Free Cold Snap by J. Clayton Rogers

the height of the manhunt for the former
president.
    "You know where he is?" asked the MG, seeing
fame and a third star on the horizon.
    "I knocked, but no one was home," Ghaith
shrugged. "He's always been a bit of a nomad that way. Do you know
how many palaces he had? Hopped from one to the other on the
slightest whim. Drove everyone nuts, not knowing where he'd be
next…"
    "Well, it looks like he's still hopping,"
said the general, eyeing Ghaith sourly. During the early days of
the occupation, having one's leg pulled by an Iraqi was tantamount
to being subjected to a terrorist attack. It was far more onerous
when the butt of the joke held high rank. The MG had no doubt this
joker was a security risk. He ordered the head of the Physical
Security Detail not to allow Ghaith outside the operating range of
Sector Control Point-Baghdad, and to keep tabs on him at all
times.
    His cell phone was confiscated. This was no
inconvenience because, under the previous regime, Ghaith had found
it prudent to keep several spares tagged to the same phone number,
one of which was taped to the back of a file cabinet in a hallway
of the office on Palestine Street. He retrieved it, checked that it
was charged and in vibration mode, then merged into the bustle of
techs and intelligence officers to offer his assistance, if it was
requested, and to otherwise stay out of the way. Now that he was in
the MG's bad graces, he mostly stayed out of the way. The SPC
charged with keeping an eye on him limited his intrusiveness to
half-hour checks. Whatever SSO building they were assigned to for a
particular day would be surrounded by guards who would keep him on
the premises. And at the end of the day he would be returned to
Camp Slayer, part of the Victory Base Complex at Baghdad
International Airport. Ghaith was not put out by this, as it gave
him the opportunity to enjoy the amenities of the Perfume Palace.
All of the furniture had been looted, but the thieves had been
unable to make away with the excellent indoor pool. He was
certainly better off than the Sinhalese, Indians, Nepalese and
Bangladeshis being held as slave labor in the American's KBR
warehouse just across the lake. Sometimes, their eerie lamentations
crossed the water.
    He had no home to go to. Although there was
only minor damage to his house in al-Masbah, a house absent loved
ones was no home, and in his case was no better than a torture
chamber.
    As the days passed and the ISG burrowed
deeper into SSO files and databases, they began to appreciate
Ghaith's almost impeccable English, marred only by the occasional
malapropism. They were glad to have his knowledge of the chaotic
filing system. They suspected (correctly) that he was imparting
only a fraction of his knowledge, and while he seemed somewhat
deficient in computer expertise, he had memorized a prodigious
number of passwords, making the chore a lark for the hackers.
    He was standing next to one of those young
techies one day when the phone in his pocket vibrated against his
thigh. Few people had access to his alternate cell number. He had
used the phone solely to call the hospital, to find out if his wife
had finally emerged from intensive care. He told the tech he had to
use the bathroom, the current euphemism for going outside to use a
portable toilet. That particular day he had been assigned to the
SSO HQ on Palestine Street, and while the building sported toilets
that almost met Western standards, there was still no running water
in that part of the city. As a sop to the numerous American
civilians in the ISG, the Army employed KBR to set up portable
toilets down the entire length of the building.
    The phone continued to shiver in his pocket
all the way outside. The doors to the porta-potties had been
removed to make them less vulnerable to bomb-planting insurgents,
but they provided enough privacy for a good sit-down. He took out
his phone, pulled down his trousers, and sat. While the cracked lid
pinched his ass, it was easier