Outsourced

by R. J. Hillhouse

  “I told the truth. I thought it would be different.”

  “It would’ve been if you hadn’t sabotaged me.”

  “You’re like a daughter to me. I was protecting you,” Joe said. “They would’ve fucked you good, left you alone, hanging in the cold on some mission, expecting an extraction that would never come. I’ve seen them do it to others.”

  He picked up the bag of M&Ms and held it out to her. Camille stared at him, studying him as she took the candy. He was an expert at deception and manipulation, but he actually seemed sincere. She wanted him to be sincere. “Quit shitting me.”

  “You were the best student I ever had. I got a real kick out of mentoring you. I didn’t want to lose you. You know what they say, ‘all’s fair in love, war and the Agency.’”

  She held up her index finger and bowed her head slightly while she finished chewing, then she swallowed. “What do you want?”

  “A job done right.”

  “I have contracts for anything the Agency wants. Have someone else contact one of my ops officers, give him a target and my boys will take care of it.”

  “I want you to do it personally.” Chronister paused, looked her in the eyes and appeared for a second as if he was going to crack a smile. Then he said, “I want you to kill Hunter Stone.”

  Chapter Nine

  Troops and civilians at a U.S. military base in Iraq were exposed to contaminated water last year and employees for the responsible contractor, Halliburton, couldn’t get their company to inform camp residents, according to interviews and internal company documents.

  —Associated Press, January 22, 2006, as reported by Larry Margasak

  Ramadi, Anbar Province

  Ramadi was an unending stretch of bombed-out houses, neglected alleyways and decaying two-story concrete tenements. Garbage heaps and twisted car frames cluttered even the best neighborhoods. Roosters crowed from behind walled courtyards and dirty, skinny children were everywhere, playing in the streets and on rooftops. Hunter walked along an open ditch that smelled of sewage as he headed toward his contact’s tailor shop in the downtown souk. With his white dress and checkered headscarf, he looked like an Iraqi, but he walked like an American and he knew it. He continually forced himself to slow down and amble along, reminding himself he was in no rush. Rubicon didn’t have a chance at finding him. At that moment his biggest threats were the blister on his left foot and his growing thirst. He could live with that.

  After a few hours of walking, he entered the market district. Sticky bodies, hawkers’ cries, stale urine, diesel fumes, grilled lamb, smoke—the souk was a sensory explosion and lack of sleep and high levels of adrenaline made the assault worse. And everyone but him seemed to be carrying an assault rifle.

  The tiny shops spilled out onto the streets, blocking already crowded sidewalks. Vendors carrying their entire inventory in small crates clogged the throng of people, thrusting watches, chewing gum and CDs into the faces of anyone careless enough to glance their way. He even spotted two vendors selling automatic weapons and grenades. Car horns competed for attention with the latest pop divas from Egypt. Hunter shoved his way through the sweaty masses, searching for Khalid’s tailor shop among the many small stores selling satellite dishes, pirated DVDs and small appliances.

  In the middle of a busy street corner, an old woman was hunched over a metal tub filled with large chunks of ice and plastic bottles of desalinated water imported from Kuwait. She wore head-to-toe black. Her hair was gray, her teeth rotten—Hunter guessed she was in her forties. Poor women did not age well in this part of the world.

  Hunter fished a water bottle from the tub and checked to make sure the seal was intact. Saddam’s revenge because of some unscrupulous vendor selling rebottled Euphrates water was the last thing he needed. He pulled the carjacker’s money from his pocket. The crisp bills were pressed together in tight folds. He peeled off a pink 25,000 dinar note, the biggest they had printed and the smallest the guy had. On the black market, it was worth about twenty-five bucks in real money. The woman wrinkled her nose and said something he couldn’t hear and he shrugged his shoulders. She stood, told him to wait, then disappeared into the crowd. He gulped down a bottle, then a second one. Even though he was thirsty, the desalinated seawater tasted flat. A few minutes later, the woman reappeared and handed him a wad of purple, brown and blue bills and some coins. He shoved them into his pocket without counting and walked on.

  Merchant stalls sold baskets of pomegranates, mounds of spices and stacks of melons. A seller held out a handful of pistachios and Hunter took a sample. He broke it open and ate it, but the first nut was bad and the aftertaste bitter. He had once loved exploring exotic Third World markets, but his three combat tours in Iraq had drained away the joy. Now every car concealed explosives, every merchant harbored an AK, each sleeve cloaked a knife and a crowd was only one incitement away from a mob. He loathed this place for what it had taken away from him.

  He strolled past a bakery with a display window stuffed with honey-drenched sweets. His mouth watered. Promising himself that someday after the war he would return with Stella to enjoy it, he kept walking, but he couldn’t get over the pleasures the place had taken away from him. He stopped. Iraq was not going to defeat Hunter Stone. Hell, it wasn’t even going to get to him today. He returned to the shop and bought a bag full of treats. Standing on the street corner taking in the bustle of the market, he shooed away the flies as he downed a half-dozen gooey, nut-filled pastries. The day had definitely taken a turn for the better.

  Chapter Ten

  Although the U.S. government says the hunt is still on, the CIA recently closed its Bin Laden unit.

  —Morning Edition, National Public Radio, July 3 2006, as reported by Mary Louise Kelly

  Camp Tornado Point, Anbar Province

  “Kill Hunter Stone?” Camille laughed. “I don’t know who you’re talking about. Who’s Hunter Stone?” Camille wasn’t sure how deep the Agency had nosed around into her relationship with Hunter. Out of fear for each other’s safety, they each had gone to extreme efforts to protect their privacy, but they apparently hadn’t gone far enough.

  “Come on, Stella.”

  “Camille Black, please.”

  “We’ve known each other too long to fuck around with games like this. And quit hogging those M&Ms.”

  “Help yourself, but you’ve got to be kidding if you think I’m going to eliminate Hunter for you.” She held out the bag while he fished out a handful. “What the hell did he do?”

  “He’s put this Agency in a very difficult position, but I think the same can be said about what he’s done to you.”

  “I try to stay out of CIA politics, especially since 9/11 when the Pentagon started trying to short-sheet you guys at Langley.”

  “Short-sheet us, hell. They’ve been out for blood and they’re not going to be happy until they’re standing over the Agency’s lifeless corpse. But this isn’t about Washington politics. Stone’s gone over to the other side.”

  “Bullshit.” Camille leaned back in the chair and left the bag of candy on the Marine colonel’s desk.

  Chronister reached into a worn leather attaché on the floor and removed a stack of papers. He passed Camille a photo of Hunter handing over a crate to someone on a loading dock. She glanced at it and immediately handed it back to Chronister.

  “This shows nothing.”

  Chronister passed Camille a stack of photos depicting Hunter at the same warehouse with the same man. He also included other shots of Hunter with a dark beard and in Iraqi dress meeting with the same figure in a crowded bazaar. Chronister continued speaking. “The man he’s turning the weapons over to is a lieutenant of al-Zahrani. It doesn’t get much more serious than supplying weapons to one of the two men scrambling to become bin Laden’s successor.”

  “OBL’s successor. I’ve been hearing a lot about that lately. So did some al Qaeda lieutenants finally catch on you’ve been holding the fucker for years and seize the o
pportunity to take over the network? Did they figure out that you’ve been running him, stringing them along, releasing just enough messages to make them think he’s in charge from some rathole in Pakistan?”

  “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.” Chronister grinned.

  Camille knew Hunter was part of the team that, less than a year after 9/11, had caught bin Laden, barely alive, hiding in a cave in a northern Pakistan. Of course, Hunter would never come right out and tell her, but instead had spun a wild yarn about a successful hunting trip for the world’s rarest animal, his excitement betraying the thinly disguised metaphor. “Don’t patronize me. You’ve had bin Laden on ice in Afghanistan for years. I’ve heard so many specifics from so many different units, I could take you to the cell block where you’re holding him. Hell, I even know the names of the kidney specialists you’ve got keeping him alive—if he’s still alive.”

  “Al Qaeda sure has been an organizational disaster for years, hasn’t it?” Chronister laughed.

  “Looks to me that might be changing with al-Zahrani and Abdullah fighting to pick up the pieces.”

  “It’s not going to happen, unless, of course, they enlist a lot of traitors like Hunter Stone to help them out.”

  “Hunter is not a traitor. No way.”

  “Not knowingly. My guess is that he believes he’s selling stuff to run-of-the-mill insurgents. I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt when it comes to betraying his country. You, my dear, are a different matter. Do you know how Stone got those arms caches—by staying one step ahead of Black Management. You really have to hand it to the guy. He’s got balls—crossing not only us, but Rubicon and you. He didn’t go after Triple Canopy, Blackwater or any of the others. Think about it. He chose to mess with Camille Black’s very own Black Management. Think anything personal went into that decision to fuck Black Management? I think he wanted to screw you, Stella—screw the great Camille Black.”

  “Anything personal between myself and Mr. Stone is none of your goddamn business.” Camille struggled to keep her voice steady, not wanting to show Chronister how furious she felt. Part of her couldn’t believe that Hunter would do anything to intentionally hurt her, but she had suffered so much over his fictional death, it was getting easier and easier to believe. She grabbed the bag of M&Ms and chomped down as many as she could shove into her mouth. Her anger grew with each bite as she studied the photographs. Chronister sat back and waited.

  “Am I supposed to believe that he was working for you at the Agency when he infiltrated Rubicon?”

  “He was ours.”

  “Word on the street is that he was hooked up with Task Force Zulu.” Camille tossed the photos onto the desk.

  “He did try to go to the Pentagon black units first, but they all turned him down. You know how strict certain units are about the operators having their lives in order so they’re not vulnerable to blackmail. His was a fucking mess. I assume you might know something about this.”

  “You’re talking about financial hangovers from his ex-wife?”

  “Ex-wives. According to his file, he’s still paying on two separate boob jobs for those gals. Didn’t he knock up that last one—the crazy one—when you and I were undercover after those suitcase nukes in Turkmenistan?”

  “We were both seeing other people—sort of.”

  “Sort of.”

  “As a good Southern boy, he felt he had to do right by her and marry her.” Camille wiped her hands on her pants.

  “I’m from Brooklyn. The South doesn’t make a fucking bit of sense to me. But seems like he screwed you big time.”

  Camille stood. “Look, I’ve got to go.”

  “Stone approached the Agency a couple of years ago when things got a little too confusing for him. We helped him simplify his life by faking his death.”

  “A couple of years ago. When exactly?”

  “A little over two years ago—it was early March.”

  “You mean a month before he was supposed to marry me?”

  “I mean a month before he was supposed to marry you and Julia Lewis.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The veil of secrecy surrounding the highly classified unit has helped to shield its conduct from public scrutiny. The Pentagon will not disclose the unit’s precise size, the names of its commanders, its operating bases or specific missions. Even the task force’s name changes regularly to confuse adversaries, and the courts-martial and other disciplinary proceedings have not identified the soldiers in public announcements as task force members.

  —The New York Times, March 19, 2006, as reported by Eric Schmitt and Carolyn Marshall

  Ramadi, Anbar Province

  After another hour of exploration, Hunter found Khalid’s shop in a quiet corner on the edge of the souk, near a busy mosque. Bolts of colored fabric were stuffed into the small sales room and color pictures of the latest Middle Eastern fashions snipped from magazines were plastered over every square inch of the walls. The floor was littered with swatches of fabric, pin cushions and even a pair of scissors.

  A man yelled a greeting from behind a red cloth curtain, “Salaam alaikum.”

  “Alaikum salaam,” Hunter said and continued in Arabic. “I might have left my wallet here last week. It had a special picture of my daughter, Barika.”

  “Was she wearing the wedding dress I sewed for her?” A portly man stepped from behind the curtain. He carried scissors and wore a tape measure around his neck.

  “No. The dress was from her aunt in Amman.” Hunter said the final identification phrase as he studied the man’s eyes.

  He saw fear.

  “Come. I’ve been expecting you.” The man held the curtain open and motioned with his hand.

  No one at Force Zulu had yet been alerted that he was coming in. “You’ve been expecting me?”

  The man hesitated for a second longer than Hunter would have liked. “I meant when people leave their wallets in your shop, you expect them to return.” He smiled. Several teeth were missing. “Come and I will locate your wallet for you. My wife will bring you tea and sweets.”

  Hunter waited in a sandy courtyard while the midday call to prayer blared from loudspeakers mounted throughout the district. Hunter ignored it as he sat in a plastic chair beside an orange tree, not sure if he should believe Khalid’s assurances that his unit would be there any moment to escort him to safety. The agent had been vetted long ago, Hunter reassured himself, but something didn’t feel quite right. Sipping tea, he twirled a fallen orange blossom between his fingers until it disintegrated, then he sniffed his fingers and smiled. His tongue checked on his tooth. It moved too easily and he knew it had to be stabilized soon if it was going to be saved. He hoped to be sitting in an American dentist’s chair at a base in Baghdad by late afternoon. He wished the Zulu Bushmen would hurry up.

  Just as the drone of the muezzin’s call to prayer was ending, three Force Zulu operators burst into the courtyard, their guns sweeping the area. He had expected them to come posing as civilians, not wearing full combat gear. Hunter held his hands in the air, aware they would instantly judge him to be an Iraqi and a potential danger because of his man-dress. He’d worked with all of them and was surprised they didn’t seem to recognize him.

  “SABER TOOTH. Coming in from the cold. And it’s damn chilly out there.” Hunter laughed.

  One operator approached Hunter, two others stayed by the door, their guns trained on him. They were all from his squadron and they should’ve seen past the Iraqi clothes and his new beard and recognized him by now.

  “On the ground, you douche bag.” Stutler kicked Hunter’s left foot, knocking him slightly off balance. “Face down.”

  “What the hell are you doing? It’s me—SABER TOOTH.” Hunter dropped to the ground. He knew better than to fight overwhelming force. “I’ve been deep undercover and my cover was blown. Check with General Smillie at SSB.”

  “Smillie is the one who sent us.” Stutler zip-tied Hunter’s ha
nds behind his back, then patted him down and found the knife. He ripped the sheath from his leg.

  “I’m not offering any resistance. At least leave my feet free so I can walk without falling all over myself. Come on, Scott.”

  “No way, man. You could take out Bruce Lee with those legs. I’ve been on too many missions and in too many bar fights with you.”

  “Yeah, I’ve saved your sorry ass from the bad guys and from your wife more times than you can count.”

  “That’s why I’m saving yours right now. Everyone else in Zulu wants the honor of killing the only fucker ever to betray the unit to the muj.” He shoved the plastic tie under Hunter’s ankle, then pulled it tight.

  “I would never betray Zulu. Never. Rubicon’s framing me. You’ve got to believe me.”

  “Dude, you’re the last guy I ever thought would work for al-Zahrani.” Stutler pulled Hunter to his feet.

  Hunter shuffled into the tailor shop. A fourth team member waited inside.

  “Move, you dumb-fuck” Stutler shoved him.

  “Hey, it’s hard enough walking in a dress and these zip-ties don’t make it any easier.” Hunter stumbled as if he had tripped on his dishdashah and intentionally fell to the ground on top of Khalid’s sewing clutter. He rolled over on his back. “You’re going to have to help me get up.” He patted the floor until he found the pair of scissors he’d seen on the way in. Cupping them in his hands, he hoped Stutler didn’t notice in the exposed moment before the wide sleeves of the dishdashah covered his hands. He had no idea what he was going to do with them, but he had to start expanding his options.

  Hunter waddled from the tailor shop and looked around for the team’s Humvees. He spotted them halfway down the block, on the other side of the street. Logistical nightmares like this were why the soldier in him hated markets, but the spy in him had fallen in love with them all over again. The crowd parted for Stutler’s team. Friday prayers had ended and men streamed from the corner mosque. Hunter made eye contact with a young man. He was accustomed to the acidic glares of the Iraqis, but he felt sympathy coming from the guy. Then Hunter understood. They didn’t see American soldiers taking away another American; they saw the American occupiers dragging away another Iraqi resistance fighter.