About three-thirty this afternoon, Gretchen took some ME camphor from the little tin of it I gave her that she keeps in her desk, smeared a dab under each nostril, and turned our recently installed, custom-built office ventilation system all the way up to ten. About four-twenty – late, as expected – “Ahmed” showed up. Gretchen resolutely did her duty, greeting him, notifying me of his arrival, and showing him into my office. Then, as we had agreed when “Ahmed” booked his consultation appointment last Friday, she left, having the remainder of the day off with pay.
Nobody was booked after “Ahmed’s” visit, of course – we knew from previous experience that it would take all night for the air to return to normal. On the other hand, this guy considers my advice invaluable and insisted on today’s appointment, even though I had Gretchen quote him four times my usual rates for it. It’s a conundrum, to be sure – what to do when a client like that stinks so bad they could knock a buzzard off an overflowing porta-john at a Texas chili contest in the middle of July? Regular readers of this Web log may remember him, either from my account of our first meeting at the Saudi compound in Virginia, or his subsequent visit to my office downtown back in August of 2007. During the latter post, I remarked that if one were to infect a skunk with bubonic plague; let it die and then split open its guts; toss the carcass in a Rangoon cesspool; incubate it for a week in the tropic sun and sweltering humidity, the stench would still have far to go in order to match “Ahmed’s” truly astounding camel-jockey’s B.O.
Well, if anything, it has gotten worse with age, and the rioting mob of ketones, aldehydes, sulfides, esters, fatty acids, thiols and amines which accompanied him a couple of years ago has swelled its ranks with some truly potent, eye-watering pyridines, maggot-gagging skatoles, and, lest my olfactory senses where hallucinating under the onslaught, significant amounts of tertiary butyl isocyanate and various organic selenium hydrides. Compared to this guy, an animal rendering factory next to a tannery across the street from a mercaptan plant in northern New Jersey smells like the Garden of Eden. As before, his audacious rot began sneaking around the camphor on my upper lip, and also as before, I consequently found myself talking to him through a mouth full of Altoids mint lozenges.
“Tom Collins, my friend,” he effused as he opened an attaché case full of hundred dollar bills and began stacking his fee in front of me on my desk, “how good it is to see you again!”
“And,” I nodded as I watched the pile grow, “it is good to see you. I notice,” I observed as, having finished paying me, he snapped the case shut and sprawled on the couch by the picture window, “you have a new look.”
“Oh…” he said, gazing down on his ample belly, then left and right at his ham-sized upper arms, admiring a puce burnoose with the insouciance of a spoiled child, “yes, yes, it is. My new Swedish girlfriend, she tells me that lilac is not masculine enough, so I choose this color. What you think?”
“I think she’s right – puce is way more macho than lilac. Your Swedish girlfriend has excellent taste,” I lied.
“Actually, cannot taste anything,” my guest remarked, “or smell, either. She had operation,” he explained, circling the upper part of his face with his right index finger, “something in there… pit… pit…”
“Pituitary?” I ventured.
“Yes, yes,” he affirmed, “that is the one. Cancer there; they remove it. But afterward, she cannot taste or smell anything.”
“Well,” I philosophized, “nobody’s perfect.”
“This is true,” my guest agreed after a brief consideration of the proposition. “And she very friendly and nice. Not like the other women I pay… for, you know…”
“Certainly,” I concurred. “I understand.”
“They ask very much money,” he complained. “So, I say, okay, okay, I pay, and then they change mind and ask even more money, and I say okay, okay, I pay that, I have plenty, plenty money. So they do what I pay for; but then they want to get away after, real fast. And some of them, while we do what I pay for, they, what you say… heave chunks, you know,” he gestured, grabbing his abdomen and pitching forward with a grimace, his tongue protruding grotesquely, “like that.”
“I certainly can’t imagine why,” I adroitly prevaricated.
“Not me, either,” he said, shaking his head in obvious perplexity. “But this one, the Swedish call girl, she is nice. No running away after; no chunks. I think I keep.”
“There’s somebody for everyone,” I sagely intoned. “So, how can I help you today?”
“I have big, big problem,” he began, “with ADE-651.”
“You mean,” I presumed, “that remote portable substance detector manufactured by ATSC in Britain?”
“That one, yes,” he confirmed with a pained wince. “Just to think about this makes a great burning in my stomach, like there is little ifrit with dagger in hand, stabbing me.”
“Would you like some chilled mineral water?” I asked. “I have genuine Vichy – very effective.”
“Yes, yes,” he nodded, “please, my good friend Tom, get me some.”
Straight Vichy water is like Arm and Hammer baking soda in a bottle, by the way. There’s far too much sodium in it for daily consumption, but for situations like this, it is – if you will pardon the expression – the bomb. Also in passing, I would note that a fly was buzzing around the office. Where, in the name of God, a fly came from in the middle of January in Washington, DC, I cannot say, but there it was – I wager the damn thing probably followed him all the way from Iraq, and I’m pretty sure I know what that fly thought he was, too.
Anyway, after swigging down an entire liter of Vichy, my guest’s pained expression subsided. This was followed by him cutting loose with an extended, highly articulated belch that would surely have rattled the rafters, had there been any around. Then, as the constituents of that mighty burp filled the room, I got distinctly and profoundly dizzy – spots and stars danced before my eyes and my ears rang. The fly, meanwhile, dropped dead in midair and fell to the rug like a stone.
“Thank you,” he murmured, obviously quite relieved, and likewise completely oblivious to the fate of our uninvited companion. “As you know, I have lots of… friends… in Iraq, and am extremely important part of Iraqi government. What is it you say here? That one hand wash other hand, yes? So I am washing hands all over Iraq, and Britain and America, too, and make deal with Interior Minister Jawad al-Bolani, to get baksheesh for selling ADE-651 to Iraq government. ADE-651 very powerful machine. It find bomb, bullet, drug, paper money, all kinds, you name, ADE-651 find. You buy one, you hold in your hand, and then you order cards to put inside, like credit card, AmEx card, you know? You buy card for TNT, card for Semtex, card for ammo, card for heroin, card for hashish, card for money ink; all like that, whatever you want, ADE-651 find it for you, Anything you looking for, you put card for that in ADE-651 and hold up like this…” he demonstrated, holding up an imaginary ADE-651 at arms length, earnestly scanning the room for contraband with it. “See? Like that.”
“And for how many of these units were you the middle man?” I queried.
“Oh, many, many, many units,” he shamelessly bragged, smiling broadly. “Iraqi government officially spend over eighty million dollars on ADE-651 units and cards.”
“And,” I discreetly continued, “unofficially – including everybody’s baksheesh?”
“When turn official money to unofficial in Iraq, you make ten times over,” he responded, flashing his hands open and closed to indicate inflation by an order of magnitude.
“And the difference?” I gently pressed.
“Difference money come from United States, of course,” he shrugged, “as usual. Actually,” he added after a moment of reflection, ”all ADE-651 money come from United States.”
“Well,” I rationalized, “it had to come from somewhere, didn’t it?”
“This is true,” he acknowledged with a worldly air. “No money coming from Iraq, that for sure; just money going in. So, last week, English say that ADE-651 not work right; say that hundreds of people die in Iraq because ADE-651 not work right, also. Then the English, they arrest my good friend, Jim McCormick, president of ATSC. When I hear, I cry for my friend. What happen to him, I wonder? English police, they take many ADE-651 units and cards; make science tests. English police say cards come from department store, just like little tags in Versace shoe or Gucci bag.” He shook his head in annoyance. “I always think those tags big pain in my [expletive]. I figure, I spend awesome bucks at Neiman Marcus, why not I take one extra Gucci bag and pair of Versace shoes when I leave? But Beverly Hills police say tags set off detector, and that is lift the shop; so then I have to pay for Gucci bag and Versace shoes and give police baksheesh in big add-up to even more money than if I just buy Gucci bag and Versace shoes in first place. Not liking those tags, no, not at all. But there, you see…” he turned to me with an imploring expression, “tags work to catch me lifting the shop, yes? English say ADE-651 cards just like department store tags. So why not ADE-651 cards that catch TNT or one that catch Semtex, or one that catch AK-47 ammo?”
“An interesting question,” I allowed. “Tell me,” I requested, “how do you get water in the Iraqi desert?”
“Hire Germans or Frenchmen to find,” he stated matter-of-factly.
“Sure, of course,” I responded, “today, that’s what you do. But before, in the old days, what did you do about water then?”
“Brave tribesmen follow herd of camels,” he murmured, suddenly overcome by a wave of nostalgia, “sometimes for days, but no matter how long, they always find water. And then,” he sighed, with a far-away look in his eyes, “the young tribesmen lie in wait for those who brought their herds and flocks to that water; again, sometimes for days, but they, too, always come.”
“And then” I surmised, “the brave young tribesmen would negotiate with the current users of the water for a fair share of the resources, right?”
My guest shot me a lingering, disbelieving glance. “No, they wait for current owners of water to arrive, sneak up after dark when they are asleep, and kill them all.”
“Of course,” I humored. “Silly of me; my apologies. But no one ever, by any chance, took a Y-shaped stick and walked around holding it lightly between their hands, waiting for the tip of the Y to suddenly point down at the ground where the water was, did they?”
He considered my question for a rather long time, finally speaking after an extended, contemplative exhalation. “Mr. Collins, what you say, my people call witchcraft. In Islam, anyone who is a witch, we put to death.”
“Good point,” I conceded. “As a matter of fact, the practice which I described is called ‘dowsing,’ and, at various points in history, Europeans have also considered it witchcraft. Today, however, in the twenty-first century, witchcraft no longer exists, and dowsing is considered to be nothing more than the practice of ignorant superstition.”
“I see,” he grunted, at once skeptical and nonplussed. “But what has search for water got to do with ADE-651?”
“You are aware,” I attempted to ascertain, “that there are no batteries, solar cells or any other sources of energy built into the ADE-651?”
“They work,” he confidently proclaimed, “from electricity.”
“They do?” I shot back with an unconvinced tone.
“Yes, yes,” he insisted, “my friend Jim McCormick show me how – rub balloon on shirt, then make stick to wall, then say ‘So, Ahmed, how come the balloon does not fall?’ I say, I do not know. He say, because of stat… statical…”
“Static electricity?” I interjected.
“Yes, yes,” my guest blurted out, “that is word he used! ‘Static electricity’ Jim say. And then he take this thing,” my guest demonstrated, showing me the dimensions with his hands, “and he make secretary put her hand on the top of the thing and her hair make big flower, like, what you call those yellow flowers that make seed and turn gray… yes, yes, I remember now – dandelion! Her yellow hair, very fine, make like big dandelion, big ball. Then Jim touch her with metal rod and spark jump from her finger and her hair all fall down at once. ‘So, Ahmed,’ he says – ‘you see, there is plenty of power in static electricity.’ Then Jim say that operator of ADE-651 must put in cards for things he want to find, then walk around to make static electricity that powers unit. After that, Jim says, ADE-651 is ready to find things. So I make deal for my friend, cousin of General Jihad al-Jabiri uncle’s brother. Him, them, the general, Interior Minister Jawad al-Bolani, everybody get good baksheesh, Tom; very good baksheesh from sell ADE-651 to Iraqi police and army.”
“Including” I presumed, “Prime Minister Nouri al-Maliki?”
“For him,” my guest snorted indignantly, “triple baksheesh for sell ADE-651! And now, after English say ADE-651 not work, he act surprise and order big investigation! Same deal for Aqeel al-Turaihi, big Iraqi Inspector General – I pay triple baksheesh on the ADE-651 for him, too; and now al-Maliki put him in charge of big investigation of ADE-651! All because now English say ADE-651 no good! And not just English! Americans, too!”
“So they have,” I confirmed. “The US Forces in Iraq investigated the ADE-651 and issued a formal statement that there is no possible means by which the ADE-651 can detect explosives, and furthermore, they’ve denounced the device as totally ineffective and fraudulent.”
“How can this be?” His face fell in an avalanche of disappointment. “Englishmen so smart! Always making clever things – machine gun, airplane, atomic submarine, push-up bra! Tell me, good friend Tom Collins – what happen?”
“Well,” I consoled, “you should not blame your good friend Jim McCormick.”
My guest’s countenance brightened slightly at my soothing admonition. “Really? You mean, my friend Jim is honest guy after all?”
“That,” I clarified, “depends very much on your definition of ‘honest.’ I’m sure your friend Jim believes the ADE-651 works, because, most certainly, your friend Jim believes that dowsing works.”
“This witchcraft,” my guest gasped, “that you said about just now? This ‘dowsing’ with a stick for water?”
“People who believe in dowsing,” I explained, “don’t limit its supposed powers just to finding water. Dowsers believe they can find all sorts of things – lost objects, petroleum, gold deposits, the list goes on and on, really. No doubt your friend Jim McCormick sincerely thinks dowsing can be applied to explosives, drugs, elephant tusks – you name it, dowsing can find it – I’m certain he believes that. So he doesn’t think he has deceived anyone; and in that sense, he’s honest.”
“So these ADE-651,” my guest stammered, “they use witchcraft? You are sure?”
“Count on it,” I confidently declared. “Just watch – if McCormick ever goes to trial, he will mount a dowsing defense and simply defy the prosecution to prove it doesn’t work. And in a place as eccentric as the United Kingdom, he will have so many ‘expert witnesses’ ready to attest the powers of dowsing in open court, they’ll be lined up around the block outside his barrister’s office, not to mention the likely collection of nut cases on a British jury! They still believe in fairies and spiritualism over there, you know.”
“But… but…” my guest’s eyes wandered heavenward, no doubt beseeching the Almighty for guidance. “My friend Tom, if what you say is true, then Jim McCormick is a sorcerer, and every ADE-651 burns the hand of any Moslem who holds it!”
“Uh, yeah,” I admitted, “he probably should have considered that angle before selling such a product in Iraq.”
At that, my incredibly stinky guest stood bolt upright, filled with a clear and sudden resolve. “No! Jim McCormick is not my friend! He consorts with devils and practices black magic!” Making for the door, he shouted back at me, “Thank you my friend, Tom Collins! I must go to Iraq right now, to tell our holy men of this abomination, and see that they make a big fatwa on Jim McCormick!”
“Good luck with that,” I called out as he rushed away, slamming my office door behind him. Oh well – another day, another stack of hundred dollar bills. Hey – it’s a living, anyway.