“So…” Kassem let the word trail off. He was rotating his hands on the surface of the table. The movement was strange; it made Kealey think of a sleight-of-hand artist on a city street. “I believe you have something for me.”
“Yes.” He didn’t bother looking down at the pack. “But before we get to that, I need to ask you a few things.”
Kassem grinned broadly, revealing stained, irregular teeth. He spread his arms wide. “Of course.
A man must earn his wages. What do you want to know?”
Kealey looked him dead in the eye. It all came down to this, the defining moment. He could still turn back. He could find a way out to the vehicles, he could walk back in with what was expected… but it would be the same as before, and he’d be no further forward.
“I want you to tell me about the Babylon Hotel.”
The Iraqi’s face became suddenly cautious, the insolent grin sliding away. “I don’t think I understand.”
Kealey shook his head and leaned back in his seat, carefully appraising his host. “I think you do,” he said, “but we’ll come back to that. Let me ask it this way. Who, in your opinion, would benefit from al-Maliki’s death?”
“That’s a very long list, my friend.”
“I’m aware of that. I was hoping you might be able to narrow it down for me.”
Kassem didn’t respond for a long time, but his curiosity finally won out. “And why would you think that?”
“Because there’s a good chance the same people you used to work for are responsible,” Kealey replied. Then he added, “And because we pay you to know.”
The older man shook his head slowly. “I know a great many people. Some of them — most of them, even — are opposed to your presence here. That much is true, but I am not paid to spy on my own people. I have never agreed to such a thing, nor would I. Not for any amount of money.”
“That’s not good enough,” Kealey said. Pushing it forward now, clipping his words, he added,
“And if you can’t come up with something better than that, we’re going to have a problem.”
Something flashed in the older man’s eyes. “Young man, I’ve worked with your government for several years. What possible reason could I have to involve myself in such a thing?”
“That’s what I’m here to find out,” Kealey shot back. “We’ve been throwing cash at you since the fall of Baghdad, and in my opinion, we don’t have a lot to show for it. So here’s my next question, Arshad. Where does the money go?”
Kassem, caught off-guard, did not respond right away. This was his first time dealing with this man, this arrogant American. Did he not know where he was? Who he was talking to?
True, he did not resemble his predecessors. Most of the men sent to Kassem were throwbacks to the Cold War, former field men in their fifties and sixties. They were all the same: fattened on rich food, full of false smiles, soft in semiretirement and eager to please. This one was different.
The man who sat before him was young, lean, and exceptionally fit. His lank black hair was long and unkempt, drifting over his forehead in places, and the lower half of his tanned face was obscured by a matted beard. In many ways, he looked like one of the elite U.S. soldiers so prevalent in the city. At the same time, his clothes, a plain black T-shirt and threadbare utility pants, were decidedly civilian in style. Kassem took note of everything he saw, as was his habit, but it wasn’t these things that bothered him.
It was the eyes. They were dark gray and completely empty. He had seen the same vacant look in men who had suffered a terrible loss, men who had surpassed the pain and found nothing to take its place. Kassem idly wondered what could have happened to this young American, but he was more concerned about what it might mean for him. He was beginning to think that his guest did not understand how the game was played.
“The money,” he replied carefully, “goes to men who, without a way to feed their families, might take up arms. The money goes to trained fighters who, without hope, might offer your country more than petty resistance. It is what we agreed on.”
“I understand the agreement. What I don’t understand is how we’re supposed to measure your progress. What guarantees can you offer us?”
“You have seen the proof,” Kassem boasted. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t hold the arrogance down for long. “How many soldiers have you lost in the last month? Or the month before that?”
“That’s a fair point,” Kealey conceded. “I wonder what happened to those men. The ones who, according to you, have turned away from the insurgency. Maybe some of them have accepted the new government. Perhaps your peers to the east are as successful as you in their efforts to reform those who served under Saddam.”
Kassem nodded solemnly. “Perhaps you are right. It takes time to—”
“On the other hand, maybe they didn’t turn away at all.”
The Iraqi furrowed his brow, clearly annoyed by the interruption. “What do you mean?”
Kealey leaned forward, stabbing his words across the table. “The timing seems very convenient, Arshad. You’ve been on the Agency payroll for nearly two years, but you didn’t seem to care too much about fulfilling your end of the deal until the president decided to start pulling out troops. I can’t help but wonder who else is dumping money into your bank account.”
Kassem did not respond for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his words were slow and measured. “I can see that you are new to this line of work. You are very quick to make accusations.”
Kealey shrugged. “Let me tell you that—”
“No, let me tell you.” Something had changed in the Iraqi’s demeanor. “Have you ever been to Najaf?”
For Kealey, the lie came easily. “No.”
“I know a man who lives there, a friend of mine for many years. We are very much alike, this man and I, in that he commands respect in his district, he is looked to as a leader. His position brought him to the attention of your government, but there was a difference between us. He did not want to take your money, to bow to your authority. I called him a fool, and I was right to do so, but I was also envious, because I admired his strength.
“Of course, it could not last. An American came to see him two months ago. He was young, like you.” There was a brief, meaningful pause. “He offered my friend a hundred thousand U.S.
dollars to switch sides, to give the government, your government, his support and the support of his men. My friend refused. His honor was worth more than any amount of money. At least, that is what he believed at the time.”
Kassem watched Kealey for a reaction. When none appeared forthcoming, he continued. “That evening, your country dropped a bomb less than a hundred meters from the house in which he was sleeping. He survived the blast, and the following day, the American returned. This time he offered seventy thousand dollars. My friend accepted.”
Kealey nodded absently. “It sounds like he made a smart decision.”
The offhand comment was the last straw. Kassem’s face twisted into a mask of rage, the hatred suddenly boiling to the surface. “You arrogant fuck,” he hissed. “Where do you think you are?
Who are you to judge what is right for my people?”
Kealey didn’t visibly react to the sudden outburst. His right hand, however, inched closer to the slight bulge beneath his shirt as the Iraqi continued, his voice rising with each passing syllable.
“You come here with the belief that you are superior. What you cannot buy, you take. You stupidly believe that you are invincible, that you can survive anything….”