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 hands 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.
“Keep moving. Don’t stop.” Stutler pushed him.
Hunter slowed down and didn’t say a word. He knew the team was bound by rules of engagement that were tighter than the plastic ties around his legs. Killing him in an escape attempt was undoubtedly permitted, but they all had been in the sandbox long enough to know better than to shoot a bound Iraqi in the middle of a crowded market. As far as the masses were concerned, Hunter was one of them, another innocent victim of the evil Americans. The old Arab proverb kept running through his mind: never give advice in a crowd. Hunter worked the scissors around in his hands to the right angle, then he stopped.
“Move, I said. Now!”
Hunter dropped to his knees, lowered his hands and cut at the plastic tie at his ankles.
“Get up, you asshole.” Stutler grabbed Hunter under the arm and pulled him to his feet.
Hunter shuffled forward as if his legs were still bound. He instinctively turned the scissors so that they pointed toward Stutler, but he knew he couldn’t bring himself to stab a fellow Bushman, so he stopped, threw back his head and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! Allah is great!”
Hunter saw a piece of a brick fly toward Stutler, then a hail of rocks pelted the operators and angry shouts closed in from all directions.
The last thing Hunter saw was a chunk of concrete flying toward his head. It was painted green, the color of the Prophet.
Chapter Twelve
“They’re pretty freewheeling,” the former CIA official said of the military teams. He said that it was not uncommon for CIA station chiefs to learn of military intelligence operations only after they were underway, and that many conflicted with existing operations being carried out by the CIA or the foreign country’s intelligence service.
– The Los Angeles Times, December 18, 2006, as reported by Greg Miller
Camp Tornado Point, Anbar Province
Camille opened her mouth, then closed it slowly. Resting her chin on her hands, she stared some more. The betrayal sliced so deep, she didn’t know what to believe. Hunter’s story had never felt quite right and she had always sensed he was hiding something. She took a deep breath and pursed her lips. “You’re telling me Hunter was engaged to someone else when he was engaged to me? I don’t know what to say.”