Part 35 (2/2)

”Please . . . I am most hungry, sir. Today I have not eaten food. You are required by your laws to offer Abdul food. This is so, yes?”

I nodded at Bian, who left to see what she could scavenge from the galley. Starvation is another violation of the Geneva Conventions, of course, and Abdul clearly knew this. It was ironic that this guy came from a movement that ignores every law of humanity, until the sc.u.mbags are caught.

There was intelligence behind those frightened eyes, though, in addition to fear and anxiety, and Abdul was testing to see what the limits were.

I pulled over a chair and sat down beside him. I confided, ”I'm going to offer you a little free advice. You need to be careful with the woman.”

”Yes . . . I--”

”Abdul, listen--what I'm telling you might save your life. She's a little unhinged.”

”I . . . I do not understand this word.”

”Crazy, nuts, batty, wacko, sociopathic. The lady goes violent at the snap of a finger. You saw this last night in Falluja. Right? One second she seems perfectly sane and under control . . . and then . . .” I snapped my fingers, and he winced.

Abdul was now staring at me, a little wide-eyed. He said, ”But you are soldiers, yes? I am seeing that you and she wear the uniform of the American crusader.” True to form, he reminded me, ”The Geneva Convention does not permit these things.”

”Look around you, Abdul.” He had s.h.i.+fty eyes anyway, but they slid around in their sockets a little. I asked him, ”Does this look look like a military aircraft? And these uniforms? They're not real.” like a military aircraft? And these uniforms? They're not real.”

”I . . . I do not understand, sir.”

”I'm CIA. She's Mossad, Israeli intelligence. A Vietnamese Jew, actually.” He looked confused, so I explained, ”Even the other Mossad people are scared s.h.i.+tless of them. They have this big chip on their shoulder, always having to prove they're real Jews.” While he tried to fit this exotic knowledge into his frame of reference, I added, ”And need I really tell you about Mossad? They don't play by any rules. She'll whack you at the drop of a hat.”

There is no law against lying to prisoners of war, of course, and in this case, the Arabs have created their own boogeyman. They tell one another so much scary c.r.a.p about Mossad, they believe anything.

But Abdul was confused. ”Whack? This word Abdul does not know, sir.”

”Means killing, Abdul.” He nodded and I continued, ”For her, it's a sport. She has this sick game where she tries to see how many bullets she can pump into a man before he dies.” I allowed him a moment to consider that intriguing hobby. I said, ”Two hundred and eight.”

”I . . . What is this number?”

”Her record. At least, she claims claims that's her record. Personally, I think she's a big fat liar. I once watched her pump seventy-two rounds into a guy, and he was tall and real heavy, and he died. Blood loss . . . too much pain for the heart . . . who knows? But two hundred and eight bullets?--I think that's just bulls.h.i.+t. What do you think?” that's her record. Personally, I think she's a big fat liar. I once watched her pump seventy-two rounds into a guy, and he was tall and real heavy, and he died. Blood loss . . . too much pain for the heart . . . who knows? But two hundred and eight bullets?--I think that's just bulls.h.i.+t. What do you think?”

”I . . . sir, Abdul does not know.”

I thought he did know, but decided to help him reach a clearer understanding. ”I mean, you saw her last night. Think back. Everybody got one in the left leg, right? Take yourself--she nicked you. She calls that her chip shot. Don't even ask about her hole in one . . . but it's . . . Well, hey, for a guy, let's just say it's the worst thing that can happen.”

Abdul licked his lips and stared at me. ”Yes, but you are the good and honorable man. I remember . . . you would not permit her to do this horrible thing to us.” He tried a gap-toothed smile and revealed an unpopular childhood. ”I am very much thanking you for this, sir.”

”Oh, well . . .” I looked into his eyes. ”Time was short, Abdul. I could care less, but once she gets started . . .” I leaned back in my chair and coolly informed him, ”You're a bomb maker. We've already confirmed this.”

”No . . . I am not even knowing these men . . . these men you captured . . .”

”No?”

”No. I was . . . How do I say? I was merely seeking a place to sleep. It is our custom . . . I am of Islam. The Koran requires such hospitality between believers.”

Bian reentered the room carrying a plate upon which was a peanut b.u.t.ter and jelly sandwich and four or five small bags of trail mix.

Abdul eyed the plate before his s.h.i.+fty eyes returned to my face, trying to gauge if I was a big enough idiot to buy this. I informed him, ”Mr. Almiri . . . there are two insurmountable problems. One, we found the artillery sh.e.l.ls on the ground floor. Two, that isn't what Ali bin Pacha informed us about you during the ride to the hospital.”

”But that is not the truth. I . . . I do not know why that man would make lies about Abdul.”

”He told us you're a maestro at manufacturing bombs from artillery sh.e.l.ls.”

”I do not know this man.”

”He knew you.”

”Abdul does not know how to do these things, this . . . this making of bombs. I am swearing to you this.”

Bian understood where I was going with this, and said to me, ”The tools we found at the factory are being checked for fingerprints. The results will arrive any minute. I'll take his prints, and if they match, he's mine.”

Coming from a third world background, Abdul had not antic.i.p.ated this twist, and his face registered what an unhappy surprise this was. Where he came from, forensic science entails cops bouncing your nuts off the floor until you squeal.

I gave Bian a p.i.s.sed-off look. ”Hey . . . maybe that's how you Mossad people handle these things. The CIA likes to keep them alive . . . at least, long enough to talk. You can't just keep executing them.”

She affected a bored posture. ”The other ones never bothered you.”

”They were different. He might have something valuable to tell us.”

”Him? Look at him. A stupid mensch. Catch a minnow, and what do you do? I'm tired, and I need a nap. Let's get this over with.” Look at him. A stupid mensch. Catch a minnow, and what do you do? I'm tired, and I need a nap. Let's get this over with.”

”Well . . . at least give the guy a chance to prove you wrong. Maybe he knows something, maybe not. It's a pain in the a.s.s to dispose of bodies.”

”Oh, spare me. Stash him with the other corpses in the city dump. They'll blame it on the terrorists. They always do.”

Abdul did not seem to enjoy the way this conversation was progressing, and he decided to join in. ”Jordan,” he informed us, ”Amman, Jordan. Abdul comes from this city.”

”How long has Abdul . . . have you been here, in Iraq?” I asked, imitating his third-person usage.

”One year. Perhaps a little more, sir.”

”Before that?” Bian demanded.

”I was . . .” He hesitated in midsentence and looked at me. ”Sir, please . . . I . . . if I tell you these things . . . I-- These people, they will hunt down Abdul. The things they do to traitors, you cannot imagine.”

Bian said, ”There, you see. Now, will you please give him to me?”

”No, wait . . .” I paused, then asked Abdul, ”Have you ever heard of the witness protection program?”

”Ah . . . yes, I believe I have seen about this subject in Hollywood movies.”

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