As the limo pulled away from his home, Marc asked, “What about my job?”
“Your job,” Walton scoffed. “My former chief aide, reduced to the role of bookkeeper.”
“I am a forensic accountant. I’m good at it.”
“You’re dying. Another year of this and they could measure you for your last suit. You’re an operative. The best. It’s the work you were born to do.”
“We’re not talking about what I want to talk about,” Marc replied.
“At my request, a White House official was in touch with your company’s director. You have been hired as a consultant to the federal government. For the duration. Your boss is thrilled. This is a foot in the door for his company.” Walton loaded his next words with scorn. “You should receive a hefty bonus.”
“Pretty good,” Marc conceded, “for a supposedly retired guy.”
Walton’s voice turned hoarse with the delicious flavor of conspiracy. “The current administration in Washington is fractured. Top to bottom. I’ve never seen such in-fighting. Worse than Nixon. It’s a virus that’s eaten into every department, including intel. They needed a voice they could trust. Someone who’s beyond politics. I advise what intel is fact, what is biased, and what is pure political lard.”
“Who watches the watcher?”
Walton actually smiled, an event as rare as snow on the moon. “Everyone.”
Marc could see the logic to their choice. Walton was childless and a widower. He had purposely remained above the political fray. His attitude was plainly stated and often repeated. The nation’s intelligence system should serve with the same detached commitment as the military. They should supply unvarnished intel regardless of party loyalties or their own personal ambition.
Marc said, “They couldn’t have found themselves a better man.”
That obviously surprised Walton. Even the driver glanced in the rearview mirror and gave Marc a terse nod. Which confirmed Marc’s assumption that the driver was not just a driver at all.
Walton asked, “Does this mean what’s past is past?”
Marc wanted to bite down on that hand. But he was going into danger, and the ambassador was his only link to the promised land. “Water under the bridge.”
Which earned him another nod from the driver.
Walton visibly relaxed. “I need a set of eyes and ears I can trust. I would tell you not to put yourself in harm’s way. But we both know that’s polite fiction for not getting anything done.” He passed a thick file over to Marc. “This is all I have been able to put together on Alex’s official remit. But my instincts tell me it won’t help you. Whatever happened to Alex, the cause lies beyond the Green Zone.”
“If it’s there, I’ll find it,” Marc replied. He owed that to Alex. And far more besides.
Walton leaned back in his corner and surveyed Marc. “Your trouble is, you’re far too handsome to do decent undercover work.”
Marc opened the file and pretended to read. They were back on familiar territory.
“And there’s your height,” Walton continued. “You’re tall enough to tower over most Arabs.”
“There are tall Iraqis.”
He might as well not have spoken. “Your coloring should help you fit in.” Walton knew Marc’s father was Cajun. The ambassador turned his attention back to the road. “Start working on a three-day growth.”
The ambassador’s limo took the exit for Baltimore’s BWI and headed for the private aviation terminal. Marc had been expecting a ride all the way to Andrews Air Force Base. Leaving from BWI meant this was a civilian flight. Given his destination was a war zone, Marc would have preferred something more official.
Walton must have seen where Marc’s thoughts were headed, for he said, “These are friends you can count on when the going gets tough.”
“What about allies on the ground?”
“There’s one man. Barry Duboe is a senior official at our embassy. He’ll meet you on arrival. You need to assume everyone else has an ulterior motive. It’s the only reason I can come up with for why I’m being fed so much conflicting information.”
As the limo pulled up by the departures gate, Walton clutched at Marc’s jacket. “What I would give to be young and fierce and armed with a cause worth fighting for.”
– – The jet that flew Marc to Baghdad was a kitted-out Gulfstream IV. The engines were whining up before Marc had his duffel out of the limo’s trunk. Marc passed through security and climbed the stairs. He received a terse welcome from the copilot, who stowed his bag and pointed him into the cabin before disappearing.
Marc was the only passenger. He took a seat on the plane’s left side so he could watch the ambassador’s limo pull away. He saw Walton lean forward and grin out of the side window. Marc tried to recall ever seeing the ambassador smile twice in one day. He took the grin as a portent of bad things to come.
Once they reached cruising altitude, the cockpit door opened and the senior pilot emerged. The man was rail thin, with chiseled features. One glance was enough to assure Marc the guy was a veteran of more than just hours above the clouds.
The pilot asked, “Mind if I take a load off?”
“Help yourself.”
“The name’s Carter Dawes.” He slipped into the seat opposite Marc, settling strong hands upon the burl table between them. “The galley’s right behind you. I assume you don’t need a smiling Betty to make you feel important.”
“A private ride to where I’m headed is about all the important I need,” Marc replied. “And a lot more than I deserve.”
“Hey, we’re just a taxi with wings, right?”
“Is this a Sterling Securities jet?” Sterling Securities was the largest of six private security firms operating inside Iraq. One of their senior executives held his position because Walton had personally pushed the company to take him on.
The pilot nodded slowly. “That is an excellent question.”
“I’m only asking because it seemed strange, taking off in a jet with no markings. Which would suggest CIA, only we left from a civilian airport. For Baghdad.”
Carter Dawes had a smile as tight as his gaze. “Like I said, it’s a good question.”
“Here’s another one,” Marc said. “Why are we having this conversation?”
Dawes liked that. “A man focused on the bottom line. Who knows. You might survive the Sandbox after all.”
“Thanks,” Marc said. “I guess.”
“Officially I’m based in Baltimore with the rest of my crew. But these days, most everybody is washing their clothes in Kuwait City. You follow?”
“Not yet,” Marc replied. “But I’m trying.”
“I’m here to tell you we can deliver whatever you need, anywhere in Iraq, in ninety minutes flat.”
“I’m instructed to go in, take a look around, and report back to home base.”
“Then why was I ordered to give you a rundown of our full service package?”
Marc replied slowly, “I have no idea.”
“We’ve got some serious firepower on offer here. Armored helicopter transports, troop carriers, even a pair of MIGs we got off a Russian general a while back. Only thing you’ll have to find for yourself is boots on the ground. Our remit is very specific on that score. No personnel other than pilots in free-fire zones, which is basically everywhere outside the Green Zone. We can take you to the dance, but you’ve got to find your partners somewhere else.”
Marc asked, “Ambassador Walton instructed you to tell me all this?”
“No names,” Carter Dawes replied. “No names, no fixed abode, no paper trail. All I’m saying, when it comes to transport and firepower, we can basically make your every dream come true. And somebody with serious clout has written you a blank check.”
The pilot slid a card across the table. On it were three lines. A radio frequency. A phone number with a Washington dialing code. And an email address. No name.
Carter rose from his seat and said, “Whatever, whenever.”