“Kharzai?” Mike said.
“Yup. It's me.” He reached up and snapped the button on the meter.
“What are you doing here?” Mike repeated himself.
“I'm a cabbie.”
“I can see that,” Mike replied, “but here in Anchorage?”
“Yeah, well, it's a job. Mind you, it's not as posh as Kabul or Baghdad, but it's a good job.”
“No, I mean, what are you doing here in Anchorage?”
Kharzai’s mop of curly black hair — he liked to refer to it as his Arabfro — bounced like Jell-O formed in a mold as he moved his head. His teeth, glistening as if he just stepped out of a toothpaste commercial, sharply contrasted against the dark brown of his skin and black of his beard. A gold chain necklace mingled with the thick bristles of chest hair that jutted from the collar of his shirt, which was open to the second button.
“I know you,” she said. “You're the guy from Columbus. The bombing.”
“Sorry, but I don't remember you,” Kharzai replied, “and I certainly would remember if I had seen you before. You're way too hot to forget.” He acted surprised at his own words. “Oops, sorry. Did I say that out loud?”
Hilde's cheeks flushed pink.
“I was surveillance,” she said. “Just saw you on the cameras.”
“Oh. I see,” Kharzai said, then added in a licentious tone, “voyeur.”
“Kharzai,” Mike said, “this is Hilde, my wife.”
“Whup. Better stop flirting then, eh?” Kharzai said. He winked at Hilde in the rearview mirror, then shifted his eyes to Lonnie. “And I know you, and I know you know me too, very pretty and pretty pregnant lady.”
“You were at the accident,” Lonnie said.
“Cha-ching — give the lady the Bahamas Cruise, Johnny.” He gave a quick flourish of his hand and made a partial bow toward the reflected image of Lonnie and said, “That’s right, and now you know me even better. Kharzai Ghiassi, cabbie.”
“What was that about a bombing?” Lonnie asked.
“Kharzai is not a normal cabbie,” Mike said, “or at least, he does not have a normal cabbie's past.”
“Yeah, that's what I'm already thinking,” Lonnie said.
“I assume she’s with Mojo,” Kharzai said.
“You know my husband?” Lonnie asked, surprise showing in her voice.
“Yeah, we've met.” Kharzai smiled as he glanced back at her in the mirror. “An old friend of mine, Liam Cleary of the Royal Marines, knew him pretty well and introduced us in Iraq back in the day.”
“You don't seem like you were in the Marines,” Lonnie said.
“No, no, no, no. No way,” he replied adamantly. “Do I look like a guy who would shave this lovely hair for a job?”
“What were you doing in Iraq, then?”
“Killing people.”
Lonnie crunched her eyebrows and looked at Hilde as if to ask if the man was serious.
Hilde replied to the unspoken question. “He was a CIA agent.”
“And you've retired to Anchorage?” Lonnie asked.
“Retired?” Kharzai screwed up his face in contemplation of the word. “Retired. Hrm. Interesting concept, but no, I'm too young. And besides, there are still bad guys out there, too much work yet to do.”
“Are you on a mission up here?” Hilde asked.
“If I was, I couldn't tell you.”
“As I understand it, the CIA is not supposed to operate on US soil,” Lonnie said.
“There are always exceptions to the rules,” Kharzai replied with a wave of his hand. “And no, I am not on a CIA mission up here. Or any mission in the strictest sense.”
“Then what are you doing up here?” Mike asked.
“Vacationing.”
“What, like a fantasy cabbie tour?” Lonnie asked.
“No, silly,” Kharzai said with a smile. “I suppose I can tell you because these other two already know what I do. Of course, the knowledge comes with the requisite, 'if you repeat it, I'll kill you' clause.”
The baby kicked hard into Lonnie's diaphragm. She winced and let out a grunt, then said, “Uh, maybe I don't want to know.”
Kharzai squished up his face and said in a high-pitched ‘church lady’ voice, “Too late.” It was a good imitation of Dana Carvey’s old Saturday Night Live character. “I have been working undercover in a well-known terrorist organization for several years. Last year, they attempted to set off a nuclear bomb in Ohio. I managed to get myself assigned as one of the leaders of the team that was to do it, and with the rather heroic help of Pastor Mike here, we were able to send all the other team members to their virginal reward. Which, by the way, did you know that not very many of those jihadi guys are actually aware of that whole seventy-two virgins concept, and a lot who are aware of it are actually scared to death by the idea because the ones who grow up in the terrorist camps and madrassas are usually taught that women are evil creatures only good for making baby martyrs, and they only do that right fifty percent of the time?”
“Thanks for the sociology lesson,” Lonnie said.
“Anyhoo… after that, I got back into the 'organization' and framed one of the dead guys with the failure. The leadership thought I should lay low for a while and suggested that I hide out far from everything. It was either here or a cave in Afghanistan, so here I am. About as remote as an Indiana-bred Persian guy can ever dream of being. There's neither a single camel nor a real cornstalk in this whole state. Can you imagine that?”
“So you’re just hiding out in Anchorage,” Mike.
“Basically,” said Kharzai.
“And how is it that you got sent to pick us up instead of another of the hundreds of cabbies in Anchorage?” Hilde asked.
“The bigger question,” Kharzai said, “is what were a pregnant Asian hottie and a knockout gorgeous redhead doing sitting alone in a truck late at night in a rail yard in an area known to have gangs wandering around? I didn’t believe Snake’s lady-love concept. Neither of you look like any lesbians I’ve ever seen. Girls with your genetically natural beauty only do it for money or cocaine in porn flicks. And even then they’re only good-looking with a ton of makeup.”
“How did you know we were sitting there alone?” Lonnie asked, her tone that of an investigating state trooper.
“You are a pretty intimidating lady, Lonnie. I was impressed when you threatened to shoot that leader dude,” Kharzai continued. “What was that you said? 'I'm gonna hormone your ass to hell.' That was truly classic. Wish I could use it myself, but being a dude, it'd sound kinda gay, so I guess I'll have to stick with ballsy stuff.”
“Wait a minute,” Mike said. “You saw that whole thing?”
“Yeah. And listened too.” Kharzai held up a cheap-looking listening device shaped like a small radar dish with headphones attached. It looked like something that would be sold in a kid’s spy kit. “Picked this bad boy up at Radio Shack. The box showed people listening to wildlife in the woods, but this is pure dirty teenage stalker tech, if you ask me. Works like a charm, though — even got to listen to your sweet little bio there, cop lady. Heart-breaking stuff, that.”
“So now we know who the real voyeur is,” Lonnie said, glancing out the window, her face tightening.
“Driving cab around this town can be pretty boring, and I was on my break, just listening to the rats clambering around the train yard when I picked up you girls.”
“So if you saw those thugs coming in on us, why didn't you call the cops, or come down and help?” Lonnie asked.
“Fair question,” Kharzai answered. “You want to explain to me what you were doing there to begin with?”
“Why were you watching us?” Lonnie asked.
“Why didn't you do something?” Hilde asked, suddenly quite upset as she recalled the nearly fatal encounter and her feeling of utterly terrified helplessness. “Those guys nearly killed us.”