A few more paces, and they stopped at a plain wooden door. One of the Iraqis ducked in first, then reemerged and gestured for Kealey to enter.
The room was spare and cramped, with a small window to the right. The hazy light that drifted through the dirty panes was enough to pull two men out of the shadows. The first was a guard armed with a battle-scarred AK-47. He stood in a corner, behind and to the left of his charge. The second man sat in the middle of the room, his thick arms resting on a bare metal table. When their eyes met, he smiled and gestured at the chair opposite his own. Kealey took the seat, dropping the backpack onto the floor next to him. As he did so, he heard another guard settle into position behind him. The door closed a moment later, and it was just the four of them.
The man smiled once more at Kealey, but it was a gesture devoid of warmth. “You’ve come a long way. Would you like something to drink? Something to eat, perhaps?”
He knew that to refuse would be seen as an insult, and he didn’t want to set them on edge. At least not yet. “Just water.”
The order was given to the guard behind Kealey. Hearing the door open and close once again, he took advantage of the brief distraction to study his host.
As far as the U.S. intelligence community was concerned, Arshad Abdul Kassem was a blank page. Even his age could not be verified, though Kealey’s briefing officer in Baghdad had suggested that it probably fell somewhere between forty-five and fifty. This estimate was based on the fact that Kassem had served as a captain in the Republican Guard during the early years of the Iran-Iraq war, and then as a brigadier general in the months leading up to the second gulf war. When the Americans invaded in 2003, Kassem had made arrangements that resulted in the quiet surrender of his entire mechanized brigade outside Karbala. After several months in U.S. custody, Kassem was offered an even quieter deal by the CIA.
With the fall of the Baath regime in 2003, the former officer had narrowly avoided sharing the fate of his party leader. At least, that was the official line of the U.S. government. In truth, his name had never appeared on a watch list, for the Agency had a use for men like Arshad Kassem, high-profile figures in the former regime, with all the right connections. It made Kealey sick to deal with people like this, men who had, in all probability, committed unspeakable crimes under Saddam. Unfortunately, it was hard to find clean hands in high places, especially in this part of the world.
“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 semi-retirement 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