Cold Snap by J. Clayton Rogers

turn.
    "These people are guaranteed Grade A
dangerous, my Arab friend."
    "I'm pleased to remind you that I'm—"
    "I know one when I see one. Iraqi?
Afghan?"
    "The majority of Iraqis and Afghans are of
lighter complexion, as I'm sure you noticed."
    "You sound like one of the bro's talking
about a skinny."
    Hmm, Ari thought. Had Lawson been posted to
Somalia?
    "And what are these dangerous people
suspected of doing?"
    "You mean besides being dangerous? They're
into crash for cash, big-time. That may sound small-time, but we
think they're part of the Kkangpae Gang. That's South Korea's
equivalent of the Mafia. We call them the Kkangpae Puppets. Some of
my investigators have been known to...put it this way, Ethan was
the only one of my operatives willing to get close to them. Even if
I had insisted, no one else was willing, even if I threatened to
fire them—and I didn't."
    "And you yourself are not inclined to
investigate?"
    "In the old days, I would have gone in and
busted their chink asses on my own."
    "The perpetrators are Chinese?" Ari
continued.
    "Uh...no. Korean. Forgive my lack of
political correctness. Every time I walk out the door I get a dose
of shit, so I'm not inclined to be sympathetic. Believe it or not,
I'll wish you good luck."
    Lawson disconnected.
     
    CHAPTER FOUR
     
    Ari wanted a cigarette badly, but he did not
want to look like Sam Spade on a stakeout. In the past, he had been
able to go without a smoke for weeks on end while hunting down
insurrectionists and smugglers in Iraq's northern mountains. But
the anxiety stirred up by his task and the harsh environment
combined to sweep aside petty addictions. In the luxury of his xB,
if it could be called that, Ari found the blandishments of the
Winstons in his pocket almost irresistible. We know how bored you
are. That little itch in your lungs could be so easily satisfied.
Take a puff. Just one. No one will notice.
    But the man at the warehouse door who had
looked twice in his direction might notice if the small white car
became a veritable smokestack. A short walk up the street would
have confirmed that the building was, indeed, under observation.
But so far, the glare of the sun off the windshield and the blatant
insignificance of the vehicle had convinced the man there was no
threat.
    As an alleged hub of criminal activity, the
single-story warehouse was in a surprisingly active part of the
city. Traffic from the Downtown Expressway off-ramp squirted
through the narrow side streets before debouching on Broad. Cafes
carved into the monotonous umber blocks catered to local businesses
and state employees from the Seaboard Building. The police would be
hard-pressed to see any sinister goings-on at a glance. Ari's
attention was drawn to the two garage bays facing an alley. Cars
damaged in staged accidents might be repaired there. And yet, even
facing away from the street, they still seemed too open to outside
scrutiny. He could clearly see the white van parked in the alley,
both cargo doors open. It was filled with black plastic bags and a
young man was laboriously adding to the van's load, hauling more
bags across the narrow lane and dumping them in the back. His task
was made all the more arduous by an older man who slapped him
upside the head every time he brought out a new load. Cracking his
window open, Ari could make out "Jotbab!" and
"Ttong-koo-mung!"—meaning, respectively, 'weak piece of shit' and
'asshole'.
    Many years ago, Ari (as Colonel Abu Karim
Ghaith Ibrahim) had accompanied Saddam's weapon's negotiator, Munir
Awad, to Syria to negotiate a partial refund of the $10 million
downpayment he had made to North Korea for Rodong missiles. The
$1.9 repayment was intended as a penalty for North Korea missing
the first installment. The Iraqis, quite hopeless in certain
matters, did not realize Kim Jong-il was conning them. The Rodong
was a paper weapon that had never existed beyond blueprints. The
Iraqi negotiators did not retrieve the $1.9 million, or