Read Online The 56th Man by J. Clayton Rogers - Free Book Online
Authors: J. Clayton Rogers
Tags: Terrorism, Mystery & Suspense, mystery action, Iraq War, adventure abroad, Detective and Mystery, mystery action adventure, military action adventure, war action adventure, detective mystery novels
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his careless lack of
subtlety. Now he was behaving as though Ari was blind, as if he
could not see the challenge. It was open contempt.
"Naturally, I go out sometimes."
"Like where?"
"Detective, my presence in your country is
perfectly legal."
"But you're not a citizen?"
"No."
"Going back home after you score your first
million?"
"Possibly." Ari pressed his hands on the edge
of the table and leaned forward--a gesture that begged for earnest
reason. "Detective Carrington, I believe you were acquainted with
the Riggins family."
"I already told you."
"They were your friends?"
Carrington looked at his watch.
"Did you participate in the investigation
into the murders?" Ari persisted, feeling he had no option but to
push the man.
"Yes."
"You were the primary investigator in the
case?"
Carrington couldn't dodge the answer.
"There's something about that in the papers."
"If you don't mind my saying, that seems a
little odd."
"In your country, don't you take care of your
own?" Carrington swiveled his glass back and forth, as though
trying to screw it into the table.
"You were that close to them?" Ari lowered
his eyes. "I apologize. I didn't understand."
"Don't apologize," Carrington sighed.
"Listen, I know you're curious about what happened. That house
you're in...I have good memories about it. Jerry...well, he was the
best. You can see why it...okay, it hurts, seeing someone else move
in."
"Especially a foreigner."
"I didn't say that. I mean, so we're at war
with the Arabs--"
"With terrorists," Ari corrected.
"Yeah. Iraq and all."
"And to be specific, I'm Italian, of Arab
descent."
"Sorry if I offended you."
Ari turned to the window and the dark street
outside. A few pedestrians drifted by, looking aimless, homeless.
He studied Carrington's sagging reflection in the glass. Was this
sudden contrition part of his act? Or had he simply eaten too
much?
The waitress returned with separate checks. A
low buzz interrupted Carrington as he was calculating the tip. He
scrounged beneath his stomach for his belt clip, a task made more
arduous by the narrow seat, and took out his phone. He read a text
message, frowned, then closed the cover with an angry flip of his
finger.
Ari studied his check and drew out his credit
card.
"You're going to use that for a cup of tea?"
Carrington groused. "That'll make Mabel's day."
"It's all I have."
"You mind?" Before Ari could answer, the
detective had scooped up the card. "What the hell's this? 'Bank of
Nova Scotia?'"
"It's accepted here. I've used it several
times."
"An Italian Arab in America with a Canadian
credit card." Carrington made a broad gesture, as though wrapping
the world in his arms, then handed the card back to Ari. "Put it
away. Mabel has a thrombosis whenever she has to run one of these
through. I'll cover it."
"Thank you."
"Per diem. Don't mention it."
Carrington put a ten and a five on the table
and they left.
SIX
"Watch this," Omar chuckled to the policeman
who had ordered Ghaith out of the white pickup truck and marched
him to the canal bank. He pointed the way with the muzzle of an
M-16, either stolen from or issued to him by the ever-helpful
American army.
Set on automatic. No regard for
marksmanship.
Omar nodded at one of the guards standing
over the three prisoners brought from the back of the Kia Bongo
truck. The prisoners were hooded, on their knees, their hands bound
at the back. The guard returned Omar's nod and yanked the hood off
the prisoner nearest him.
Ghaith stood silently while the bound man
blinked around him. He was terrified when he saw the three guards
from the mini-truck, their heads swathed in kuffiah scarves, but he
said nothing. Ghaith stonily admired his mute courage. The prisoner
was about thirty, a time when a man's strength ebbed in the stream
of family and responsibility, when he had something to lose. The
men standing guard over him were probably ten years younger, on
average, than their captive. Poor, clueless,
subtlety. Now he was behaving as though Ari was blind, as if he
could not see the challenge. It was open contempt.
"Naturally, I go out sometimes."
"Like where?"
"Detective, my presence in your country is
perfectly legal."
"But you're not a citizen?"
"No."
"Going back home after you score your first
million?"
"Possibly." Ari pressed his hands on the edge
of the table and leaned forward--a gesture that begged for earnest
reason. "Detective Carrington, I believe you were acquainted with
the Riggins family."
"I already told you."
"They were your friends?"
Carrington looked at his watch.
"Did you participate in the investigation
into the murders?" Ari persisted, feeling he had no option but to
push the man.
"Yes."
"You were the primary investigator in the
case?"
Carrington couldn't dodge the answer.
"There's something about that in the papers."
"If you don't mind my saying, that seems a
little odd."
"In your country, don't you take care of your
own?" Carrington swiveled his glass back and forth, as though
trying to screw it into the table.
"You were that close to them?" Ari lowered
his eyes. "I apologize. I didn't understand."
"Don't apologize," Carrington sighed.
"Listen, I know you're curious about what happened. That house
you're in...I have good memories about it. Jerry...well, he was the
best. You can see why it...okay, it hurts, seeing someone else move
in."
"Especially a foreigner."
"I didn't say that. I mean, so we're at war
with the Arabs--"
"With terrorists," Ari corrected.
"Yeah. Iraq and all."
"And to be specific, I'm Italian, of Arab
descent."
"Sorry if I offended you."
Ari turned to the window and the dark street
outside. A few pedestrians drifted by, looking aimless, homeless.
He studied Carrington's sagging reflection in the glass. Was this
sudden contrition part of his act? Or had he simply eaten too
much?
The waitress returned with separate checks. A
low buzz interrupted Carrington as he was calculating the tip. He
scrounged beneath his stomach for his belt clip, a task made more
arduous by the narrow seat, and took out his phone. He read a text
message, frowned, then closed the cover with an angry flip of his
finger.
Ari studied his check and drew out his credit
card.
"You're going to use that for a cup of tea?"
Carrington groused. "That'll make Mabel's day."
"It's all I have."
"You mind?" Before Ari could answer, the
detective had scooped up the card. "What the hell's this? 'Bank of
Nova Scotia?'"
"It's accepted here. I've used it several
times."
"An Italian Arab in America with a Canadian
credit card." Carrington made a broad gesture, as though wrapping
the world in his arms, then handed the card back to Ari. "Put it
away. Mabel has a thrombosis whenever she has to run one of these
through. I'll cover it."
"Thank you."
"Per diem. Don't mention it."
Carrington put a ten and a five on the table
and they left.
SIX
"Watch this," Omar chuckled to the policeman
who had ordered Ghaith out of the white pickup truck and marched
him to the canal bank. He pointed the way with the muzzle of an
M-16, either stolen from or issued to him by the ever-helpful
American army.
Set on automatic. No regard for
marksmanship.
Omar nodded at one of the guards standing
over the three prisoners brought from the back of the Kia Bongo
truck. The prisoners were hooded, on their knees, their hands bound
at the back. The guard returned Omar's nod and yanked the hood off
the prisoner nearest him.
Ghaith stood silently while the bound man
blinked around him. He was terrified when he saw the three guards
from the mini-truck, their heads swathed in kuffiah scarves, but he
said nothing. Ghaith stonily admired his mute courage. The prisoner
was about thirty, a time when a man's strength ebbed in the stream
of family and responsibility, when he had something to lose. The
men standing guard over him were probably ten years younger, on
average, than their captive. Poor, clueless,
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