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“No.”
“Sir?”
“Let them come en masse. We’ll kill them together, like a pack of wild dogs. Make an example of them.”
“Yes, sir. Their families?”
“Kill them, too, of course.”
CHRIS DOYLE STEPPED from the SUV, walked into the lights of the Iraqi jeep. He squinted to block out the white glare. Clutching his identification papers in his left hand, he held both hands overhead and wore a grin he didn’t feel.
An Iraqi soldier, one hand clutching the pistol grip of his submachine gun, approached Doyle and snatched the papers from his hands. Releasing the submachine gun, the soldier grabbed Doyle’s arm, spun him and shoved him hard against the vehicle. Over the rumble of the jeep’s engine, Doyle heard the rustle of paper as the soldier pored over the American’s identification documents. Doyle’s heart speeded up and he forced himself to take deep, even pulls of the exhaust-tinged air to keep his thinking clear.
“You are French?” the soldier asked.
“Oui. I mean, yes,” Doyle said, switching to Arabic.
“It says here you are a journalist. Where is your monitor?”
Doyle shrugged, smiled. “I am a nature photographer. The information ministry decided I didn’t need an escort in the swamplands. I am unimportant.”
The soldier grunted, continued poring over the forged papers. “The information ministry obviously erred,” he said without looking. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I was supposed to meet with my monitor tonight before I return to my hotel. He was going to check my pictures. I cannot take my film from the country without his approval. Please, I do not want problems.”
“When are you leaving?”
“One week,” Doyle lied.
The soldier’s machine gun hung loose on its strap from his right shoulder. Spare clips were sheathed on his belt. Doyle watched as the soldier, a stout man in camouflage fatigues and a beret, traced a stubby finger across the paper until he reached the line bearing Doyle’s departure date. A moment later the soldier refolded the papers, stuck them in his shirt pocket.
The stout man locked eyes with Doyle. “Why are you here?” he asked.
“I told you—”
“I mean, in this neighborhood. After dark. According to your papers, you’re staying at the Continental Hotel, which is nowhere near this place. Why are you here?”
Doyle felt his palms moisten, his mind begin to race. Crossing his arms over his chest, the American agent leaned down toward the soldier. He gave the man a conspiratorial wink, hushed his voice as though sharing with an old friend. “I‘ve been away from civilization for a while,” he said. “I’m here looking for a little companionship. I was supposed to meet someone.”
Prostitutes frequented the area. Doyle expected the man to understand, perhaps cut him some slack. Instead the man shot him a look that screamed disapproval.
Great, Doyle thought, three hundred, fifty thousand soldiers in Iraq. I get the one puritan.
“I thought you were going to meet your monitor.”
Doyle grinned. “There’s always time for this, my friend. You know?”
“Whom are you freelancing for?”
“Liberty News Service.”
The man opened his mouth to reply, stopped when the door of the white Toyota Land Cruiser opened. A tall, lanky soldier armed with an AK-47 stepped from the vehicle and approached them. With the headlight glare at his back, the man’s face was black as night until he came to within a few feet of Doyle. At the same time, the Soviet-made chopper, which had been cruising overhead in wide, lazy circles, gunned its engine and disappeared into the night, the beating rotors diminishing to a distant hum.
“Who is he?” the tall soldier asked. Doyle recognized the Republican Guard insignia on the man’s tunic and felt a cold splash of fear roll down his spine.
“A journalist,” the first Iraqi replied. “He should not have stopped here unaccompanied. He was told to report directly to his monitor.”
Giving Doyle an appraising look, the soldier spoke over his shoulder to his comrade. “A journalist? For whom?”
“I’m freelance.”
“He’s with Liberty News Service. He told me that.”
A glint of understanding sparked in the Republican Guard soldier’s otherwise impassive stare before snuffing itself out. His lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Let him go,” he said.
The first soldier started to protest, but the other man held up a hand to stop him. “His papers. Give them to him and let him go. We must not delay him any longer.”
In less than a minute Doyle was back in his car, stuffing his forged papers back inside his pants’ pocket and watching the Toyota Land Cruiser roar down the road. Doyle’s heart hammered against his rib cage and adrenaline caused his hands to shake. He puffed on a cigarette to help calm his nerves.
Something was wrong. Let him go, the man had said. No looking at the papers, no shaking Doyle down for a bribe, nothing. Doyle knew he should have felt relieved. He didn’t. He felt like a condemned man taking the first step on his last mile.
Keying the SUV to life, he piloted the vehicle to his rendezvous with Stone.
FORTY-FIVE MINUTES later Chris Doyle met Jon Stone and Stephen Archer at an abandoned factory, poorly lit with boarded-up windows. The place stank of machine oil, dust and Archer’s wintergreen chewing tobacco. Doyle had armed himself back at the hotel. A .40-caliber Glock pistol rode in the small of his back, obscured by his shirttails.
“You sure no one followed you here?” Stone asked as he shut the door behind Doyle and locked it.
Doyle shrugged. “Reasonably so. I changed clothes, walked several blocks and took one of our standby cars. Switched papers so I look like a Russian national. That’s why it took me so long to get here.”
Stone nodded, apparently satisfied.
Doyle turned and uttered a curt greeting to Archer, a small, bald man whose skin bunched in heavy folds at the base of his skull. Archer grunted, tamped down his tobacco with the tip of his tongue. The little man stood off to one side, splattering the floor with thin, brown streams of tobacco juice and swirling them with the toe of his boot so they made odd patterns in the dirt. At first, Doyle had considered Archer disengaged, perhaps even stupid. Just like everything else Doyle seemed to encounter, it all was an act. Archer could read and explain complex research reports issued by the Massachusetts Institute of Technology or defuse a nuclear warhead without taxing his mind.
Doyle carried his equipment bag on his shoulder. Slipping it off, he set it on the floor carefully. An uneasy feeling in his gut told him something was wrong.
“What’s the extraction plan?” he asked.
“Washington says it’s a go,” Stone said.
“What the hell?”
Doyle whirled toward Stone, found him standing less than eighteen inches away, arms crossed over his chest. Stone coiled and uncoiled his steroid-enhanced pectorals, biceps and triceps, causing them to writhe under his shirt like a bag of snakes. Consciously or unconsciously, it was his way of telegraphing his physical power, an intimidation tactic he employed regularly.
“Simmons says it’s a go,” Stone said. His expression seemed to dare an argument and Doyle was only too happy to comply.
“Is he crazy? We’ve been compromised. We’re as good as dead if we go through with this.”
Stone shrugged. “We don’t know we’ve been compromised. There could be a logical explanation as to why he pulled a no-show.”
“Like what?”
Stone grinned. “He likes the ladies. Maybe he was getting laid.”
“I planned to hand him thirty thousand in Iraqi dinars. I think he could keep it in his pants until he got the money.”
“Calm down, Doyle. You sound like a damn old woman.”
Anger burned hot in Doyle’s cheeks and forehead, but he kept his voice even. “You tell Riyadh that our contact disappeared?”
Popping his gum, Stone stared at Doyle for a minute. “I don’t talk to Riyadh about anything unless I think it’s a good idea. These people are spooked enough without me scaring them some more. They’re about ready to overthrow their leader, upend their country. A handful of guys against a man with an army at his disposal. You know what Saddam does to traitors?”
“I know.”
“He kills their whole family. Wife, kids, parents, even distant relatives. He tortures them, rapes the women. Scorches their skin with branding irons. Like cattle. Cuts off their—”
“Goddammit, I said I know.”
Doyle suppressed a shudder. Maybe it had been a trick of the light, but he swore a glazed look settled over Stone’s eyes as he’d discussed Saddam’s atrocities. Doyle never had trusted Stone, had balked at the notion of working with him. Stone was as unstable as hell. He always made missions happen, nearly always got results. That seemed good enough for Simmons and James Lee, the CIA director.
Stone continued. “We spent a year building up these guys. They hate Saddam and that’s good. But they used to fear him too much to do anything about it. Half these guys figured he was invincible. That any move against the man would cost them their families. We finally got them over that. Now you want me to scare them again just because one guy disappears?”
“Yes.”
“Forget it,” Stone said with a gesture. “I want these people to have their heads where it should be. Same goes for you.”
Doyle scowled, clenched his jaw until it hurt. He stepped a couple of inches closer to Stone and spoke through clenched teeth. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I’m here because I believe in this mission. If Washington says ‘go,’ I’ll go. But if you want blind obedience, forget it. I’m loyal, but I’m not stupid.”
Deep creases formed in Stone’s forehead and anger glinted in his eyes, but he nodded. “Suits me. I don’t give a shit why you do it, as long as you do.”
“We go to our second alternative,” Doyle said.
Stone’s face flushed red. “We can’t change now,” he said, his voice a growl.
“They may know what we have planned. The alternative is audacious enough that it might work.”
Archer spoke up. “He’s right, Stone. If we’re going to do it, we might as well stick it up their ass. Hit ’em where they least expect it.”
Stone whipped his head toward Archer. “You just stick to your motherboards and let me handle the strategy,” Stone said.
Archer held up his hands in appeasement, flashed a gap-toothed grin. “Just sticking my two cents’ worth in, okay? You’re the strategy genius. I mean, hell, look at where we are so far.”
Doyle sensed the tension crackling between Stone and Archer, watched it with morbid interest. The two men, equally deadly, always seemed a step away from killing each other. Doyle often prayed for that day, but didn’t want to be there when it happened.
Stone turned back to Doyle. “Make these girls get their damn gear on. Let’s make this shit happen.”
“THERE’S BEEN a change of plans,” Jon Stone said.
The words caused a film of perspiration to break out on Tariq Riyadh’s forehead and a cold splash of fear to roll down his spine. A change? At this point? It was unthinkable. What the hell were the Americans trying to pull so close to the moment of success? Perhaps it had been a trick to expose Riyadh and his people. Perhaps Stone and his crew were double agents and the whole plan, the promises of American cooperation, an elaborate ruse to flush out traitors. Saddam was just paranoid enough to try such a thing.
“Did you hear me?” Jon Stone asked. “There’s been a change.”
“Yes, of course I heard you. Tell me more.”
“Forget it. Just send your little brother and his people over here. We need to go to Plan B.”
“Why?”
“Dammit. Just do as I say. It’s not safe to talk.”
“You said these phones were secure.”
“They are.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“You think I owe you an explanation? I don’t owe you shit.”
Though he did his best to control it, Riyadh’s fear had turned to anger. He’d tried being diplomatic with this bastard, but to no avail. He wanted his country to be free, wanted to enjoy the power that came along with it. But every man had his limits. He leaned against the bar, lit up a cigarette and waited.
Stone broke the silence. “Riyadh, when this is all over, you and I are going to go round and round.”
“When this is all over, I will eject you from the country.”
To Riyadh’s surprise, Stone laughed. “Well, you little bastard,” Stone said, “you really do have a spine underneath those expensive suits. Look, it’s like this. We lost a source tonight.”
“Lost how?”
“Didn’t show up.”
“We’ve been discovered.”
“Settle down. We don’t know that. Stop jumping at shadows, for God’s sake.”
Sandwiching the phone between his shoulder and his ear, Riyadh reached under his jacket, withdrew his pistol from its holster and checked the load. A glance at the door told him the dead bolt and the chain were in place. Not that either would do much good against Saddam’s Feyadeen soldiers or his secret police.
Stone continued. “Our source didn’t know all the specifics of the plan, but he gave us Saddam’s itinerary and the motorcade information. That might be enough to put them on to us.”
“Might,” Riyadh said sarcastically.
“Yeah, smart-ass, ‘might.’ You want to push the panic button? Go ahead. I’ll have my people out of here and in Jordan in a few hours. And you bastards can find your own way out.”
“I’m listening.”
“We figure the target will hang in his bunker tonight. We can’t get him once he’s inside the main underground complex, but there are a couple of weak spots in the tunnel system. We ambush him and his people there. Kill the whole lot of them and we’re golden. Don’t worry. We drilled for this contingency.”
“Why not just bomb the bunker if you know he’s going to be there?”
