Chapter Thirty-Nine
Jabal ad Dhibban, Anbar Province
The old lady was tiny even for a withered Arab grandmother and she barely came up to Hunter’s chest. Black covered her from head to toe. Hunter helped her yank an oriental carpet off an antique brass chest with intricate geometric forms engraved into it, a treasure chest from A Thousand and One Nights. Under other circumstances he would’ve enjoyed taking a good look at it.
Praying out loud for mercy, her frail upper body rocked back and forth as she lifted stacks of clothes from the chest. It was taking her forever, but Hunter didn’t have the heart to push the petrified woman any harder.
Then he heard the familiar whoosh of large transport helicopters. Stella was bringing in reinforcements. He couldn’t believe it. She had to be bringing in troops for a block by block search and he knew he had to get out of the area before they sealed it off.
“Come on! Hurry it up!”
The woman prayed louder and her arms began to shake. She lifted up a light gray Muslim woman’s overcoat. He took it and shook it out. It was several sizes too large for the old lady, but many times too small for him. Originally, he had just been looking to make his head and shoulders blend in while they searched from the air, but if they were doing a ground search, he doubted he could pass, not with his facial fuzz.
Without warning, the rapid pop of machine gun spray came from the street. The woman and children fell to the floor in a cacophony of screams while a helicopter shrieked low overhead, a Fury swooping down from the heavens in relentless pursuit. At the moment it was easy to picture Stella with wreathes of snakes on her head.
Hell hath no fury like a Stella scorned.
Chapter Forty
Referring to Rumsfeld’s new authority for covert operations, the first Pentagon adviser told me, “It’s not empowering military intelligence. It’s emasculating the C.I.A.”
– The New Yorker, January 24, 2005, as reported by Seymour Hersh
The Green Zone, Baghdad
With all of its plasma flat panel monitors, satellite uplinks and people running around with wireless headsets and microphones, the Baghdad Rubicon Solutions command center reminded Joe Chronister more of a high-tech television studio than the ops centers he’d known back at Langley. Private companies sure had the money for all the latest toys and he could definitely understand why so many operators went over to places like Rubicon.
The CIA veteran’s cover as a Rubicon oil exec made it plausible that he would be seen in the headquarters of the company’s military branch, but he still didn’t like being there. Rubicon’s upper management was aware that he worked for the Agency and they had arranged for his cover. And Ashland, as his liaison to the local component of SHANGRI-LA, also knew, but he didn’t want anyone else getting suspicious.
Chronister had to straighten out Larry Ashland before the eager beaver created a mess he wasn’t sure they could mop up. He didn’t slow down as he passed the desk of Ashland’s new assistant. Ashland was on the phone, talking on one of those fancy wireless headsets. Chronister shut the door and motioned for him to hang up. He had the kind of boyish face and self-righteous smirk that made Chronister want to take a swing at him. He’d give him three more seconds and if he didn’t stop the conversation, he’d personally rip the silly headpiece off his head.
“What the hell were you thinking, ordering your men to knock off Hunter Stone?” Chronister leaned on Ashland’s smoked glass desktop, intentionally smearing it with handprints. “I had it all set up so that Camille Black would take care of him for us. If Rubicon does it, she’ll be on our ass forever. Trust me. I’ve known this woman for years. She’s powerful, connected and she doesn’t forget.”
“We can’t let him get back to Zulu.”
“And that’s why you ordered Rubicon to shoot down his Black Hawk a few seconds before he got into Camille’s crosshairs? You dumb ass.” Chronister could hear his Brooklyn accent get stronger as he raised his voice. “The whole goddamn mess would’ve been over with right then and there. Zulu would’ve chalked the whole thing up to a lover’s spat and Camille would’ve blamed Stone for Rubicon poaching her job sites. Now we’ve got a bona fide goat fuck on our hands. Zulu’s going to find out Rubicon’s either killed or is trying to kill one of their boys and eventually, they’re going to trace it back to me. And linking it to me is as good as fingering the Agency. And if that happens, we are really fucked. The Pentagon’s been looking for an excuse to put us out of business and they’ll be all over SHANGRI-LA, you dumb-fuck.”
Chronister could feel his chest tightening as he continued, “And Camille Black, she’s a fucking barracuda. You can’t just send her flowers and say ‘whoops, I’m sorry.’ You started a war with the lady and she owns one of the best militaries around.” Chronister pointed to the door. “And why isn’t your ass out there monitoring the action in real-time?”
“If will be as soon as we end this pleasant conversation.” Ashland smiled wide enough to show off his perfect set of teeth, just begging for some emergency dentistry at Chronister’s hand. “Stone could’ve talked to Black. We had to make sure he didn’t.”
“Hello? She was about to shoot him out of the air, you dickhead. And I hear she spent all last night fucking his brains out.” God, he loved Camille. That woman had balls. Big hairy balls.
“Is she insane?” Ashland squinted and shook his head in his pretty boy version of does-not-compute.
“You’re going to find out if you don’t get your ass in there right now and stop a war. First you better make sure word goes down the pipeline not to hurt Stone. I want to have a heart-to-heart with the guy, find out exactly how much Zulu knows about the project and if he told anything to Black. I’m sick of relying on you fuck-ups and it’s time I find out for myself.”
“It may be too late.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“We have troops on the ground searching for him. They have orders to neutralize on sight.”
“Let’s get this straight,” Chronister said as he thrust his finger at Ashland as if it were firing off a missile. He hated his guts so much, Chronister was starting to think his feelings were making him cut the asshole too much slack and chalk up everything to incompetence. He had assumed Ashland’s aggressive actions to try to take out Stone were because the guy was a prick, but maybe there was something else to him. He would have to keep an eye on him more closely to make sure he didn’t have another agenda. Chronister continued, “I want to know exactly what Stone and the Pentagon know about my involvement with SHANGRI-LA. You better bring him to me alive. Whatever happens to Stone-for whatever reason-is going to happen to you, but much slower. That’s a promise you can take to the bank.”
Chapter Forty-One
Jabal ad Dhibban, Anbar Province
Hunter shoved his arms in the women’s overcoat, ripping the seams along the way. The old woman glared at him. After a deep breath, he sucked in his chest, pulled the light gray jilbab closed and managed to button the top. His pant legs were rolled up as high as he could get them, but they still showed under what should have been a floor-length garment. He didn’t need a mirror to know his disguise looked like crap.
Rummaging through the brass chest, he found a couple swaths of cloth. He stuffed scraps of cloth into a bundle while the kids watched in fear from the bedroom doorway. Even though it made him feel sick to take away one of their few toys, he picked the partially deflated balloon up off the floor and worked it into his bundle, rounding out the front. He tied it up, then using the longer piece of material he fastened it low around his midsection in a sort of cummerbund. Soldiers didn’t tend to stare at pregnant ladies; they usually looked away pretty quickly. He was counting on it.