“Really, Camille. I didn’t expect you to protect Hunter Stone.”
“You’re a piece of shit, Joe.”
“You just made yourself a murder suspect. We now have reason to detain you. And detention in Iraq can last a very long time.”
“Fuck you. You’re desperate. You can kill anyone you want in this Allah-forsaken country and, unless you’re a grunt fragging an officer, no one gives a damn.” She reached into a cargo pocket of her 5.11s, pulled out a half-pound bag of peanut M &Ms and threw a handful into her mouth.
“But you handed me a little more leverage to persuade you to come back to work for me,” Chronister said as a pigeon flew near them. Both turned their heads and watched as it landed on a headless statue covered in bird droppings. Chronister continued, “And yeah, I’m getting desperate. As soon as I get some loose ends of a project squared away, I finally get to retire.”
“Work for you again? Go to hell.”
“You’ve done well for yourself since leaving the Agency. You’re a rich lady now. Looks to me like you should be thanking me.”
“I got out because I saw an opportunity to do what I’ve always wanted-something I never had at the CIA-despite your promises.” She held the M &Ms in her sweaty hand so long the color was rubbing off them.
“You’re a damn good operator, but you never would’ve survived in the Special Activities Division-no woman ever has. Come on, Camille, you know those operators. They’re all Delta and SEALs. They don’t play with girls. They’re the Agency’s military-they never would’ve let you go out on a mission with them no matter how desperate they got. If I hadn’t stepped in, you’d still be at the Agency making coffee for the boys.”
“Right. And if I were still working for you, I’d be servicing dead drops, sticking messages under things and marking the spots with chalk-takes real skill. You know, I found out that Iggy had actually approved my transfer over to them. I certified in all the Black Book standards-the exact same standards all the Delta operators train to.”
“Camille, honey, no one doubts you’re every bit as good as they are.” He held his hand out and pointed at the M &M bag. “Gimme.”
She hesitated, then poured him a handful, took more for herself and dropped the bag onto the desk. Joe was the one who had gotten her hooked on them back when he had taken her to Algiers on her first undercover mission for the Agency.
“I trained all my life for that kind of action.” Camille wiped her green and red stained palm on her pants. “You lied to me that I’d get it in the Agency.”
“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.