“No.” Jackie avoided eye contact with Camille.
“Was he here?”
“Yes.”
“I can help him, but I’ve got to find him first. When was he here?”
“He left over an hour ago. I don’t know where he went.”
Camille wasn’t sure if she believed her, but the woman had no reason to lie, except to protect Hunter. She was already pushing it, coming into the apartment of a Rubicon executive and interrogating his wife. Searching down the hallway would have consequences she didn’t want. To be on the safe side, she would post observers outside the building just in case he really was hiding down the hall. If he really had left an hour ago, he could be anywhere, inside or outside the Green Zone by now.
Once it became clear that Jackie didn’t have any useful information, Camille stood to leave. The woman needed to debrief, but Camille didn’t have time or inclination to be her confidant. And she couldn’t stand another moment of pretending everything was like it had once been between she and Hunter. She had forgotten how happy she had been just to be with him and watch him move about in the world, interacting with people and animals. He had such strength and compassion. He was a warrior and a lover. There was such a balance of opposites about him. And his mind-he made her think so hard and laugh so hard. God, I miss him.
She gave Jackie a glossy black business card as she tried to stuff her emotions back where they belonged. “I’ve got to get moving if I’m going to find Ray. If you think of anything that might help me, call me. If you get scared and want out of here or you need an escort to the airport or need protection from Rubicon, call my assistant Pete. My men will be here in a flash. We’re not far away-just across from the old presidential palace.” She stopped the music and retrieved the disk from the CD player.
“I know the place. I hope you can help him. Ray-or whatever his name is-is an incredible guy. You’ve got to be one of the luckiest women on the planet.”
“He is amazing.” For a moment, Camille really did feel lucky. She always did get into her cover stories a little too much, she scolded herself. But he was amazing.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
At least 13 DynCorp employees have been sent home from Bosnia-and at least seven of them fired-for purchasing women or participating in other prostitution-related activities. But despite large amounts of evidence in some cases, none of the DynCorp employees sent home have faced criminal prosecution.
– Salon.com, August 6, 2002, as reported by Robert Capps
The Tribune’s series, which documented the deaths of 12 workers who had been trafficked from Nepal to Iraq, raised a specific alarm because it detailed alleged abuses involving contractors and subcontractors “employed directly or indirectly by the U.S. government” at American facilities in Iraq under a multibillion-dollar privatization contract. That contract, which has cost taxpayers more than $12 billion, is held by Halliburton subsidiary KBR.
– The Chicago Tribune, January 19, 2006, as reported by Cam Simpson
The Green Zone, Baghdad
The rushed shower, shave, self-inflicted haircut and clean clothes made Hunter feel like a new man. He only wished they also made him look like one. As long as it was dark and no one looked too closely, he could probably pass as one of the thousands of contractors in the Green Zone. It had been risky enough to take the time to clean up and the danger of any extra minutes to alter his appearance in a Rubicon-leased apartment was too great. He stole a Leatherman utility knife and a swatch of duct tape, an operator’s best friend, from Jackie’s husband. He felt bad sneaking out while Jackie was asleep, but he felt a lot worse about other things he had done. He tucked a pebble in his right shoe to alter his walk, but the rock poked him so much as he walked down a flight of concrete steps in an alley, he stopped and emptied his shoe. Tradecraft be damned.
The streets were empty of foot traffic. At night the Green Zone was an American enclave and Americans drove everywhere. He needed wheels and money. He didn’t find any in the predictable spots at Jackie’s and he didn’t want to ransack the entire apartment. Dozens of new American-made pickup trucks were parked along both sides of a street that seemed to otherwise be abandoned. He had only been there once, but he knew he had found the place he was looking for.
He walked down an alley toward the sound of loud music coming from a basement. As he got closer, he could see an Iraqi bouncer standing at the door.
The Western-dressed Iraqi had a cigarette dangling from his mouth and an AK slung over his arm. He looked Hunter over, then nodded and opened a blue painted door to a bar tucked away in a basement. Hunter stepped inside and the thick cloud of smoke immediately made his eyes burn as the beat of the blaring hip-hop music pulsed through his body. The place was packed with American contractors and a few privileged Iraqis. Strings of Italian Christmas lights hung over the bar, the brightest spot in the otherwise dark establishment. No one knew whether the few nightclubs and bars in the Green Zone were illegal or not, but everyone knew they had to be treated as such if they were to avoid offending local Muslim sensibilities. It was the best stocked bar in the Middle East outside of Dubai. Thanks to Western contractors importing cheap foreign workers to staff their service contracts, young Filipino and Thai bargirls kept the men entertained. Southeast Asian women always looked young to Hunter, but no one could have convinced him that any of these girls were over fifteen. Hunter watched a constant stream of them escorting American men and rich Iraqis into a backroom.
Assault rifles were placed on tables and empty chairs-always within easy reach of their owners. Hunter had been counting on the fact that the real operators worked at night and the guys in the bar at this hour were mainly construction workers, bomb disposal guys and run-of-the-mill security guards. But for some reason tonight there were too many familiar faces and that made him nervous. He knew a lot of the guys there by their call signs, or names that didn’t really belong to them. The Special Operations world was a small one and Hunter had been a part of it for over a decade.
Hunter picked up an empty beer bottle and carried it as camouflage as he worked the crowd, searching for an easy mark. Contractors always carried too much cash to places like this and he needed money and credit cards. The cash would get him out of Iraq and the credit cards would buy airline tickets as part of a fake trail to destinations only his pursuers would visit-he definitely wouldn’t.
Someone put his hand on Hunter’s back. “Well if it isn’t Jack Russell. How you doing, flyboy?”
Hunter swung around. The man was in his midforties and wore a brightly colored Hawaiian shirt. He looked part Chinese with a lot of something else thrown in. Hunter vaguely remembered him as an instructor in a gentleman’s course where Force Zulu had sent him to learn the basics of handling a helicopter so he could pick up enough to land one safely in case a pilot became incapacitated. It was one of the most humbling experiences of his life. The first time he took the controls, he couldn’t keep the helo inside an area the size of a football field. It spun. It whirled. The beast had a mind of its own and he doubted it could ever really be tamed, only forced into temporary submission. Two courses and many simulator hours later, he could almost keep it in the air without making himself quesy.
Hunter pretended to sip from the empty bottle as he kept an eye on the door. “Keeping myself in the crosshairs. So what are you up to nowadays?”
“Still flying them whirlybirds. You ever get that ticket?”
“Never. I like my wings either fixed or honey barbequed. Helos flip too easily.” Hunter sat down the bottle down. “You’re going to have to help me out with your name.”