Deciding to forego the beanie, Hunter folded the black and white checkered cloth in two and draped it over his head. The black cord of the headband smelled like a goat. He doubled it around the top of his head to hold the headdress in place, then pulled down the sun visor to check himself out in the vanity mirror. The cruel Iraqi sun had given him a deep tan that was darker than many of the locals. His beard could have been a little longer and rattier, but he could pass. Score one for the loose Rubicon dress code that had no restrictions on hair length or facial hair.
The first rays of sunlight streaked orange across the sky and soon calls to prayer would echo in the streets. He could already smell smoke from firewood and diesel fumes from generators. The Iraqis didn’t let much of the day get away from them, he’d give them credit for that. He spotted a dark alley with an assortment of cars where he could change and trade in Stella’s SUV for something less conspicuous. He looked in the rearview mirror as he started to turn.
Two Ford Expeditions sped toward him.
Rubicon.
Chapter Six
At the Pentagon, which has encouraged the outsourcing of security work, there are widespread misgivings about the use of hired guns. A Pentagon official says the outsourcing of security work means the government no longer has any real control over the training and capabilities of thousands of U.S. and foreign contractors who are packing weapons every bit as powerful as those belonging to the average G.I. “…they are not on the U.S. payroll. And so they are not our responsibility.”
– Time Magazine, April 12, 2004, as reported by Michael Duffy
Camp Tornado Point, Anbar Province
The first rays of the morning sun were turning the sky orange and a distant wail of a muezzin called the faithful to prayer as Camille marched into Saddam’s former palace. It had been a day since she’d slept and nearly as long since she’d eaten. Her body was achy and her emotions were whitewater, churning with eddies and undertows with no clear main channel. She and Hunter played rough together and delighted in pushing one another to the edge in their own war games, but the heat of their battles usually resolved in wild passion. During their last vacation they had spent days tracking one another throughout Panama and it ended in a sugar cane field where she surprised him and overpowered him, though she was sure he would claim that he was the one who had prevailed. They had made love there for hours, the sharp blades of the cane slicing their skin. This morning had the appearance of another game, but his mood had not been playful. Their sparring suddenly felt strangely real. She grabbed a handful of M &Ms from her pocket and popped them into her mouth. The M &Ms had saved her life more than once, keeping her blood sugar hyped when her body was ready to tank. She chewed fast and swallowed before entering the headquarters of the base commander, USMC Colonel Michael Lukson. Camp Tornado Point was still officially a Marine base and the contractors were guests even though they outnumbered the Marines twenty to one. An aide showed her inside the colonel’s makeshift office, one of Saddam’s former bedrooms.
Camille tried to play cool, but the cavernous room screamed for attention.
It was a bold play of volume and void that had all the class and splendor of an Atlantic City casino. The original furnishings had long ago been stripped away, but gold-plated gargoyles perched atop green malachite pillars protected the granite walls and marble floors. A recessed archway and blue lapis columns framed a life-sized mural of Scud missiles with flames shooting behind them. At least the Iraqi flags on the missiles had been chipped away. Saddam’s military murals competed with fantasy scenes of iridescent dragons menacing chesty blondes that would have been better suited to black velvet than a palace wall. A beam of light shined onto the floor. She looked up, following it to its source. A mortar had knocked a hole in a ceiling dome and it had missed a stylized Saddam leading troops into Jerusalem by only a few inches. She shuddered when she realized she was standing in the middle of Saddam’s wet dream.
The base commander had set up his office in a corner of the grand room. File cabinets and scavenged office fixtures surrounded a simple wooden desk half covered by an old computer monitor. A wall map of the al-Anbar Area of Operation was tacked over the groin of one of Saddam’s nymphs. The colonel sat at his desk, across from a man Camille hadn’t seen or spoken to since the outbreak of the second Gulf War when she had quit the CIA. Joe Chronister was the reason she had joined the Agency and he was also the reason that she left it to start Black Management.
Colonel Lukson stared at her, his thick arms crossed. As was custom when in combat, his short sleeves were down, not rolled up in a cuff. One forearm was tattooed with the Marine Corps’ globe and anchor with the words Semper Fidelis above it; the other arm had the image of an alligator on tracs.
Camille stood perfectly erect beside an empty chair. “Colonel Lukson, sir, I’m Camille Black, president and CEO of Black Management.”
“I know who you are.”
The large empty room behind her made her uneasy, but she continued to stand in silence, waiting for the colonel. She averted her eyes. The military controlled the bases in Iraq and the private military companies were guests on their turf. Camille’s troops at Tornado Point did covert work for the CIA and some secret military units-almost all of it outside the purview of the base commander. It was no secret that Colonel Lukson and other field officers did not like their new roles as landlords for higher paid civilian mercenaries and would relish the eviction of one of them.
After a long minute, Lukson spoke. “Anything you want to tell me, Black?”
“Sir, I was fired on tonight by Rubicon troops.”
“And that’s why you decided to play cowboys and indians on my ranch? You might not take orders from me, but I sure as hell can kick your sweet ass off my base.”
“Sir, I had to defend myself, sir,” Camille said like an enlisted Marine. She flashed back to her childhood when she had to stand before her father and answer for her mistakes in the same way. At the time it had felt severe, but now, it seemed more like good training. She had a lucrative contract to protect and couldn’t risk any missteps with her Marine host. It was time to use the word “sir” more than she had in the past year.
“And you had to defend yourself from Mr. Kyle as well?”
“Who’s Mr. Kyle, sir?”
The CIA case officer Chronister interrupted. “I believe you encountered the gentleman tonight in the Rubicon offices.”
Camille continued to stand erect in front of the colonel and ignored Chronister. “Sir, Mr. Kyle threatened me at gunpoint. I had to disarm him, sir.”
“By tying him up and breaking his fucking neck?” Chronister said with a laugh. “Camille, I always loved that matter-of-factness about you. You really should’ve been a Marine.”
Fuck you, Joe. She continued to stare straight ahead at the colonel. She wasn’t going to fall for his bait-not this time. She wondered why Hunter had done it. He was one of the most deadly men she knew, but also one of the most moral. He wouldn’t kill without reason.
“Black, answer the question. Did you tie Kyle up and break his neck?” Lukson said.
“No, sir. He was alive, sir, when I left, sir.”
“Did you threaten Mr. Kyle?” Lukson leaned back in his chair causing a caster to fall out. He grabbed the desk to catch his balance.