had been legitimized over the last month and a half.  That some of the dangers were of his own making could not be denied.  Ari had become embroiled in a murder investigation that any sensible person would have avoided.  While Karen could not be certain, she suspected this had somehow led him to the discovery that Uday Hussein had not been killed by American forces in Iraq, but was residing with a well-armed retinue in Cumberland.  That was as far as she could safely guess, but there was a good possibility Ari was mixed up in the abduction of Uday and his sudden appearance, trussed up like a turkey, in front of the Iraqi embassy in Washington.  Ari's alibi for the hours in question was airtight, with witnesses from several law enforcement agencies attesting to his continued presence in Cumberland.  But Karen had always found Ari's persistent wide-eyed avowals of innocence difficult to swallow.

This difficulty was now accompanied by a grudge.  Did he really think she was so gullible?  She had more insight into his identity than Ari's unwary neighbors.  The United States government had, not for the first time, absorbed a dubious character into its defense network.  Karen saw Ari as a shade of Shalabi, a manipulative schemer who toyed with Americans for his own fun and profit.  And yet there was much to admire about the man, not least of which was his almost supernatural love for his maimed wife.  In the end, though, she wondered if she had planted a human bomb in the middle of this sedate Richmond community.

Ari's abruptly constricted world had its modest diversity.  Outside his front door was the James River, sometimes rumbling, sometimes murmuring, but after so many months practically unheard and unnoticed by Ari except when he sat in the gazebo and opened his senses to its charms.  Further up Beach Court Lane were Howie Nottoway (the archetypical anal neighbor) and, one house further, Rebecca Wareness and her daughter, Diane.  Residing with Diane was Sphinx, the only pet Ari had ever possessed.  The cat had been previously owned by the Riggins family, which had more or less self-destructed in the very house Ari now occupied.  Sphinx had a poor sense of allegiance, splitting his indoor hours between Ari and Diane.  But recent events had demanded that Ari chase both girl and cat away.  An attempt to mollify Diane had resulted in a mortifying rebuff.

Yet while he was now without a comforting pet, he was not friendless.  He was preparing to visit the Mackenzies, who also enjoyed a riverfront view.  Ari's first meeting with Matt and Tracy Mackenzie had begun xenophobically and ended with Mrs. Mackenzie giving him a Nelson Mandela-esque seal of approval.  This suited Ari, who found her something of an architectural marvel worthy of sustained scrutiny.  Disregarding Howie Nottoway's protests about loud parties (which were only valid when the weather permitted parties to spill outside), Ari had accepted every invitation from the Mackenzies—at least, until his recent indisposition.  This Sunday's invite was slightly out of the ordinary.  Instead of an evening soirée, the Mackenzies had scheduled a noon brunch.  Rather than the usual frequently-refilled shot glasses, Ari would be served mimosas.  Having nothing on his itinerary beyond reviewing the usual assortment of images of Iraqi corpses strewn haphazardly across his homeland (delivered to him by Karen, who acted as a courier for CENTCOM), Ari had gladly accepted the invitation.

It was not the first time in history that Iraq had become a charnel house.  The Hay al Jihad, Qahtaniya and Blackwater massacres combined could not hold a candle to the Mongol sack of Baghdad, which had ended the Golden Age of Islam.  But modern weapons added a sordid randomness to the conflict.  At least with the Mongolians you knew who was going to get it in the neck: everyone.  Now potential victims and their collateral kin were at your elbow, crossing your path, in the mirror; they were people you nodded to on the sidewalks, the street vendors who handed you a steaming gauss; they were the boys whose heads you patted moments before their limbs were sheared off by a roadside bomb.  It was terror democracy.  Anyone could be a killer or victim.

Ari should have thrived in such as atmosphere. Trained to kill, talented in a host of languages, he was the perfect infiltrator.  But now, with the benevolent assistance of the Americans, he had infiltrated America.  Having violated numerous laws and tacit agreements (including the murder of a corrupt policeman), it could not be said his presence was a great blessing.  But his work of identifying terrorists and their targets had saved dozens, if not hundreds, of American lives, so that Ari felt he was due the balance—especially since his wife and remaining son were being kept as quasi-hostages in distant San Diego.

He was looking forward to a sociable afternoon away from mayhem and misery.  But even the lowest society took note of battered faces.  Did you see So-and-So?  He looks like he went through a giant garlic press.  How did it happen?  Did you ask?  Do you think he's telling the truth?

Once dressed, Ari studied his face again and decided he could get by with telling his hostess and her guests that he had had a bad night's sleep. Tracy Mackenzie had not seen him since the attack at the boat landing.  She might accept the lie.  Howie Nottoway and Rebecca Wareness had seen his facial cataclysm up close, but it was unlikely either of them would show up for the brunch, being embroiled as they were by personal turmoil or civic vendettas.

A glance out the window told him a coat would be necessary even over the short distance to his neighbor's house. The Americans were keeping him on a tight budget, but certain shady dealings on the sly had proved highly lucrative.  The weather had turned exceptionally cold, for Virginia or anywhere else, and Ari had invested in a Vittorio St. Angelo's full-length coat.  It went well with his new suit.  But this was to be a brunch.  He understood such occasions to be casual.  With some reluctance he put aside his pinstripe and donned a chenille winter sweater.

One step out his front door told him the coat had been a good idea.  A second step set him to wondering if it was enough.  Being this close to the river had its disadvantages, not least of which was the wind blasting over the open water.  There was a time when he could take such weather in stride.  But thirty-seven years had somehow stripped him of an extra layer of protection.  Or perhaps the insouciance of youth was bidding him a chilly farewell as he approached the diffident years of middle age.  Or maybe it was just cock-ringing cold.

He worked his way through the thin layer of trees that served as a natural privacy screen between the houses and hurried past nearly a dozen parked cars to the Mackenzie stoop.  He knocked a little harder than he had intended to and brushed quickly past the stranger who opened the door.

A little brisk, the stranger chuckled.

Ari responded with the traditional chatter of teeth.

Can I take your coat?

Doffing his coat and placing it in the man's extended arms, he smiled quizzically.  I had assumed this would be informal.  His eyes widened when he heard the echoed shouts of children from the basement. The Mackenzies being childless, the voices could only be assigned to the children of guests.  Ari had not expected this.

Yes, informal with kids, responded the man as he ascended the stairs with Ari's coat.  But I'm told this is kind of a business event.  No one is wearing a tux, if that's what you're worried about.

But...who are you?  I've been here several times, and there's never been...

A majordomo?'' the man grinned, pausing.  I think Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie want to make an impression.  Also, I'm married to the cook.  She needs me around to lend a hand, sometimes."

With the cooking? Ari asked, alert to the wonderful aroma permeating the foyer.

I wouldn't dare presume, the man laughed pleasantly.

Do you mind if I visit the kitchen?

Uh...I don't mind.  And she wouldn't, either.  As a general rule, the French are pretty sociable.

"Elle est de France?"

Sorry, after all these years my French is still limited.  But you asked if she's from France?  Yes...that sounds right, the man nodded after a moment's thought. I don't know if the doorman usually introduces himself, but this isn't Windsor Castle.  My name's Bill Mumford.  He came back down, switching the coat to his left arm to shake hands.

Ari Ciminon.

Ah, the man who works for the Cirque du Soleil!  Mrs. Mackenzie was talking about you to her guests.

An inward moan accompanied Ari's self-deprecating shrug of acknowledgement.  Finding his anonymity tedious, he had offered up a host of false identities to his new neighbors.  Bill took Ari's assumed career for granted.  Really, there was no point in lying if one could not look sincere at the same time.

You're Italian, though, right? Bill continued.  ''That's what Mrs. Mackenzie said."

Syracuse, Ari responded, dolefully acquiescing to the single consistency of his cover story.

Being Italian can't be all that bad, Bill said.  He had spotted the Italian label on the coat and hefted it in the air, as though saying such quality was reason enough to appreciate his homeland.

Don't forget Pantofola d'Oro, Ari added with a laugh. Now, I must meet the chef.

"Oui, bien sûr, Monsieur."

But before Ari could swerve towards the kitchen, Tracy Mackenzie surged into the foyer.  A buxom 5'10" strawberry blonde married to a 6' moocher, she was one of those people who preceded themselves.  By the time she approached you felt she had already arrived.  She had the venturesome air of an explorer fresh from the Amazon, breathlessly impatient to relate her experiences in the jungle.  That she was the last person in the world to actually enter strange, dark terrain, or to spend any extended period outside a well-managed environment, was beside the point.  Encountering her and Matt Mackenzie as they were returning from the movies, Tracy had loudly complained about the inadequacy of the theater's heating system.

Don't they know its winter? she had said with the aggrieved air a diplomat might use when addressing an indifferent public: Don't you know there's a war on?

On one of his first nights in Richmond, Ari had heard her arguing drunkenly with her husband and two drug dealers about her new dark-skinned neighbor.  It had been a less-than-enchanting introduction to the Mackenzies, and Ari was certain he would dislike the woman when they finally met.  Instead, he had been entranced.  Having watched numerous old American movies when a child, Ari had picked up a fair mental scrapbook of Hollywood stars.  He saw that, when not drunk or stoned, Tracy looked and carried herself like Lana Turner.  The amorous Turner famously said her goal in life was to have one husband and seven children, but somehow the formula got switched.  Ari did not know if Matt was Husband Number One, but the couple appeared to have an aversion to children.  Which made the sound of young voices from the basement all the more cryptic—and unsettling.

For Ari, children held no particular charm, an inclination reinforced during his American sojourn.  Here, patting a child's head could land you in jail—apparently, even if it was your own.  He had loved his own three boys, of course.  But two had been killed in the American invasion.  The third was with his mother in San Diego, where they had been transferred after spending half a year in Iceland.  Ari had been provided the briefest of encounters with his beloved Rana and his surviving son in the midst of that transfer, at Richmond International Airport.  Seeing his wife irreparably disfigured had broken his heart.  It had also provided the cornerstone of his personal miracle.  His sorrow had been softened into redemption, a vigorous sense that there was indeed a grand design.  He had only to reach out to participate in it.  But the grand design was a mystery.  One had to step willingly into the dark.

Welcome to the United States, the Dark Continent.

Tracy flowed into his personal space like chia butter on warm skin.  He slipped into her orbit and would have slipped into something else had not propriety, morality and the social landscape made the cost prohibitive.  He forgot he wasn't sitting and tried to squirm in his seat.

Ari! she announced, giving him a double peck on the cheeks that, under her soft lips, amounted to a French kiss.  Her tight, black bandage dress proved that her back was as perfect as her face.  This was the most bare skin Ari would be privy to until the coming of Summer, which on a day like this seemed distant indeed.

Casting her eyes at the stairs, she gave Bill a qualified smile as he disappeared at the top with Ari's coat.  She took Ari by the elbow and guided him down the hall.  He had the impression she was retreating out of earshot.

I'm so sorry about this, Ari, she said aromatically.

I didn't expect children in abundance, he said, though with a smile that allayed any threat that he might storm out of the house.

Well, yes...that.  Tracy gave a small shiver, as though confessing to allowing her home to become infested.  But I mean...well, you can't help but smell it.

The aliments? he queried, amending this to The cooking? when Tracy frowned non-comprehendingly.

Matt's boss is nuts for French so-called cuisine.  Rebecca told me about this French cook she'd heard about...

Mrs. Wareness?  Diane's mother?  I didn't realize you knew her.

You and Howie Nottoway aren't the only neighbors I know.

Her voice soured at the mention of Howie, whom she knew chiefly through his complaints about the Mackenzies and their parties.

Matt and Ethan Wareness used to work together before the big kerfuffle.

Is that a bird?

Ethan was fired for...well, some kind of 'impropriety' is the word they used, according to Rebecca.  Anyway, she happened to know about this...  Tracy's eyes wobbled in the direction of the kitchen.  ...woman.  Don't worry, I've also ordered in some finger food, too, plus a good roast.  All I have to do is zap it in the microwave.

Doesn't the cook need the microwave?

Tracy released an unbecoming snort that flared her nostrils beautifully.  She doesn't even know how to use one!  She gave Ari a pinch on the arm, as though proving to him he was awake and really hearing what he thought he was hearing.  Can you imagine?  And she brought some of her own pots and pans.  Like mine aren't good enough!

Tracy's pots and pans were no doubt adequate, Ari thought.  And since her culinary expertise was limited to microwave recipes, those pots and pans were probably pristine.  He was growing more interested in this Frenchwoman by the moment.

Is she only making enough for your husband's boss? he inquired tentatively.

You didn't ask 'enough what?', Tracy said cagily, stopping at the edge of the guest-filled living room.  "We shelled out a couple hundred just for her ingredients and whatnot.  What was all that on her receipts?  Uh...oie, chanterelle ou girolle, poireau....  Isn't that the Agatha Christie detective?"

Goose, mushrooms, leeks....

Anyway, a lot of other stuff like that, most of it an arm and a leg.  Matt's boss will be stuffing it down his employees' throats.  Poor Matt!

Ari was suddenly distracted by a familiar childish shout from the basement.  Diane Wareness was here.  Which meant her mother was hereabouts.

Ari had few qualms about confronting smugglers and killers, but going toe-to-toe against an irate mother was more than he could stomach.  On the other hand, to suddenly announce a bout of dyspepsia and a need to rush home might ruin Tracy's plans.  It was obvious she intended to use Ari as a prop to impress Matt's boss with her husband's cosmopolitan openness.  Ari knew this because a quick glance into the living room revealed two men with complexions only slightly lighter than Ari's own.  Indian, most likely.  Ari doubted the Mackenzies would confuse Arabs with Indians—or so he hoped—but it was all-too likely that they presumed there was an affinity between races of color.  After all, as a general rule, didn't most Whites flock together?  The U.S. had yet to attain the multi-cultural or racial heights of, say, Jamaica.  Or of France, for that matter.

Damned if he left and damned if he stayed.  He had not yet seen Rebecca Wareness, but there weren't so many people here that he would be able to avoid her for long.

Tracy, would it dismay you completely if I delayed your introductions?  I want to look into the kitchen.

Want to see how bad it's going to be? Tracy sighed.  It's your funeral.

I have attended many of my funerals, said Ari.  Tracy was accustomed to Ari's nonsensical remarks and pared her response to a flick of her eyebrow as Ari backed down the hallway.  Following the aromas and the clatter of pans, he entered the kitchen.  A plump woman with short graying hair was banging a large saucepan on the burner.  The stove seemed to croak under her grave demands, unaccustomed to the athleticism of old-world cooking.  Ari wondered if the woman's husband was mistaken, if interrupting such concentrated fury might not result in a heavy load of superheated copper upside his head.  Madame Mumford had not noticed his entry.  Ari took the opportunity to silently observe.  From the smell alone, he had determined she was a master.

She lifted the pan and slammed it on the burner coils.  Then she shifted her attention to a bouillabaisse pot, giving the contents a brisk swish with a wooden spoon.  She then cracked open the oven for a moment before returning to her chief adversary, giving the stove another whack with the large—huge, actually—brass-handled pan.  Tracy peeked in from the other kitchen entrance, gaping at the abuse her appliance was being subjected to.  And well she might.  Ari was familiar with the shock effect of metal on metal, and thought the electric burner a poor warrior, indeed.  This woman must be thinking of an antique woodburner in a backroad Provencal bistro, a hardened veteran of a hundred years of rôttiseur.

And yet the moment Tracy's frightened face disappeared into the dining room, Ari sensed a strange cheeriness about the kitchen, as though it was accepting that its mundane existence was being transformed into something worthwhile.  A temporary break in culinary stasis—if only it survived.

Madame Mumford grunted in frustration as her wire-frame glasses steamed up and she was forced to pause and wipe them clear with her apron.  It was then that she saw Ari.

"C'est miraculeux!" he exclaimed.

While her smile was diminutive, her face exploded with light.

"Votre accent est impeccable, Monsieur."

Telling a foreigner that his accent was impeccable was the highest accolade a Frenchman could bestow.  Ari nodded in gratitude.  The woman did not dwell on the moment, but turned again to the sauce pan.  With no regard to the bubbling turmoil, she dipped a finger into the brew and lifted it to her mouth.

Ah, said Ari.

She glanced at him.  Monsieur...?

May I...?  He brought forth a tentative finger.

You have washed?

"My hand has touched neither doorknob nor chat this late morning," he asserted—a little sorrowfully, having been abandoned by filthy Sphinx, who had a propensity to beshat the house wherever he pleased when his kitty litter box was soiled.

Well...

Feeling invited, Ari tilted his finger into the sauce, wincing a little before withdrawing it and raising it to his lips.  He coated the tip of his tongue and mused longingly.

Did I warn you it was hot? said the woman, without apprehension of an injured guest, but also without smugness, as though she was admonishing an intelligent but impractical child.  She grew alarmed, though, when a tear bubbled at the edge of his eye.  Are you injured?

I weep with joy, Madame.  This takes me home.

You're French? she exclaimed, giving him a close look.  Marseilles? she added guilelessly.  It was the assumption of an older generation, when Arabs were most prominent in the southern provinces.  Now one was just as likely to run into them in the streets of Paris or Cambrai.  Realizing her misstep, she turned back to the pan and said, French is a culture, not a people.

Ari, all too prone to similar misstatements, emitted a small chuckle.  I'll bear that in mind.  But alas, I am equally misplaced...in Sicily.

Italy? the woman said doubtfully.  Then how does it remind you of home?

In fact, the sauce had brought to mind Ari's childhood in Iraq, when his father had gone to some expense to hire a cook talented in many types of cuisine: French, Indian, Italian, as well as all the local dishes.  He had followed Baba's example when he set up his own house in Baghdad.  During an international function at the As-Salam Palace he had gone behind the scenes to talk to some of the chefs.  He could lure none of them to al-Masbah.  He was a very junior officer, without enough clout to protect them if Saddam Hussein or his wife or his sons (or their wives) took offense at their moonlighting.  But one of them supplied him with the name of a woman who not only knew lablabs from haricots verts, but could turn out an exceptional table.  How many times had Ari slipped past her to burn his finger in her Béchamel?

"Believe it or not, there is a French restaurant in Syracuse that served the best crullers in the world, Ari confabulated.  My parents took me there at least once a week.  They must have served the only pieds paquets between Rome and Algiers."

A growing crowd of lies was filling up the concert hall of Ari's mind.  Keen anticipation grew for the new composition.  The name of the piece?  He had no idea.  But it would certainly be novel.

Madame Mumford saw no reason not to accept Ari's story at face value. The French pried less and assumed more, often with alarming proficiency. The Direction de la surveillance du territoire had come perilously close to snaring him when he participated in the assassination of an Iraqi émigré.  He had not prepared the bomb (that was too much like cooking) but he had done the preliminary groundwork.

I must have you, Ari said abruptly, a little too avidly.

"Pardon?" said Madame Mumford, giving the saucepan a particularly harsh bang on the burner.

I mean, you must cook for me.

And when would this event take place?  I need time to prepare.

Event?  Would every day be too much to expect?  I have the funds.  Ari found himself making little motions of impatience, like a boy preparing to lunge for a sweet.  How often had he crouched in the mountains, hours or even days on end, waiting for the right moment to squeeze off a round at some Kurdish rebel?  But here his sense of timing abandoned him.  Realizing how this must appear to a staid Continental, he rigorously imposed upon himself the stillness of polite expectancy.

I have other obligations, Monsieur, she said courteously.  And quite honestly, you have had only a small taste.  Do you really enjoy this?

"You're preparing coq au vin?"

A special request from Monsieur Mackenzie's employer.

A man of taste, said Ari, who promptly cast off the pretense of measured reserve.  But here...isn't this garlic soup?

I was advised by Mrs. Mackenzie to prepare a variety of dishes.  She hesitated.  This is the French equivalent of 'meat and potatoes'.  It’s very rare that I take on true gourmet cooking.