by Davis Bunn
“Not if you don’t blab.” Duboe had never looked more serious. Or more tightly focused. “Whatever you want from me, it’s going to require going outside the bounds. And I can’t do that now. Give me what I need here, and I’m back in a position where I might be able to bend the rules and help out an ally. But not right now.”
Sameh had a dozen responses, but postponed them all. For the moment. “Tell me the rest.”
“The third person missing is also a woman. Hannah Brimsley. Aide to a local pastor.”
Sameh shut his eyes against the glare beyond the shadows. “You are certain?”
“She worked at the main Green Zone church. Been here about a year.”
Sameh kept his eyes shut against the prospect of carrying this news back to the Imam Jaffar. The vizier would be delighted with this news. Thrilled beyond words. “What you’re telling me is that Hannah Brimsley is a Western missionary.”
“Alex Baird is the number one concern here. The official word is, Alex put in for leave. Personnel claims he took off for the Red Sea. But he didn’t say anything to me about a vacation. Or eloping with Hannah, which is the other rumor floating around. He’s been buddies with Hannah and Claire for a while, sure. But their connection has all been about church, far as I know.”
“Would Alex Baird have mentioned anything to you if there was more between them?”
“I already told you. We were pals. You don’t just fly off from here without letting your buddies know. It isn’t done.”
Sameh looked at Duboe. “Take off your sunglasses, please.”
Barry Duboe obviously did not want to comply, but he did so. He looked intense, combat ready.
Sameh said, “There is more at stake here than simply your concern for a missing friend.”
“All I know for certain is, last week Alex had a serious confrontation with the ambassador’s deputy. Guy by the name of Jordan Boswell. Real piece of work.”
“What was the argument about?”
“No idea.”
“This is very curious,” Sameh said. “It is almost Arab.”
“Alex left a message on my phone. Said he was done trying to go through channels. He was going to go check out something. Might be nothing, might be vital. That was the word he used. Vital. Said he was going with a local man. He called this guy a close personal friend.”
“Let me guess,” Sameh said. “The local man’s name is Taufiq el-Waziri.”
In response, Duboe offered his most chilling smile. Death with teeth. “I knew I was right to come to you. Name your price.”
“I want more than just your money. I want your help with a missing child.”
“You can say that as many times as you like, and nothing is going to change. You get access upon delivery. And not an instant before.” Duboe’s expression was a steel door. “Until you deliver, I don’t know you. It’s safer that way. For both of us.”
Sameh had never demanded payment in advance. It was simply not the Arab way. But it was also thoroughly un-Arab to start a negotiation with a direct refusal. Sameh pictured the amount he had planned to charge and doubled it. “I want ten thousand dollars now, and another ten when this is done. Plus expenses.”
Duboe reached to the back seat, opened his briefcase, and pulled out an envelope. “I came with thirty. Take it. There’s a risk I might get reassigned for asking the wrong questions.”
“What is it you have me involved in here?”
“Apparently something worth thirty thousand dollars.” He slammed his briefcase shut, closed the locks, then turned his bullet gaze back to Sameh. “You’re going to earn every penny of that money. There’s a man just in from Washington. His name is Marc Royce. Brand spankin’ new. He’s also your official liaison. Don’t ask me why. This is just how it is.”
“What do you want me to do with him?”
This time, Duboe’s grin held actual humor. “I have no idea.”
Chapter Eight
T he Jeep ferrying Marc pulled up in front of the trio of giant hangars doing time as warehouses. Marc knew this because they were surrounded by squared-off mountains of what was likely armament and gear, all lashed down and encased in camouflage tarps. The Jeep passed through the right-hand hangar’s main doors and halted beside a pair of desert-colored vehicles. His driver said, “Your contact is the lieutenant sitting at the table there by the Rhino. Have a good trip, sir.”
The lieutenant rose from where he was seated with three other soldiers and a man in civvies. The raw-boned officer was named Lucky. Marc knew this because it was sewn onto his chest lapel. It was also what the driver had shouted before driving off. Lieutenant Lucky.
The officer had the thousand-yard stare of a hard-timer. The first words out of his mouth were, “I owe Barry Duboe big-time.”
Marc replied, “I don’t owe him yet. But I soon will.”
“How did you hook up with the man?”
“Friend of a friend.”
Lucky nodded, then said, “That friend. Was it Alex Baird?”
Marc responded with a quick nod of his own.
A dozen or so guys were clustered at the back of the hangar, playing cards and shouting their impatient nerves. None of them looked directly at Marc, but he knew they were watching. A long trestle table stretched between where he stood with the lieutenant and the two armored vehicles. The hood on the larger beast was open, and a pair of mechanics stood on ladders with their upper halves lost inside the maw.
Marc asked the officer, “You knew Alex how?”
“From church. There’s only one in the Green Zone. For most of the people who go there, one is all they need. You follow?”
Four people remained seated around this end of the table. The books opened in front of each person were Bibles. Well worn. Heavily marked. The civilian seated next to the lieutenant’s chair met Marc’s gaze. His look was as hard as the lieutenant’s. A silent challenge. For what reason, Marc had no idea.
“You’re saying the Green Zone church is a haven,” Marc said. “A place to meet and talk in safety. Find new friends. Forge connections. Find a taste of sanity.”
Lucky exchanged a glance with the civilian. The other troopers seated at the table did not appear to have heard a thing. Lucky said, “Duboe told me you were a civvie.”
“I worked with Alex for almost six years. We stayed in touch. I owe the man.”
“Debts,” Lucky said. “Amazing where they take you.”
The trestle table was perhaps forty feet long. The rest of its length was covered with combat gear, maps, and electronics. Two enlisted men sat at the table’s far end. One answered the phone and called, “Lucky, the ’Racks are good to go.”
“Tell them to hold where they are, we’re still having trouble with the engine.”
“Roger that.”
The man in civilian attire continued to study Marc. He sprawled in the folding chair with a leopard’s ease. Able to relax anywhere, ready to launch himself at an instant’s notice.
The lieutenant said, “Alex was a good buddy. When he took off, I asked around. They offered to chop me off at the knees.”
“Who is ‘they’?”
“Embassy types. With enough clout that when I kept asking, they had a general stop by. You get where I’m headed?”
“You want answers as much as I do.”
“What a civvie from stateside can do out there in the Red Zone, I have no idea. But Duboe says, give you a hand. So I’m giving. The official word is, Alex eloped with Hannah Brimsley. You heard about Hannah?”
“A missionary.”
“Hannah was seriously in love with somebody. Not Alex. That I know for certain.”
“Who?”
“Her guy will find you if he wants to. Otherwise, you best leave him alone. You read me?”
Marc nodded slowly. “He’s special ops. His name is his own.”
The lieutenant smiled for the first time. “Maybe you got a chance of surviving the Sandbox after all.”
“W
hat about the missing nurse, Claire Reeves?”
“She and Hannah led a women’s Bible study at the church. Alex ran the men’s.” The lieutenant hesitated, then said, “We’re done with the facts. You ready for guesses?”
“I’ll take anything I can get.”
“The three of them were tight with some movement. Outside the Green Zone.”
“You mean, like a church?”
“I mean, I don’t know. They didn’t invite me because I can’t set foot outside the perimeter fence without written authorization. But I heard them mention it a couple of times. Some secret deal, sounded like.”
“With locals.”
“That’s my guess.”
“Why keep that secret?”
His expression turned ancient. “Give yourself a couple days in the Red Zone. You’ll see. If you survive.”
The phone rang, and the enlisted man at the table’s other end said, “Lieutenant, there’s somebody asking for Mr. Ride Along.”
Marc walked over and accepted the phone. “This is Royce.”
“Okay, sport,” Duboe said in his ear. “You’re on. Tell your new buddies to drop you by the Hotel Al-Hamra.” He spelled the name, then said, “Last chance. Say the word and you can travel home in safety and style.”
“I’m in.”
“Then you enter the hotel cafe and you wait. Either Sameh el-Jacobi will like what he sees or he won’t.” Duboe chewed on the words like he would a mouthful of gravel. “Listen up, sport. You get out there and decide you can’t handle the Red Zone, you hot-foot it to safety. Don’t hesitate. Hesitation can get you very dead very fast.”
– – Marc entered Baghdad in the rear compartment of an armored bakery van. At least that was what the vehicle most resembled. The beast’s proper name was Rhino Runner. The armored troop carrier was packed to the gills.
They followed a slightly smaller vehicle sprouting a mini-cannon from its roof. The troopers smirked over Marc’s neatly starched shirt, his pressed khakis and his loafers, the brand-new backpack at his feet. About as alien as he could get in their world.
Lieutenant Lucky rode in the troop carrier’s front passenger seat. Marc and the troopers sat on padded plastic seats lining the two side walls. Their gear filled the central section.
Lieutenant Lucky swiveled around and shouted over the rock music blasting from the Rhino’s speakers, “Sir, there aren’t any U.S. combat troops left in the Sandbox. We’re sure of that on account of how the president told the general and the general told us. Only problem is, somebody forgot to tell the ’Racks. Can I get me a hoo-ah!”
The soldiers roared their response, grinning at Marc. Lieutenant Lucky was their entertainment. Marc assumed his own role in all this was the straight man. He figured Lucky for a very good officer. His men looked happy, relaxed, and ready.
“We’re leaving Camp Victory. Over there to your right is BIAP. Which is soldier-speak for Baghdad International Airport. What the civvies aim on calling this place once we clear out. Which we hope is tomorrow. Can I get me a hoo-ah!”
Two khaki-colored Humvees waited just past the base’s high perimeter boundary. They swung in behind the two American vehicles. The four-vehicle convoy sped past the tanks flanking the entry road and accelerated onto the highway. Through the inch-thick rear window, Marc saw men in Arab head-kerchiefs manning the Humvees’ fifty-caliber roof guns.
Lieutenant Lucky shouted, “The official line from Washington is, we’re offering support to the new ’Rack guards. They lead, we follow. Only problem with that, sir, is their Humvees aren’t as well armored.” He tapped the vehicle’s roof. “This baby is the latest thing in traffic calming measures. Designed to handle armor-piercing rounds, 155 millimeter airburst, fifty-pound land mine blast to the axles, and incoming bombs up to two hundred pounds. This here’s the safest ride outside Des Moines. Our boys and girls in khaki have shootouts to decide who gets to travel by way of the Rhino. So when we go on patrol, the ’Racks lead from the rear. Let’s give Mr. Ride Along another hoo-ah.”
Marc also shared the Rhino’s compartment with the civilian from the hangar. The man inspected Marc with a singular intensity, his eyes tight slits in a sun-darkened face. As the convoy roared down the main highway into Baghdad, the stranger pulled a checked Arab kerchief from a dusty canvas pack and draped it over his head and shoulders, fastening it in place with the ubiquitous rolled circle. The movements were practiced, easy. He slipped into a dusty shapeless suit jacket, the kind worn by many Arab men. He replaced his army boots with decrepit street shoes. He then secreted weapons all over his body. All the while he seemed to taunt Marc with his eyes.
“Okay, sir, we’re leaving Route Irish,” the lieutenant called out. “That’s grunt-speak for the highway from Camp Victory to the Red Zone.” He pounded the steel wall. “Lock and load, ladies. We go in hot.”
The Rhino’s internal temperature continued to climb. Or perhaps it was pressure from so many cocked rifles and fierce squints. The rifle slots fought the air-conditioning, letting in city smells of diesel and dust and sizzling lamb. And charcoal. And tobacco. And a thousand other things, all of which carried a chili-hot spice of menace.
Marc could see very little of what was going on outside the vehicle. The Rhino rocked and jounced and rumbled forward. Through the rear window he caught still-life glimpses of a yellow world. Then one of the troopers blocked his view, and all he saw was troops in desert camouflage and hot metal and guns.
They pulled into an alley. They did not stop but slowed to a crawl, shifting around a parked truck. The lieutenant peered through the front windows, then called to the trooper manning the roof gun, “We clean?”
“All clear.”
The lieutenant leaned back and said one word. “Go.”
One of the troopers by the rear portal slapped a red button and the door popped open. The leopard squinted at Marc, passing a message Marc was too green to understand. The man slipped out. Marc lifted himself so as to see past the trooper resealing the rear portal. He had a single glimpse of just another Arab man walking down an empty alley toward a sun-washed world.
The lieutenant said to Marc, “You’re next, sir. Five minutes to the drop.”
The time crawled. Marc gripped his backpack.
“You sure you’re up for this, sir? It’s the Wild West out there.”
Marc met the lieutenant’s gaze with his own and did not reply.
They entered another alley. The troop carrier slowed once more. The trooper smacked the button and the portal opened. He said to Marc, “The Al-Hamra Hotel is directly across the street from where you’ll come out.”
Marc gripped his pack and said to the lieutenant, “I owe you.”
“Make my day,” the lieutenant replied. “Bring Alex back alive.”
Marc slid through the door and landed, his feet already walking away. The sun hit him hard. He did not glance over as the Iraqi Humvees trundled past.
He exited the alley and turned away from the hotel. He walked a block, turned around, and walked back three blocks. Taking his time. Letting himself get used to being out and here and battered by the heat and the din.
He had never felt so alive.
Chapter Nine
A s Sameh drove away from the Lebanese Club, he could see Barry Duboe talking on his phone, busy making things happen in typical Western fashion. Normally Sameh found the Americans’ demand for instant results very irritating. It was one of the things he had most disliked about his time in America. They even had a terse definition for their own worst habit: Hurry up and wait. They demanded everything now, even when they didn’t actually know what they wanted.
Today, however, Sameh was actually quite pleased with the pace. Because somewhere in the distance, beyond the reach of his ears but not his heart, a frightened little boy cried for his mother.
Sameh was not ignoring Barry Duboe’s refusal to help him with this critical matter. He simply discounted it. Everything about their conversation, not to men
tion the thirty thousand dollars in his battered briefcase, suggested this whole matter was far bigger even than three missing Americans. What Sameh needed was a lever to make Barry Duboe change his mind and help him with the child. Not when Barry Duboe wanted. When Sameh needed. Which was now. Immediately. Without delay.
Sameh stopped by his office, put the money in his safe, and did a quick hour’s work. To his relief, the staffer from Hassan’s office arrived bearing a more recent photograph of the former gardener. Sameh then returned to his car and headed out.
The Al-Hamra was an unglamorous hotel frequented by European journalists and aid groups. As far as Sameh was concerned, it was perfect for an initial meeting. The better known establishments, like the Palestine Hotel overlooking Ferdous Square, were used by the well-financed private contractors and the television teams. Nowadays all such hotels were under observation by the extremists. Entering the Palestine Hotel and meeting with a civilian American would have marked Sameh just as certainly as entering the Green Zone.
The Hotel Al-Hamra’s security was supplied by off-duty Baghdad police. Sameh knew most of the senior officers through his work in the courts. The policeman accepted the keys to Sameh’s car and refused his offer of a tip by placing his hand on his heart, the gesture of a servant to a master. After the cold efficiency of the Lebanese Club, Sameh found the gesture quite welcoming. He patted the man’s back, shook his hand, and entered the hotel.
The cafe was divided from the lobby by a row of potted plants and was very full. Almost all the faces held the same watchful caution. Stay in Baghdad for any length of time and the look of tense fear became a fixture, along with the wary search for the closest exit.
As soon as the man entered the hotel, Sameh knew this was Duboe’s contact. Marc Royce’s clothes were too clean, too well pressed. Everyone in the cafe glanced over, the women’s gazes lingering there for a time. The American was quite tall, perhaps an inch or so over six feet. His features were even, his hair and eyes dark. His complexion suggested he might have a trace of Arab blood. His clothes framed a body at the peak of fitness. Not overly muscular. Very few Special Forces were. And this was how the young American struck Sameh. A handsome man trained to an assassin’s pinnacle of performance.