Storm Front

much.”
    “If he’s from Iran, he’s got reason to sweat,” Virgil said.
    “But here is the next important thing,” Awad said. “Al-Lubnani, who is very, very . . . very . . .”
    “Worried.”
    “Yes. He says he does not know why Kazemi would come to America. He must be here illegally, and he must be here to do no good. The Hatchet only does no good. The Americans know all about him, but they do not know he is here. If they find out he is here, they will put one hundred agents on him, and carry him down to the basement at the CIA, to where they keep the electrical apparatus.”
    “We don’t really do that,” Virgil said.
    Awad sighed and looked up at the ceiling, as if praying for patience. “Virgil, my friend, we will talk about this some other time. But believe me, the American security agents would do anything to get their hands on the Hatchet. The problem is, if he is taken before he delivers the money, the controllers in Beirut will suspect al-Lubnani or I. Even if they do not believe we betray him, they will kill us, you know, just . . . mmmm.”
    “Just in case,” Virgil said.
    “Exactly. So we make a deal with you. We provide you details on where the Hatchet is, and you let the money through, and then follow him and arrest him far from here. We think he is coming from Washington, D.C., so maybe he has a ring there. This could be, very, very . . . very . . .”
    “Important.”
    “Yes.”
    “Why are you telling me this?” Virgil asked. “You could have let this guy come and go.”
    Awad was shaking his head. “The big fear is, he will be caught, and he will be traced, every step of his time in the U.S. And then they trace him to an innocent Lebanese air pilot, who is taken down to the basement at the CIA—”
    “Where they connect wires to your much valued testicles.”
    “That is the one problem. The two problem is, the Hatchet erases the pilot to eliminate any trace of his, the Hatchet’s, arrival here.”
    Virgil stood up and put the Beaver/Otter magazine under his arm, intending to steal it. It was an old issue anyway. “You stay in close touch with me. As far as I know, this guy is the next Osama bin Laden—or he might be Father Christmas, and you’re running some kind of hustle on me.”
    “I don’t know this word, hustle,” Awad said.
    “You’re trying to fool me,” Virgil said.
    “No, no, no, not ever,” Awad said, making a wide-arm gesture like an umpire calling a runner safe at the plate. “I would never fool Virgil.”
    “Stay very, very much in touch, then,” Virgil said. “Very. I will try to work something out. I’ll call somebody, and see what they say.”
    —
    H E TOOK A CAB back to his truck, in town, called Davenport, who said, “‘The Hatchet’? You gotta be shittin’ me.”
    “Look, all I want to do is get to the bottom of Ma Nobles’s lumber scheme,” Virgil said. “I don’t know about the Hatchet and I never did find out anything about the nut-cutting Turk. All I want is a phone number.”
    “I’ll get back to you.”
    “Soon?”
    “Five minutes,” Davenport said.
    More like fifteen minutes, but Davenport said, “I’ve got a number for you. This is going to sound weird, but the man on the other end will say, ‘This is the colonel,’ and that’s all he’ll say. You tell him about this Hatchet, and answer any questions he has, and then you eat the paper with the phone number on it, flush three times the next time you use the toilet, and then shoot yourself.”
    “Okay,” Virgil said. “Who is this joker?”
    “More asshole games from Washington,” Davenport said. “You know how they are. Anyway, play along. We need the federal grants.”
    Virgil called the number, and a man picked up on the first ring and said, “This is the colonel.”
    Virgil said, “This is Virgil Flowers, I’m an agent with the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. A tall, good-looking blond guy, sort of a chick magnet, often compared to a younger Robert Redford. I was told to call you.”
    “You think you’re auditioning for a comedy show?” the colonel asked.
    “Maybe I got the wrong guy,” Virgil said. “If you know the right guy, I need to talk to him about an Iranian citizen we’ve got coming in here. A Soroush Kazemi, aka the Hatchet, supposedly a big operator for the al-Quds Revolutionary Guard, now operating out of Beirut. He’s got a bag with three million bucks in it, that came into the country in a diplomatic