Middle Man

by David Rich

  “They were working for you.” I admired him for seeing that the King did not have to be eliminated; he could be utilized. I waited for more.

  “Besides, I was in need of an American friend,” Rajan said. “You saw the alternatives. Call it a long-term investment.”

  I watched him as he got into his car. He was the opposite of the King, of royalty. Though he had plenty of chances to lecture about the glorious empire he would restore, I never heard a word about it. He and the King shared a lot, though: They both had what they really wanted. The King wanted an audience for his endless rap about his dream, about his quest, about his destiny, and so on. Rajan wanted to fight.

  Two rifle-toting Peshmergas met us at the Marsil Grill in Zakho, just a few miles from the border crossing. Maybe they were bought and paid for, maybe they were Kurdish patriots. They conferred with the PKK men who were driving us and went out. Bannion and I sat alone in a back room over tea and kubbeh hamusta, a sort of dough and meatball in a soup.

  “Once we cross the border, I’ll have about an hour before my boss makes contact and I’ll have to turn you over. I’ll be out of this.”

  “We’ll stop in Switzerland first,” Bannion said. He smacked his puffy lips together as he chewed the meatballs.

  “No Switzerland. No stops.” Even the name of the country sounded made up coming from his mouth. Nothing he said could be trusted.

  “To see my child. Perhaps for the last time.” He tried to imply that he missed the kid.

  I almost laughed. “I can get us into the U.S. I can arrange IDs. I can help you get out with cash. But you have to give me some reason, now, why I think I’m going to see some money.”

  The waiter brought a bottle of wine. He struggled with the corkscrew. Bannion took it from him and pulled the cork. He handed the bottle back and the waiter poured two glasses. There were three tables occupied in the front room, but the place was quiet, as if we had it to ourselves.

  “You have me cornered, Rollie. Cornered and wounded. Well played. The money is, indeed, in the U.S. but spread all around. Many locales. Many spots.”

  I shook my head. An inch of squirm room would turn into a yard, then miles.

  “You can hardly expect me to hand over a bloody list now, can you?” I did not answer. “Of course not. But I will tell you something, Rollie, something you already know, I’m sure, but will be appreciated nonetheless.” He looked at me as he slurped up the soup, then put down his spoon and dabbed his chin. “Sometimes people are looking at the answer and need only realize it. Say you’ve broken into a home, and the jewels aren’t in the safe and they’re not in the jewelry box. Well, what’s the biggest mistake you make in that situation?”

  “Calling the police?”

  Bannion did not smile. He was a relentless clue giver, but when he pointed to one, he wanted an answer. He pushed his food away and looked around the room even though we were the only ones in it. One PKK man lounged just on the other side of the partition to the main room.

  “I wonder if it will be cold in the truck. Could be in there for hours.” He sipped his tea. “I can’t blame you, really. You have a job and whatever security comes with it. The villain life is not for everyone.”

  “What does ‘DS’ stand for?”

  “The worst thing you can do in the situation I described is to become impatient. You’re probably very close to the jewels. You have to stay calm and believe in the information and the instincts that brought you to that point.” He smiled, let it deflate, then smiled again: a two-faced mask. “You are interesting, Rollie. And I don’t believe you went to Columbia University. Not at all. You know too much.”

  “I don’t know enough.”

  “I’ve told you all I can for now. You make your decision. I’ll live with it.”

  Another Dan moment: the surrender to victory. But I was excited because I had the better hole cards. I had Major Hensel, who I knew would let me give Bannion all the rope I needed.

  We stepped outside. The Peshmergas were loitering down the street, toward the border. The PKK men looked like mirror images, in the other direction, but closer. Cigarettes left brief tracers as the men gestured and talked. Across the street, the light from a TV flickered in a second-story window. We stood still in a wide-open parking spot freshly painted with MAHJOUZ, reserved. Headlights bathed us and a car raced right toward us. It skidded to a stop diagonally in the parking spot.

  Two doors slammed. From the driver’s side came a tall figure with a bent posture: Zoran.

  “John Bannion! Stop there.” That was the King.

  Bannion turned to face them, but the headlights blinded him. He moved to his right, ignoring the King’s order to stop. The PKK men stood upright and ready. Another cigarette flew through air.

  The gun looked like a prop in the King’s hand. It was hard to imagine anything more deadly than a speech coming out of it. His suit was ripped at the shoulder. He came around the front of the car as Bannion moved out of the light toward the rear. Zoran kept his gun on me.

  “Your Highness, what a relief it is to see you,” Bannion said. “We were just speculating on your whereabouts and hoping for your safety, weren’t we? Are you coming along with us?” This was pudding for him. The delivery was perfect, but the stark lighting and the surrounding silence flattened the seductiveness of his tone.

  Maya got out of the car, and Bannion greeted her, too. He wanted to keep the chatter going.

  The King shouted, “Stop! Stop!”

  It was not clear if he meant stop moving or stop talking. The PKK men were frozen. I saw one of the Peshmergas speaking into his radio. He and his partner looked behind them. Far down the road, in the direction of the border, headlights appeared. They were high, as on a truck or military vehicle. The Peshmergas hopped quickly into their car and drove away.

  Bannion went on, “This is good luck, though, isn’t it? We have safe passage arranged. Plenty of room for you, and Zoran and Maya, of course. Plenty of room. In fact, we’ve made great strides these last days. Peshmergas on our side and now the rebels have joined us, too.”

  The King was shaking. Bannion edged closer to him.

  Zoran faced Bannion and shouted for him to stop. I plowed my fist into Zoran’s jaw. The bone cracked. I turned my body and my right sank into his gut. He bent forward and I kneed him in the face. He hit the ground. I picked up his gun.

  The PKK men ran. The big vehicles coming toward us were close enough for their headlights to irritate.

  I said, “King, put the gun away. If there’s shooting, we’re all in trouble. Maya, too. Look, here come the Asayish. Please.” I looked to Maya, hoping she would chime in, but she, too, seemed frozen.

  Bannion started again. “We have new interest. From the Chinese. The Great Game is on for them, it seems. They particularly asked about you.”

  I was behind the King, but I could see him trembling. I slid to the side to get a better look. He glanced briefly at me. The headlights accentuated his silent film star looks: the thin dark lips, the circles under the eyes, the animated eyebrows. And he had run out of words.

  “Put the gun away, King. No one wants to hurt you.” I was sorry as soon as I said it because it pointed to his insignificance.

  The vehicles were close.

  Bannion went on. “That’s right, Your Highness. Put the gun away and no hard feelings. I certainly bear you no ill will. We’re going to Switzerland. To see young Aza. How long has it been?”

  The King straightened himself up and said, “Who are you? You adventurer. I allowed you in my presence . . .”

  Bannion laughed at him. “Indeed you did.”

  I could see Bannion’s expression harden. The caginess had been spent. The tough villain roared.

  “You allowed? You allowed me a lot more, I’d say, than your presence. And in return you did damn well off me. You’re lucky I kept you a
long for the ride. Go inside and ask for a job as a waiter and see what they say . . .”

  “Shut up, Bannion.” That was me.

  Two vehicles arrived, pouring more false light on the scene. Neither Bannion nor the King glanced at them. The two men looked like museum figures in a staged confrontation: waxworks. A car came down the street toward the border. It slowed, then sped away. Silhouettes appeared in the upstairs window where the TV flickered.

  “Bannion is finished,” I said. “I’ve got him.” The King turned to look at me as if he had forgotten I was there. Bannion rushed him and grabbed the gun. But the King held the gun steady and when it went off, the shot hit Bannion in his belly. He staggered backward against the car. The King shot him twice more. Bannion put one hand on the car and eased his way to the ground. He sat, legs out, against the car door, looking like a worker taking his lunch break in the shade.

  I held my gun, but I did not want to use it. What could I get from killing the King? He stood there stupidly looking at Bannion.

  “Put the gun down. Please.” I spoke softly. He ignored me.

  Plainclothesmen jumped from the vehicles, holding rifles and pistols. Behind them, a mammoth climbed down, and the vehicle sighed its relief. I grabbed Maya and yanked her toward me. The King looked at the men and raised his gun toward them and said, “Halt.” He said it delicately, the way he would order a servant to stop pouring his coffee.

  They killed him.

  Maya gasped and ran to her father. I dropped my gun on the ground. My interest was Bannion. He was struggling to breathe. His eye closed and opened over and over. He knew what I wanted. “Smart boy you are, Rollie. Dead Soldiers. DS. Dead Soldiers.” His shirt was soaked with blood. The eye opened wide and Bannion looked terrified. He gripped my hand and the look faded. “Look out for Maya. And the boy. And the boy.”

  His fat lips wanted to work more, but they stuck together. The effort inflated his cheeks for a brief moment. The eye stopped flickering.

  I stood up and faced Gill, who stood close over me. “What did he say? What did he say?”

  “He told me you were a stooge for the Asayish and a stooge for him. That you thought you were going to retire and run his security operation, but that was a joke to him and he laughed about it with the others. The thought of it was a riot to them.” I wanted to hit him and I did not mind the beating I would have to take. I pushed him in the chest and got ready for him to start. The Asayish behind him were pointing their guns at me.

  Gill turned to them. “Wait here. Get this cleaned up.” The Asayish men hesitated. They hated him openly. A fat man with a mustache seemed to be in charge. He cradled an M16. I thought for a moment he might point it at Gill. He didn’t. Gill pushed me toward the door of the restaurant. “Come inside.”

  I helped Maya up. “She comes, too.” He did not argue. Maya did not resist coming along. Her expression hardened as if she had prepared for this moment. As we entered the building I said, “When he isn’t looking, escape out the back.”

  She said, “Okay.”

  Gill ordered the proprietor to clear the place: three tables’ worth of diners rushed outside without question, leaving their partially eaten meals on the tables. A bottle of wine and a corkscrew on one, the same wine Bannion and I had ordered; a family-style falafel plate; bowls of stew.

  Maya positioned herself away from us, toward the partition. Gill looked her over, deciding if he should worry about her presence. He shrugged and began talking.

  “I’m going to give you a chance to tell me what Bannion said. You know where he hid the money. Tell me, and you and Maya cross the border and this ends. I sweated for this for too long. Ask her. Ask her.” But neither of us looked toward Maya. “I did not torture you. They did. I held them back. I don’t know who you are or what you want out of this, but I am going to have Bannion’s money. I’ve been after it too long to let you stop me. You know where it is.”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me. Tell me now. Don’t put yourself through this. You have money. You don’t need it. You’re going to tell sooner or later. Don’t put yourself through it. I have nothing against you.”

  It was as if he had been tortured and wanted to spare me his experience. But he had not been tortured. He had been tantalized, and the wait and the prospect of failure, the certainty of failure, humiliated him. He thought that was torture. But threatening torture makes no sense. It forces the other person to fight much harder. I could not see any reason to wait. I was going to kill him.

  I reached back with my right hand and picked up the wine bottle and swung it at his head. He ducked. My momentum turned me around. I smashed the bottle on the marble tabletop and reversed, coming at his right side. The jagged edges of glass dug into his cheek and eye. He snatched the bottle away and slammed it down. I kicked him in the groin, then the knee. Blood ran down his face. He swung wildly at me, but I faded away from him and kicked him again, hitting his hip. I was near the wall to the kitchen.

  Gill lifted a table, a table with a marble top, a table I would have a hard time pushing, and rammed it at me, backing me into the wall. I kept my hands up and pushed back, using the wall for leverage. But Gill was too strong.

  Shifting my hands higher, I used my forearms against the pressure. That was not going to help for long. I slid my right forearm across the marble, next to my left. The imbalance sent the right edge crashing against the wall and opened the left side. I slipped out.

  Gill dropped the table.

  Behind him, the door opened. The fat man carrying the rifle, and two other Asayish men, came in.

  Gill wiped blood from his face. I kicked. He caught my leg and lifted and I crashed hard on my shoulder amid the broken plates and glass and the food. Gill looked at the men behind him. “I told you to wait,” he said with unmasked disdain.

  I palmed the corkscrew and hopped up. Gill swung. I ducked. I hit him in the gut, which was as useful as throwing a match into a puddle. But it got me in close. He blocked another right, caught my arm and twisted. And with my left I jammed the corkscrew into his neck.

  He sneered at me as if I were a driver who cut him off. “I want to know . . .” He might have lived an extra couple of minutes if he had left the corkscrew in, but that wasn’t Gill’s style. The blood spurted. He fell to his knees and onto his face.

  Maya was still at the partition. The steak knife she had snatched clattered when it hit the floor. I stepped back from the spreading blood.

  The Asayish stayed near the door. The fat man tossed his cigarette onto the floor. “Do you have any money?” he said. “The owner will want compensation for the damages.”

  28

  The King was dead; long live Aza Karkukli Bannion. First stop was Incirlik Air Base near Adana in Turkey. The squadron commander of the 39th Air Base Wing Communications Squadron welcomed us in his office and told a story about how Major Hensel had introduced him to his current wife. Of course. He called in a sergeant and ordered him to show Maya the apartment we could use until our flight was ready.

  Army Colonel Homer Hoyle invited Maya and me to dinner along with his wife, Lauren. I got to know Colonel Hoyle in Afghanistan, where he worked in Army Intelligence in coordination with DIA. He was a bright, dedicated officer who tried to understand things as they were rather than the way his bosses wanted them to be.

  We went to a restaurant off base and sat on the patio. Three men, all in their thirties, all wearing sport shirts that were not tucked in, entered just after us and were seated a few tables away. They did an awful job of pretending not to watch us. Colonel Hoyle was subdued, not at all like the gregarious, opinionated man I had known. I thought maybe the change was due to the presence of his wife, though I did not sense that she was some kind of shrew. We reminisced a bit. They spoke about their kids and their lives in Turkey. After dinner, we took a walk through the town. The colonel nodded to his wife and she pulled M
aya into a shop. We kept walking. The colonel guided me across the street to a small park, just trees and a few benches, and a plaque I could not read. When we reached a dark corner, he stopped.

  “It must have been tough in Erbil,” he said. I shrugged. When he saw that I was not going to open up about it, he went on. “The three men in the restaurant were CIA. They wanted to interrogate you. I told them I would be debriefing you. But they’re on the warpath. You’ll be seeing CIA around lots of corners.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  He had more, but it was not coming easily to him. There was no one else in the park. I was looking for the CIA men. “Maybe we should get back,” I said.

  “Wait.” He looked all around, too, and took a deep breath before he spoke again. “I knew. Last year, two of them approached me. General Howland and Colonel Vollhardt, Air Force, and they talked about me joining in with them. It was all pretty vague. They were just testing the waters. But I figured out what they were getting at. I knew.”

  “It was your job to listen to them.”

  “It was my job to follow up and report them. I didn’t do it.”

  I hated my job. Colonel Hoyle was a good man and he expected himself to be perfect and the rules expected it, too. He stared at me, and though our faces were shaded, I could see how tormented he was. I already had their names. “I’ll add their names to the list,” I said.

  “And mine.” By his tone I knew that was an order.

  “Yes, sir.”

  ______

  The flight to Ramstein AFB in Germany left at 0600 hours. Maya and I spent a chaste night. She talked a little about her son, worrying that she hardly knew him, hardly knew how he would react to the news. She got out of bed and looked out the window for a while.

  “Do you think Johnny was evil?”

  “Are you worried about your son?”

  “Are you like your father?”

  Dan and Bannion, I had seen both of them die. Both were perpetually in motion and motion gets attention, especially when it carries the threat of disaster. Both left me clues as they died, and the clues served the same purpose as money left in a will: It poured gas on the fire of my hatred and made it flame out. “I think John had the gift of being able to see people as they really are, stripped down . . .” I paused. She leaned forward, hanging on what I said. “And he saw himself the same way, so he thought he had to act first.”